Chapter 36 Cass
The ballroom hums with conversation, a steady drone beneath the rise and fall of music. Laughter rings out. Silverware clinks against fine porcelain. The air is thick with the scent of wine, perfume, and too many bodies pressed too close together.
I sit at the long banquet table, listening, trying to look composed and unbothered but not sure I’m managing either. I used to enjoy balls. I liked company and conversation, delighted in twirling around the dancefloor.
But the music has never sounded so far away, or so deafening.
Someone clears their throat beside me, another well-meaning courtier trying, yet again, to engage me in conversation.
“Your Highness,” the man says, voice tight with the strain of carefully measured politeness.
“It’s me, Lord Vanderton. You must forgive me, but—ah—how do you find the festivities this evening? ”
I turn towards him, offering a placid smile. “The music is lovely.”
The poor man makes a choked sort of sound, scrambling for something to say, but mercifully, Evander leans in from his place beside me. “I think what my brother means to say,” he drawls, smooth and effortless, “is that the company is the true highlight of the evening.”
There’s a beat of uncertain laughter, the courtier seizing the escape Evander has given him with almost embarrassing relief. A moment later, the conversation shifts elsewhere, and I exhale slowly, setting my goblet down.
Evander doesn’t need to say anything—I can feel the amusement rolling off him.
He’s come to my rescue twice already, intercepting nervous courtiers who trip over themselves in their efforts not to say something offensive.
They mean well, I know, but there are only so many strained pleasantries I can endure before the whole ordeal turns unbearable.
I tip my head slightly in Evander’s direction. “I think I preferred it when people were too afraid to speak to me.”
His chuckle is quiet, meant for me alone. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s a certain entertainment in watching them fumble over their own tongues.”
I huff a soft laugh, but I don’t reply. My fingers drum idly against the table, restless.
The music swells again, another dance beginning.
Somewhere across the room, I hear the rustle of skirts, the soft scuff of shoes as dancers take to the floor.
I let the sounds wash over me, half-tuned to the shifting voices, the movement, the shape of the night unfolding around me.
And then, beneath it all, I hear her.
She’s been standing behind me all of the night, constant and alert. It doesn’t matter how silent she is; I know she’s there. I can feel her. The air between us is a string.
“Cassiel!” says a bold, brash voice. I know it—I know I know it—but it takes me a while to process. “How have you been, old bean? Terribly good to see you out and about.”
Benedict Greenvale. An old mentor of mine. He taught me magical theory. He’s not old—perhaps in his thirties—but is regarded as somewhat of an expert on herbology.
“Good to see you again, Benedict,” I tell him.
“We can still say see then, yes?”
“Yes, we can still say that.”
He laughs. I find I don’t mind it.
“So, how have you been?” he asks again.
“Adapting,” I tell him. “It’s been a journey, but we’re getting there. Luckily, I have a rather stubborn guard who refuses to let me mope.”
I gesture in the direction I’m sure she’s standing.
“Ser,” Benedict says, offering a nod, I hope.
He lowers his voice, leaning in. “Terrible shame you can’t see her,” he tells me. “She’s quite lovely.”
“Of that, I’m certain,” I tell him.
Benedict leans in closer. “I’ve been meaning to extend an invitation,” he says. “I’ve been working on some fantastic projects that may interest you, if you want to visit my residence sometime.” He pats his clothes and removes something from them. “I’ll give my card to your guard.”
Wren strides over to take it. I catch a whiff of the scent of her skin, more dizzying than any perfume.
“Thank you, Benedict,” I tell him. “I have been looking to expand my horizons.”
“I think you’ll like what I have. Can’t really go into more detail here, alas. But I look forward to showing everything. Until then, Cassiel.”
He makes what I’m sure is another bow and retreats from the table. I lean towards Wren. “What time is it?” I ask her.
“A little after nine,” she says.
“Hmm. That should do.”
I rise to my feet and find her arm.
“Are you going so soon?”
“Not going, per say, but moving, yes. There’s a small room off the corridor towards the northern side of the hall. Would you mind escorting me?”
“Of course,” says Wren, not questioning my motives.
I smile. She’s going to be so surprised…
“Where’s my mother?” I ask her.
“To your right. Ten feet ahead. Talking to Baron what’s-his-name.”
“Excellent description Wren, thank you.”
She pauses as we approach, turning me ever so slightly towards my mother. I don’t often have a problem knowing which direction to face—at least, I think I don’t—but it becomes more difficult if the room is swamped with people.
“Mother,” I announce. “I shall be retiring for the evening.”
“Are you all—”
“Quite well, I assure you. I’m just finding it all a little overstimulating. Let’s not do a grand exit. I shall be quite fine with Wren.”
“I know you will be,” she says warmly.
Wren leads me away, towards the door I spoke of. We step into a parlour and close the door behind us. The music muffles.
Wren breathes in sharply.
“Well,” I say, grinning, “do you like it?”