‘It’s tradition,’ she says. ‘Where my family comes from, we offer blades to those we respect. I thought perhaps you could wear it tonight. Since I can’t paint your sigils.’
I remain fixed to the spot, not reaching for the gift. There has to be some kind of ulterior motive, a trap waiting for me, but I can’t see what it is.
‘I don’t mean to sound like a bitch,’ Zara breaks the silence, ‘but if you don’t take it, it’s fucking rude. Like, big-time smite rude. But I get it if that’s your plan. It’s not like I wouldn’t deserve it.’
Could it be poisoned? I doubt it, given how she picked it up herself. The poison would be on her too, and she’s been holding it for far longer than I intend to.
The tingling is still in my palm as I take the hilt of the dagger. I’m not sure if I’m controlling it or if it’s controlling me, but either way, I know that power is at my fingertips if I need it, and it’s the first time I’ve felt a tiny modicum of control in fourteen years.
‘Thank you. I guess I’ll see you at the ball then.’
‘Right. It’s the big room on the ground floor. You can’t miss it. I’d better go get dressed and do my own sigils. I’ll leave you to it.’
It’s difficult to decide what the most unbelievable part of the last few days has been. The fact that I’m in a relationship with the man who ruined my family, that I can, on some level, communicate with giant, ancient krakens, or that Zara was nice to me. Actually, screw that. The last one is definitely the weirdest.
With Zara finally gone, I head over to the wardrobe. Given that there was paint for the sigils inside, I expect there to be clothes as well, and I’m not disappointed. The array of fabrics and styles are even greater than those Dinah gave me, and unlike my selection back on the mainland, everything here is the height of fashion. As I run my fingers across thematerial, I can’t help but think of Llinos. She would have loved this. There’s one dress in particular, in a deep green, that I can imagine would have complemented her skin tone perfectly. A knot fixes itself in my stomach.
Can I really go and face her family? Look them in the eye knowing I’m the one who should be dead, not her?
I don’t have a choice. Not really.
With a deep breath in, I reach my hand up and pull out a dress at random. Turns out there are some things even scarier than krakens, and the sooner I get this done, the better.
Chapter 63
I’ve never paired sigils and daggers with a dress before, but there’s a first time for everything. My first random dress choice didn’t work at all as there was nowhere to sheath the blade, and given it’s the first show of goodwill Zara has ever given me, I don’t want to throw it back in her face. Which is why, when I peer into the wardrobe a second time, it’s with a little more discernment. Thankfully, I find the perfect garment.
The black leather, halter-neck jumpsuit, with a keyhole cutout below my sternum, is the perfect mix between warrior and womanly, and my own knife belt fits perfectly across the hips. After sheathing various daggers – including Zara’s and my own from Dinah – I paint on my sigils, aware of just how clumsy they look compared to the ones painted by Kyor’s steady hand. I brush my hair and do a simple plait around my crown, like Llinos sometimes wore, and then I head out, feeling like the shadow of my best friend is walking with me.
The stone here is paler in colour than the grey bricks of Wrohelm, and even though I can hear the music drifting from downstairs, I take my time absorbing it all, from the paintings to the views to the colour of the carpets, imagining Llinos beside me, telling me little facts about each. Facts she’d almost certainly have learned from Caroline.
Five minutes have passed before I even reach the staircase to the ballroom. Am I delaying speaking to her family? Absolutely. I know what Kyor said about them not blaming me for her death, but how could they not? That wine was meant for me. And I was the one who handed her the glass.
I blame myself, and they should too.
One by one, I take the steps, not sure if I’d rather face them sober or drunk. In the end, though, I know it makes no difference. It will be painful however it happens. As I reach the doors to the ballroom, I feel the music reverberating through the ground.
Aware of the tremble in my hand, which is thankfully absent of the tingle of magic, I step in through the doorway.
The music screeches to an abrupt halt, gasps rattle through the air, and hands fly to mouths at the sight of me.
My throat constricts, and I feel sick as I take in the assembled courtiers, all in their finest gowns, with nothing more than sparkling eyeliner and garish lipstick on their mouths. There is not a painted sigil in sight.
‘By the Gods, Rose,’ Zara speaks into the stunned silence. ‘I can’t believe you’d disrespect the Eastern Isles so much as to turn up to a ball ready to offer violence. That’s unbelievable. But then, what can we expect, letting aslum rattake part in the Retterheld?’
Anger pulses through me and it takes serious restraint on my part not to draw the blade she gave me and throw it into her treacherous, conniving little heart. I curse myself for being an idiot, for believing – even for a second – that she could ever show me a drop of respect.
‘I think it’s bad-ass,’ a young girl announces loudly, breaking the hush of the hall.
I turn to look at her, and my breath catches in my throat. I know without being told who she is. Carys, Llin’s little sister.
‘Absolutely bad-ass,’ Benny agrees loudly as he moves to join me.
A murmur turns into unfettered conversation as people begin talking among themselves. Still, I’m sure my face has never been redder.
‘Okay. This was not what I expected you to be wearing,’ Benny says as he sidles up beside me.
‘Zara.’ The one-word growl is all I need to explain my situation. ‘Is this … should I go back and change? Wash off the sigils?’
