“Mortifying.” Isadora hid her face behind an embroidered pillow.
“Oh, Issy, don’t be silly,” Livia said, snatching the pillow away. “You were exceptional—right up until the fall.” She cringed, and Issy groaned and rolled onto her front, but Livia just scooted round until she could see her sister through the cushions. “I can guarantee no one is thinking about that, now. They’ll all be talking about him.”
Him. The northern man who had launched himself onto the stage and manhandled her in front of everyone. One moment he’d been nothing more than a pair of piercing-blue eyes shining in the darkness, the next he’d been right there, knocking her off her feet like some kind of battering ram. Despite resembling a vagrant, he’d smelled of sea salt and mint, and something else she couldn’t put her finger on. It reminded her of the night sky—but that was silly. It was probably just campfire smoke.
And then he’d been gone; dragged away by the guards to be interrogated in the dungeons, she presumed. A living, breathing Silver. She’d never met anyone from the barren north before, it was quite thrilling…
She shook herself. It wasn’t exciting, he could have been intending to hurt her. Or worse. She’d been caught up in the emotion of the ballet, that was all. Blame Asterina and Cethin.
“Issy?” Livia had been speaking and Isadora hadn’t heard a single word. Her sister could tell from her expression andrepeated herself with a sigh. “Will you be alright tonight?” Her voice dropped into a whisper, as though she didn’t want to be overheard. “What will happen if you can’t dance?”
Isadora had been wondering that very same thing, but there was no point in worrying her little sister when there was nothing either of them could do about it.
“It’ll be fine. My pride is more hurt than my body.”
Livia didn’t look convinced, but a knock came at the door and the royal physician entered, preventing her from saying more.
After checking Isadora over and confirming it was nothing more than a few bruises, the physician ordered her to rest and gave her a tonic to prevent swelling, which she swallowed in one gulp, gagging on the medicinal aftertaste. He sent a maid to fetch her some chamomile tea and promised to return in the morning.
Once the physician was gone, Isadora and Livia’s lady’s maids helped them to change into their nightdresses and braided their long, dark hair, ready for bed. Every evening, they went through the exact same routine. And yet, when they woke, they would once again be wearing their finest dresses and worn-out dancing slippers. It was a mystery no one seemed able to explain. And many had tried.
Livia clambered onto Isadora’s bed and sat cross-legged, fiddling with the end of her braid. Within moments, her calico cat, Nina joined them. Livia lifted the animal into her lap and stroked its black, white and orange fur, eliciting a satisfied purr. “Do you remember anything? About last night, I mean.”
Isadora shook her head, strands of wavy, dark hair falling free from her braid. “No. It’s the same as always, I dreamed of dancing at a ball, with…someone. A man, I think. But every time I try to remember the details, the memory slips from my grasp like grains of sand through an hourglass.”
Livia nodded solemnly. “And when you wake up, you realise it wasn’t a dream at all. It’s the same for me.”
Isadora chewed her lip and played with the gold, sunburst locket that always hung around her neck. It had once been their mother’s, and their Uncle had given it to Issy after Queen Idalia’s untimely passing. “It’s been months now, I just want to sleep, Liv. I’m distracted in lessons, and tonight during the performance, I felt so lightheaded I almost passed out. How much longer can this go on for?”
Livia’s expression was serious as she kneaded the cat’s head with her knuckles. “Prince Philip of Innsmere arrives in a few days.”
Isadora looked at her sister in horror. “Really? I hadn’t realised it was so soon.”
Prince Philip would be the first potential suitor to visit after Isadora’s eighteenth birthday, meaning there was a chance of him asking for her hand. Isadora didn’t know which would be worse—him asking to marry her, or disappearing, never to be seen again. Like the others.
Livia scratched Nina behind the ear, and the cat nestled into her, purring. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she asked, “What do you think is happening to them? The princes. Every one that has tried to discover the secret has vanished without a trace. Where could they be?”
Isadora shook her head, an icy finger running up her spine. She hugged her knees to her chest. “I don’t know, Liv. I truly don’t. But I fear it won’t stop until someone uncovers the truth about what’s happening to us.” Her voice dropped and she worried at the engraved locket between her fingers. “I just hope someone figures it out before it’s too late.”
Livia pickedat the crust of her custard tart and popped a piece of flaky pastry into her mouth. “It was the most exciting thing that’s happened in years!”
All twelve of them were squeezed around their favourite table in the pasteleria, right in the front window, watching the people of Orovia going about their business. The smell of baked bread and burnt sugar drifted from the kitchen at the back of the little cake shop, and the sound of gentle chatter and clinking china filled the air.
Issy could feel the looks the handful of other patrons gave her and her friends. Heard them whispering to each other about the curse, but she ignored it.
She rolled her eyes at her sister and gave the other dancers an apologetic look. “It really wasn’t all that exciting. It was over in less than a minute. I can’t even remember what he looked like,” she lied. “Apart from the Silver hair.”
In truth, it was his face she now saw when she closed her eyes. That square jaw and bright blue eyes. She suppressed a shudder and reached down to rub her aching calves, hiding her conflicted expression.
They had spent hours in the studio that morning, repeating the same steps until their toes were numb and their new shoes had rubbed their heels raw. Madame Zafra had been furious about the commotion on stage the night before and had made them run through the entire performance three times without putting a foot wrong, before she was happy. Well, happy was a little strong; Madame Zafra rarely strayed from disappointment. At best, they might get grudging approval if one of them managed to pull off a perfect pirouette or grand adage, but Issy couldn’t remember a time she’d ever seen their dance mistresshappy.
They’d been dancing together since they were infants, the twelve daughters of Orovia’s noble families. It was tradition;a way to honour their ancestors and celebrate the Southern Isle’s history and culture. But, with word of the curse spreading further, the future of their performances looked uncertain. Issy knew she and Livia were at risk every time they set foot in town or danced on the theatre stage, but their guards were never more than a hairsbreadth away. She could see them now, standing outside the cake shop doors, causing other potential patrons to hurry past. She wondered if Mrs Freira, the young widow who owned the pasteleria, minded them driving away business. But she supposed twelve customers with deep pockets and a love of elegantly decorated cakes was a baker’s dream. And being the princesses’ favourite place to visit would surely attract customers—when there weren’t six armed guards protecting the entrance.
Eva took a large bite of her tart, leaving powdered sugar and cinnamon on her up-turned nose. “I bet he’s being held in the dungeons under the palace. You should sneak down there and see!”
The other girls squealed with laughter, but Issy’s stomach plummeted. She couldn’t think of anything worse than looking into those terrible, ice-blue eyes again. The intensity in them, the fathomless depths. She felt her mouth go dry and her palms prickled. To hide her discomfort, she picked up her own custard tart and nibbled the crust. She wasn’t hungry—hadn’t felt a real desire for food in months—but the buttery, sweet pastry and vanilla flavoured centre smelled incredible. They’d been her favourites once, but now she could barely finish a single tart. She set it back down on her plate and licked her fingers clean.
Anabella, the youngest of their dance company—along with Livia—at sixteen, tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. Her voice was soft and musical, and the entire table fell silent as she spoke. “I’d love to see the Northern Isle. I’ve never left Orovia.”
