Taron threads the ribbons through the final two loops at my waist and gives the ends a tug to tighten them. I don’t expect the sudden pull, and it throws me off balance.
I stumble back, right into Taron’s solid frame. His hands curl around my waist. I can feel his cold fingertips through the dress. I suck in a breath, doing all I can to stop my heart from fluttering in my chest like some erratic caged bird.
Taron narrows his eyes as if he can hear it, and the heat pooling around my neck grows unbearable. I peel away from him, smoothing my skirt and haphazardly tying the ends of the ribbon into a bow behind my back.
Stop it, Talia. You need to compose yourself.
“Thanks,” I manage to say.
Taron runs a hand through his hair. If he’s feeling … whatever this is, he’s not showing it. “Sure. Like I said, easy work.”
By the time we head downstairs to wait for our ride, the city of Rava is soaked in end-of-day sun. Mr Bo looks like he’s about to pop a vessel when he sees us dressed for the banquet; I realize he most likely never believed we were actually competing.
I tug at the hem of my dress, the silk sticking to my skin as we wait outside for the solarcraft. I can’t tell if it’s the humidity in the air or a lingering reaction to whatever it was that happened between me and Taron in front of that mirror. It was something visceral, out of my control. It was his body pressing against mine, the smell of bergamot mixed with something deeper.
This is ridiculous. I can’t be attracted to Taron. We barely know each other and, whatever hold Madame Vera has on him, he still had a hand in Elara’s death. It’ll take a lot more than a crooked smile and a gentle touch for me to drop my guard. Besides, most of the time, he barely looks at me.
We wait in silence. When at last the solarcraft pulls up in front of the tavern, I can’t hide my relief. The vehicle closely resembles a watercraft – a long body that’s gracefully arched, made from sun-hardened wood and adorned with gold leaf and amber. A lattice of woven vines and sun-dried reeds forms the canopy overhead, filtering in the remaining rays of sunlight.
The canopy flips open, and Taron and I climb inside. It’s far less spacious than it looks, with seats opposite each other.
Taron’s tall frame takes up over half the space, one of his knees lightly grazing mine. I don’t think he realizes. I can’t ignore it. The coolness of his body seeps through the fabric of my dress. It spreads across my skin, and a shiver runs through me.
Stop it, I tell myself for the thousandth time. I turn away from him to stare out of the window, leaning my head right back to soak in the breeze.
“Clearing your head?” Taron asks.
“Something like that,” I say.
As the solarcraft winds its way up the steep mountain towards the palace gates, the city below soon fades into insignificance. The glistening waterways, market stalls and pretty pastel houses get smaller until they’re only tiny clusters of twinkling lights and smoking chimneys in the distance.
The palace gates loom large ahead of us. Two soldiers clad in black armour briefly stop us. We present our invitation and sigils – I’m still wary whenever I retrieve it from my boot – and then we’re through. There’s no turning back now.
Our journey across the grounds leads us past manicured gardens with colourful blooms and labyrinth hedges; statues of historical figures line the marble path, forever frozen in time. We coast past the walls enclosing the grounds, and I realize they’re a maze of towers and smaller residences,all linked to the main palace by graceful walkways. The alabaster stone has a dreamy feel to it in the soft light of dusk; every intricate carving and embellishment mirrors the crystalline dome crowning the palace.
We’re slowing down and the helmsman manoeuvres our solarcraft around a magnificent fountain before drifting to a stop outside the entrance of the main palace. The canopy flips open and I step out, tilting my head up to take in the spectacle.
High above, the dome glints in the waning evening sun. In front of us is a pair of towering wooden doors, flung open in a welcoming gesture. An assembly of footmen and parlour maids stand in the doorway, hands folded tidily behind their backs.
One footman steps forward and bows. “On behalf of His Majesty, High Prince Seraphius, we’d like to welcome you to this evening’s Obsidian Banquet. If you would be so kind as to make your way up the stairs to the banquet hall reception, the High Prince eagerly awaits to extend his welcome.” His polished accent and soft-spoken manner remind me of how out of place I am – an insignificant girl from a small village who’s never even graced the presence of a visiting dignitary.
But Taron nods and strolls through the doors as if he’s attended this sort of event a million times. And maybe he has? I’ve no idea.
My neck cranes as I step inside and the palace engulfs me. The ceilings are high with dangling chandeliers andgold-framed oil paintings lining dark, wood-panelled walls. A golden carpet cascades down the grand staircase towards us, like a river of molten gold.
We follow it up towards the distant din of chatter, and I don’t realize I’m pulling nervously at the hem of my dress until Taron’s hand comes to rest over mine.
The unexpected gesture sends a jolt through me. His touch is cold and startling, prickling my skin. I snatch my hand back, trying to regain my composure, while shooting Taron a glare that hopefully masks the heat flaring in my cheeks.
“Sorry,” he mutters in a low voice, and I immediately feel bad. It seemed like he was genuinely being kind, but, then again, he probably didn’t want my nerves to give us away.
Another footman greets us on the landing. He leads us down the corridor, a long stretch flanked by towering marble columns veined with gold, to a set of ornate doors. He pushes them open, bows low and gestures for us to go through.
The reception hall is an explosion of sound and light and colour. It’s swirling with competitors in the most opulent and garish attire – a staggering forty-six of them, all laughing and shrieking and greeting each other like old friends.
It’s an overwhelming sight, made worse by the mirrored walls, which reflect the room and everyone in it back to each other.
I hold my breath as I take it all in. My head is spinning.The colours are too bright, the chatter too loud, and there’s an undercurrent of forced merriment that serves as a reminder of our harsh reality. No one is here to make friends.
