Dragons walked on the street, their wings folded. Others flew down from above, converging on the arena as the nobility flocked to watch today’s race. Topside, there were men and women in their linen finery, but my eyes were drawn to the few wearing the classical, elegant clothing only dragon riders wore. This clothing, all angles and sharp silhouettes, with little flashes of gold thread woven into the shoulders, and their tall leather boots, stood out even to me, who found it easier to identify dragon breeds than clothing trends. Dragon riders did not follow the evolving fashion trends of high society, at least when it came to their riding attire.
Through the window, I watched the crowds, trying to spy the trends Evie had excitedly explained last night as she envisioned the women coming into town for the race.Look at the hats. And the skirts,she’d said.Usually, I was in too much of a hurry to bother looking at other women’s skirts, but from the backseat of a slowly cruising automobile, I found myself scanning the women outside, smiling as I thought of my sister. Two weeks ago, she’d sewn herself a skirt that our mother had shouted at, claiming it was heretical not to wear petticoats. The youngwomen on the street today definitely weren’t wearing petticoats. Evie was right. She said the recent shift in women’s clothing from stiff, layered dresses to looser, lighter attire was because the new queen wasn’t a bonded dragon rider, the first unbonded royal in a century, and she favored clothes that boldly diverged from the stiff corsets and traditional silhouettes. That only made the godspawn, as my brother always called dragon riders, even easier to spot, their attire so markedly different from the popular styles of the day. Evie might envy the popular styles, but I envied the riders’ attire. To me, they looked like royalty.
Lord Fairfax pointed out the window. “Ah, here we are.”
We rolled under an archway in the massive walls, plunging us into deep shadows lit with a single glittering chandelier. Moments later, the automobile’s door swung outward and a footman offered me his hand. I swallowed, then accepted the footman’s gloved hand. The stone ceiling arched overhead, and bright sunlight streamed in from both ends of the tunnel. The hum of twenty thousand voices rose from within the arena. My heart thumped madly in my chest, and I couldn’t help the smile that stretched across my face.
Lord Fairfax addressed the circle of servants that had surrounded us. “Miss Mireaux will be my guest today. Take her to the Rose Room and ensure she has everything she needs. Starting with a dress.”
Before I could respond, he drifted away, several attendants following behind him.
My eyes fell back to my dingy skirt and blouse. Another automobile, also black, but this one with an open top, had pulled through the wide tunnel and a woman was exiting, a wide hat hiding half her face until she angled it severely toward me, revealing a shocked look.
The words“who’s that”hissed over the sound of clacking shoes on stone as the woman floated away, clutching the arm of a large man in a crisp suit. Maybe a dress would be a good idea.
“This way, miss,” said a woman not much older than me. She had bright red hair and wore servant’s livery.
The next half hour passed like a dream. I was dressed in the finest clothing I’d ever touched, my hair was set in a neat bun on top of my head, and I was paraded out to one of the top boxes at the arena, a place I’d only ever read about in the papers.
Lord Fairfax owned one of the largest boxes, situated at the top of the arena’s massive walls and overlooking all the spectators crammed in the seats below. At the edge of the balcony, twisting stone columns supported a ceiling painted to look like a sunrise. The way the glass-smooth floor caught the light and reflected the ceiling in almost perfect tones made it feel as if I walked out into thin air. As if I could fly. Tens of thousands of Cavaria’s privileged spread out around the vast space. My stomach dropped a little when I looked down.
Two noblemen and one woman chatted with Fairfax in the center of the balcony, beside a pair of couches and a few high-backed chairs. Most of the seats here, however, would be empty if no one else arrived. A man with a little notebook walked among the sparse guests, jotting down quick marks, his face never changing from his stoic stare. While Lord Fairfax was occupied, I took the opportunity to look around. On the balcony, in addition to the lavish furniture, were small tables bursting with fresh flowers and a little potted bush trimmed to look like a dragon rising in flight. Silver pitchers sweating from the heat rested on two sideboards along with decanters and glass bottles filled with all manner of amber liquids. Enormous strawberries fanned out in an impressive array on one platter, and a mountain of cheeses filled another.
My stomach growled. I’d skipped breakfast to make it to Duke Covington’s lair on time.
The footman, the same man who’d helped me from the automobile, eyed me warily at the loud sound. I bit my lips. I had no idea how to behave around these people—what was acceptable to say, to do?
The man leaned sideways and whispered, “Soon, he will invite his guests to enjoy the food.”
I nodded, thankful for the tip not to dig in right away.
“Your turn,” said the footman, ushering me forward as Lord Fairfax lifted one hand in a small gesture that I couldn’t read.
“What am I to do?”
“Thank him for the invitation,” he whispered.
I passed before the lord, offering a wobbly curtsy. “Thank you for inviting me to the race today,” I said, wondering if that was too many words or too few.
He offered me a generous nod. “Thank you for being my guest today, Miss Mireaux.”
After that, no one spoke to me, but no one questioned my presence here either. I wasn’t entirely certain what Fairfax’s aims were, but I was grateful I had left my stained dress behind. In these clothes, I was invisible. I was one of them.
Then the man with the notebook approached me. “Placing a bet today, miss?”
I blinked at him.
“Need a minute to review the book?” He nodded down at the table, where a small booklet emblazoned with the Fairfax crest rested. “Go ahead; take as long as you need.”
Though I was not interested in placing a bet, curiosity pulled me toward the booklet nonetheless. I thumbed through the pages, at first a little overwhelmed at the charts, trying to make sense of what I was reading. But I recognized the dragons’ names, having heard them on the streets and at the Covingtons’lair, not to mention reading them in the papers all week. This booklet contained the genealogy of each of today’s racers, followed by a table that documented their wins and losses and official times in each race they’d ever participated in. I spotted Mirantha’s name in several of the genealogies, which stretched back to the time before Cavaria had become an official nation.
Beside each dragon’s name was their owner.
My finger traced along the name Covington, printed underneath the top contender for today’s race, a Cevnal named Thuron, brother of the young dragon I’d helped earlier.
Family crests were printed alongside every dragon name, indicating the owners. Duke Covington’s crest was only listed beside Thuron; however, Mirantha’s name appeared in four of the genealogies, and in two genealogies, I recognized Rylic, a dragon sold by Duke Covington years ago for the highest price ever paid at the time. Out of nine racers in the world’s biggest dragon race, the Covingtons either owned or had a hand in breeding more than half of them.
The man with the notebook circled back around to me when I set the booklet down.
