Ro may have pranced about the castle in these hideous dresses and gossiped with silly courtiers like Elodie, but sheneverwould have fawned over Alaric Alaverdi. It’s too much. Too degrading and contrary to the core of who she was and what she wanted. The more Elodie says about Rowenna’s time in Vanzador, the more I’m convinced she was never here. She was body snatched crossing the Tomb Flats, and a changeling was sent in her place.
I strain to hear Ro’s voice through the silence, certain she must have a reasonable explanation, but for once my sister is oddly quiet.
“Forgive me,” Elodie says gently. “I’ve clearly said too much. It must be strange to be married to the same man as your sister. To worry and compare your relationship to theirs. But I have no doubt you’ll win Alaric’s affection in no time. Look at you—you’re stunning in your own right. Our fashion suits you so splendidly!”
She takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face the mirrors, each of them reflecting from a slightly different angle.
It’s all I can do not to scream.
My sister’s blue-tinged, white-lipped corpse looks back at me from each pane of glass. It’s all I will ever be able to see when I look at these lacy Vanzadorian gowns.
Elodie mistakes my gasp of horror for delight. “You’re quite welcome,” she says as she links her arm through mine and pulls me back into the hall. Apparently, we’re required to hold hands everywhere we go.
Elodie escorts me through parlor after endless parlor, nattering on about which courtiers I should befriend, who is feuding with whom, and how I mustn’t, under any circumstance, mention Lady Hawthorne’s recently deceased child. I want to point out that I didn’t even know of the child’s existence, let alone death, but Elodie is already on to the next subject. And I’m too gobsmacked by each opulent ballroom and ostentatious parlor we pass to dwell on it.
Soren’s castle is luxury, purely for the sake of luxury. Greed for thesake of greed.
At last, we stop before a mint green door trimmed in gold, and Elodie takes both of my hands. “Are you ready to make your debut?” When I don’t answer, she leans closer, squeezes my fingers, and says, “Don’t worry. I’ll be stitched to your side the entire time.”
As if this should be a comfort.
She thrusts her shoulder against the double doors, and we parade into a world of a thousand dancing colors. It’s so bright, I don’t know where to look first. The room is packed with whipping fans and swishing gowns in every shade of blush and chartreuse. Men stride by in velvety vermilion coats and boots with diamond-studded buckles. And glittering above it all, casting everything in its rich, vibrant glow, is a stained-glass window made of deep indigo and sunrise yellow panes that perfectly capture the contrast of night and day.
Before I have time to fully take in the beauty—though I would never admit to doing such a thing—the chatter of the room falls away and every head turns to look at us.
When you spend as much time in the fields as I do, you see a fair amount of wildlife. Some of it’s harmless, though annoying—like the rabbits and squirrels that nibble our produce. I’d put Elodie firmly in this category. But there are predators out there too. Pumas hide in the tall grass at the edge of the growing fields. Bears lumber through the stone walls. I’ve come face-to-face with a wolf, nose-to-nose with a fox. All of which were less terrifying than this room full of Vanzadorian nobles.
Beads of sweat stipple my hairline, and my throat feels as thick and itchy as it does each spring when the pollen swirls. The urge to wrench free from Elodie’s hold and sprint back through the doors is overwhelming, but I keep my feet rooted to the spot. I need answers. Which means I need to experience Ro’s life here. See what she saw. Meet who she met. Act how she acted.
Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I raise my chin andsummon my best imitation of her enigmatic smile as Elodie tugs me forward, presenting me with a dramatic sweep of her arm. “Look who I found!”
But none of the fifty or so courtiers in attendance utters a word of greeting. They simply stare at me with bored eyes and bland smiles.
“This is Rowenna’s sister, Indira.” Elodie tries again.
Still, no reaction.
“Rowenna was Prince Alaric’s former Tashiri bride,” she says with a hint of irritation. “And now Indira is his new bride.” She gestures to me again.
Finally, a few heads nod, though most continue staring. I swear someone even whispers they didn’t know the first bride was gone—which shouldn’t be possible if Rowenna truly spentevery dayin this salon.
After what feels like a lifetime, a middle-aged woman in the center of the throng speaks, her voice as crisp and devastating as late spring frost.
“Indira Harrak…Come. Let me look at you.”
Thirteen
I know this woman is my mother-in-law, Queen Tessa, even though noone introduces her as such and the courtiers surrounding her are just as finely dressed. It’s the way she carries herself—the haughty tilt of her chin, the exquisite line of her jaw, and the raven black hair, tumbling over her shoulders in shining waves.
She bears a striking resemblance to her son, which makes me instantly dislike her. Her icy appraisal doesn’t help.
“Turn,” Queen Tessa commands with a little twirl of her finger.
The men and women surrounding her titter, and my cheeks flame.
Did they subject Ro to such humiliation? I can’t imagine her standing here, taking this.
Ishouldn’t stand for it either. This is the precise sort of cowardice that allowed the Vanzadorians to take my sister in the first place. A character flaw I no doubt inherited from Father. But, unlike him, I can choose to act. Fight.
