Chapter 17
CHAPTER
Sabine
The cost, it’d turned out, was a night at the Opera.
Like a crystalline fortress, the Imperial Opera House glowed with a thousand candles, all gold and crimson, every surface polished to a fever-bright shine, the air thick with perfume and the ancient muskiness of wood.
Sabine watched for Lord Vaelros, scanning each marble corridor, plotting her approach.
Tonight, she would have answers. She would not leave until she did.
A young man approached their trio. His suit was the green of new olives and trimmed with silver, perfectly fitted. Sabine had certainly seen him before, of that she was sure, but she couldn’t place where…
“Ah. Lord Blackwell,” Lady Delarine said.
Oh, right. She was once again struck by how unremarkable Lord Blackwell looked. He didn’t have pale, silver-streaked eyes, or long, silken hair, or sun-warmed bronze skin.
“Your Grace,” he said, voice low and clear, “you honor the evening with your presence.”
The Duchess inclined her head. “Have you had the honor of meeting the Season’s Singular yet, Miss Liora Almarien?”
Liora didn’t merely smile. A dimple appeared in her right cheek, eyes widening with genuine-seeming delight, chin tucking just so. Sabine had seen her practice this in the mirror.
It always made Sabine’s stomach twist to see her sister’s actual self submerged under this lacquer of performance, this calculated glow.
But even she had to admit: Liora wore the mask with a rare and honest artistry.
Lord Blackwell took Liora’s hand and bowed over it, lips not quite brushing her skin.
Then, the two of them commenced a conversation so perfectly constructed it could have been lifted, whole, from the pages of a Society primer.
Sabine looked around for a flash of obsidian, dark skin, and hair clad in a black uniform, but found no sign of him yet.
The couple discussed the canals’ main waterway restoration.
Lord Blackwell admitted to secretly wishing that the designers had found a way to preserve the wild lilies along the banks, and Liora, without missing a beat, confessed that she, too, had mourned their loss.
They spoke of the recent ban on imported marzipan, of all things, and Sabine had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.
Liora pretended to be scandalized. Though her sister truly did love marzipan, so perhaps she wasn’t pretending at all.
Lord Blackwell commiserated, promising that he knew a confectioner who could approximate the real thing and that he would be honored to deliver a sample at Liora’s convenience.
Sabine thought her ear would bleed from sheer boredom.
Not that there was anything wrong with loving marzipan; it was , admittedly, delicious.
But surely, if this was to be the beginning of a courtship, there were more important topics the two young people wished to discuss?
Things that would truly allow them to know one another?
To decide if they might one day fall in love?
But then again, what did Sabine know about that.
Was her sister truly enjoying this? Or was she merely—what, performing? Enduring? It was difficult to say, but the longer the conversation went on, the more Sabine doubted the purity of Liora’s delight. Underneath the cordiality, she detected a strain in her sister’s voice.
As a child, Liora had equated love to a meteor, something fierce and consuming and absolute.
She’d wanted to be swept up, not pressed into place like a gear in a well-oiled machine.
Sabine had thought making her the Singular would afford her the luxury of choosing love over all else. Had she miscalculated?
A voice, dark and familiar, slipped out from the noise. “Your Grace, Miss Almarien.”
Lord Vaelros materialized beside them with that peculiar ability he possessed to appear without warning. It unsettled her, the way he drew her gaze. The memory of his fingers brushing hers on the pew forced itself into her mind, demanding to be acknowledged. She did no such thing.
It’d been barely a touch. Nothing meaningful had happened.
Lady Delarine turned from Liora and Lord Blackwell to assess Lord Vaelros with characteristic shrewdness. “Lord Vaelros. How good to see you continue to entertain polite society.”
His mouth curved in what might charitably be called a smile. “The Season demands it, Your Grace.”
Sabine felt like she’d bitten into something sour. He could’ve just said the Emperor demanded it.
An assignment. This was nothing but an assignment. Yet another order the Emperor’s perfect weapon was to execute. Sabine would do well to remember this.
“My lord,” Sabine said, saccharine as she could manage, “might I persuade you to invite me to your box tonight?”
He didn’t school his surprise before it distorted his perfect mask of composure, at least for a moment.
“I hear it has the best of views.”
Lady Delarine’s lips quirked. “Is this your attempt at attracting scandal, Miss Almarien?”
“In a theatre of one hundred of our peers? Hardly.” She kept her voice sweet, taking a page out of Liora’s never-ending book on enticing a suitor. “I simply wish to enjoy the play in Lord Vaelros’s presence.”
“Very well,” Lady Delarine said. “Seeing your intentions are so pure…”
Lord Vaelros extended his hand, every inch the perfect gentleman. The moment their fingers touched, warmth flared beneath her collarbone. She should have grown used to it by now. Would she ever? His fingers closed gently around hers before guiding her hand to rest against the crook of his arm.
“I assume there is more to your motivations tonight than simply wishing for my company?” he asked quietly while they navigated the crowd.
“Was I so obvious?”
He leaned closer. “The fluttering eyelashes gave it away. A word to the wise? Leave those gestures to your sister.”
Her fingers dug into his forearm, wishing she could claw away at his skin. “Because I can never hope to master them the way Liora does?”
“Because you do not need them. Not with me, and frankly, not with a real suitor, had you been granted the opportunity of one.” His jaw clenched. “You have a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. Any proper gentleman would find it far beyond adequate.”
Sabine didn’t know how to process his words, let alone a response, so she chose silence.
Lord Vaelros nodded toward the stage, where preparations were underway. “I must say, this is a most dreadful play. It brings me a modicum of relief knowing you’ll have to suffer it with me.”
His box occupied a prime position—close to the stage, yet tucked away enough for privacy, the velvet curtains open for now. They sat right as the lights began to dim. The orchestra readied, bows poised, the moment stretching.
“I see your plan has succeeded. Your sister received the title you sought for her.”
A sour taste filled Sabine’s mouth. “Yes, indeed.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “And yet, you do not seem pleased.”
“I have had larger concerns on my mind, my lord. Concerns for which I believe you ought to answer.”
When the first notes rose, Lord Vaelros leaned closer. “If you wish to interrogate me, by all means, be my guest. But you must pretend we’re discussing the merits of the play.”
A chill ran down her spine. “You’re frightening me, my lord.”
“Promise me.” His gaze pinned her in place, as though he could will his words into her understanding through sheer force of attention. “The Registry has eyes everywhere, and they cannot hold any suspicion we are doing anything but entertaining Gilt pageantry.”
The gravity in his voice made her throat tight. “Very well.”
He nodded. “Go on, then.”
“The Bennetts,” she whispered, careful to smile when a couple in the next box peered over. “At the Symphony Ball, they both had marks. I saw them. It was not a trick of the light, or my imagination.”
Lord Vaelros’s jaw tightened.
“But now, no one remembers,” she pressed, each syllable a needle, “Lady Delarine and Liora insist they never bore marks at all, act like if I’m confused, or mad. But I’m not.”
She could feel the weight of his attention, more real than the orchestra’s music, more urgent than the Registry’s scrutiny from the galleries above. Sabine willed her hands still with the count of five breaths.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said, so softly she doubted even he could hear. “I need the truth.”
He didn’t flinch. “I don’t lie.”
“No, you simply conceal the truth in the name of loyalty.” The words tasted bitter. “But I want to know what really happened.”
“What makes you think the truth is any kinder, any safer than ignorance?”
“I don’t care for kind or safe. And if I remember the marks, and the rest of them,”—Sabine skimmed the assembled Gilt in the seats below—”do not, then there must be a reason. So tell me, my lord: did the Bennetts have a mark, or not?”
He took a deep breath and held it for a long moment. When he released it, he said, “The Bennetts had a mark. You and I know this. The Gilt does not.”
The words refused to arrange themselves into sense. “How is that possible? Everyone witnessed it at the Awakening Ball.”
“True.” His voice was heavy, each word purposeful. “And then I erased it from their memories.”
She whipped her head to him. “You did what ?”
“We are speaking of the play, remember?”
The soft warning reeled her back to the velvet and the music and the need to pretend. She fixed her attention on the stage, the spectacle suddenly meaningless. “You will have to explain yourself, my lord.”
“At the funeral, my Shadow weavers and I worked together to ensure the Gilt’s collective memories of the Bennetts’ mark were either obfuscated or destroyed entirely.”
“Your affinity... You can destroy memories, then?”
“Memories are the least of what I can destroy with my weaving. Whatever stories you may have heard about my affinity, they likely understated its dangers.”