Thistle arched a brow. “Let’s try not to go full massacre unless we have to.”
“You’re no fun,” Vesper pouted.
Branrir shifted where he sat, one knee bouncing. “We’ve been dragged through enough hallways that I could draw them from memory. I can get us through the lower floors but…” He hesitated. “I don’t know where the wedding is.”
“I do.”
All heads whipped to me.
“It’s happening in the ballroom.”
Thistle’s forehead creased. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.” I swallowed hard. “The dungeon has to be opened by a Tremor.”
Vesper huffed. “This might be the only time those stupid color-coded armbands would be helpful.”
“Branrir, do you remember who opened it?” I asked.
His lips parted with a scoff. “I’m a Hindsight, of course I do.”
“Point them out—we’ll need them.”
They were our only chance of getting out of here.
41
QUINN
Ahorridly cheerful knock sounded as the door swung wide. Sitting upright, I tucked the lock of Mav’s hair into my bodice. I could not chance them taking it from me.
“Milady,” Devronica, the head seamstress, trilled. “It’s time to dress.”
Several attendants swarmed me, lifting me by the elbows and steering me toward the large standing mirror. Two others waited, cradling the monstrosity of a dress in their arms. Layer by layer, I was fastened into the gown.
While two attendants worked the final buttons of the outermost corset, another descended with powders and pigments. Foundation dulled the flush of my skin, rouge carved false rosiness upon my cheeks, and kohl deepened my eyes. With the final addition of a shimmering dust across my cheekbones, I had been erased.
“Look at you,” Devronica breathed, clasping her hands. “Our radiant bride.”
Somewhere, beneath lacquer and lace, I tried to rememberwho I was before all of this. All my mind could conjure were memories of Mav. I missed the weight of his arms around me, his laugh at my ear. If it were not for the corset forcing me upright, I would have collapsed in tears.
Nothing would ever soothe the ache of his absence.
42
MAV
As Branrir predicted, the guards changed shifts at noon. The second meal of the day arrived with the same grim presentation as the first.
“Enjoy,” the guard said, smirking as he set the metal trays on the floor of the cell. “You lot are scheduled for execution at dawn.”
Apparently, the side dish for grayish bread and molding cheese was a death sentence.
We all froze.
“Execution?” I echoed, jumping to my feet. “For what? Bad table manners?”
“Conspiracy to commit treason,” the guard grumbled.
