But Astrid isn’t listening. What with everything that has happened, she’s forgotten about Mikhael. Shame settles in her belly at the fact that she hasn’t given the rebel a second thought. But Zryan did. Zryan helped that man escape, she’s sure of it. He must have gone back to the cells and Teleported him out, taking a huge risk in defying his father. Is that what he’d been doing the other night, when she’d seen him outside the Walled Gardens? She wonders if Zryan found him the Curer he’d promised.
“Astrid, are you coming?” Jessa tugs at her arm. “Honestly, a Masked Ball is a bloody shocking idea given the assassination attempts—”
“The assassin was caught, remember?”
“The person behind them wasn’t, though.”Person or persons, Astrid thinks. Would they strike tonight, whoever they are? Zryan doubts the rebels are behind the assassination attempts, and from what she heard from Mikhael, they did seem to be focused on rescuing the conscripts. A prickling sensation breaks out along her back, a feeling she’s being watched, and she glances over her shoulder. Something else Zryan said comes back to her; every group has their extremists, including the rebels. Especially those striving for Vatra to become a republic. She shakes it off, telling herself she’s being paranoid.
They join the queue, presenting their invitations when they reach the front, the guards waving them in, warily avoiding Quincy. Passing through the archway is like trying to run in water; Astrid lifts Bastet and wades through the magical barrier, stopping abruptly on the other side.
She has never seen anything like it.
The vast circular clearing is surrounded by a wall, or walls, judging from how it’s been divided into sections—six of them, by the count of the doorways, not including the main entrance. There are tables draped with sprawling ivy and decorated with vases of gladioli; pillar candles and floating lights illuminate the flora, casting the gathered faces in an apricot glow. Platters of canapés, bottles of sparkling wine, and tankards of ale are being circulated by servants she recognizes from the castle.
Entertainers of all sorts mingle with guests; a woman who can mimic any voice, a man with a deck of Tarak cards who’s reading fortunes, a flautist who can hypnotize reptiles, and indeed, who seems to have sand vipers slithering alongside them. She’ll avoid them. There are stalls selling all kinds of wares: glass jewelry; leather sandals; perfumes, silk scarves, and bright purses; sweet treats from Makesh; mini figurines of dragons; and earthenware jugs, bowls, and cups. The whole thing is breathtaking, and this is just the welcome area.
“Total shithole, isn’t it?”
A snort bursts from Astrid. “Why are you like this?”
“What can I say, I’m not easily impressed.”
ICAN VOUCH FOR THAT, Quincy says. ANDILOVE THAT ABOUT YOU.
“You big softy,” Jessa croons, and kneels down to nuzzle his fur, drawing some confused looks. “Do you think they’ve guessed who we are?” She winks at Astrid. “Not many giant white foxes and teensy-weensy black cats prowling around.”
DO YOU LIKE YOUR EYES, DOG LOVER?BECAUSEIWILL CLAW THEM FROM YOUR SKULL.
Jessa throws her head back and laughs loudly, though Quincy looks less impressed. Astrid plucks a chicken leg from a passing server and throws it to Quincy, a peace offering on behalf of her familiar. The way to Quincy’s heart is always food.
“Go on, then. Where to first?” Jessa says. “I want you to actually enjoy yourself tonight—you need a break.”
“Who are you and what have you done with Jessa?”
Jessa smacks Astrid in the arm and Astrid grins, looking around at the different doorways, all uniquely decorated to indicate what lies beyond. Each to honor a different dragon dynasty—Celestials and Elementals.
The first is a writhing mess of black steel and sharp vines with fat dark berries, all seduction and temptation; the entrance beside it is a complete contrast, with an archway radiating warmth like creamy sunlight; next is a doorway of pale bark and coral honeysuckle, twinkling lights entwined within. Then there’s a doorway that looks as though it’s made of cumulus clouds, brilliant white and dusky pinks; then an entrance flanked by two flaming torches, charred-black wood framing the door; finally, the one that makes her stomach flutter, a tall glass arch with icicles dripping from the glacial-blue frame, a frosting of snow along the path that leads into a winter wonderland beyond.
Astrid starts toward it when a server approaches her.
“Princess.” Astrid suppresses a groan. They never had a hope of being inconspicuous. “We’ve been instructed to serve all our guests tonight a traditional drink made from the moonflower plant.” He picks up a glass and hands it to Astrid, then does the same for Jessa. “It isn’t alcohol, so it won’t impair or inebriate you, but the cordial will allow you to revel fully in the evening, to put aside titles and responsibilities, and simply enjoy the fun.” He finishes his little speech with a dip of his chin, his sparkling eyes boring into her.
“Yes, thank you, thank you; you can move along now.” Jessa shoos him and he walks away, tutting. She sniffs at her glass, then chucks it on the grass. “I’m not risking that.” She eyes Astrid expectantly, waiting for her to do the same, and frowns when Astrid doesn’t follow suit. Well, what harm is there? It’d be nice for once not to worry about who she is and what’s expected of her. She smells the moonflower cordial, then takes a vial from the garter around her thigh to pour a drop into it—the liquid doesn’t change color.
“It’s not poisoned, at least.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not poison,” Jessa says sternly. Astrid only grins at her and knocks the drink back in one. It has a sickly floral aftertaste, and she looks around for another drink to wash it away.
There’s a shout from behind them and Astrid turns to see who it is. Skylar’s hollering across the party, every set of eyes on her, or rather, on the dragon perched atop her shoulder, its little gold eyes darting from side to side.
“Oi, Little Witch!” She’s stomping over to them wearing aridiculous red-and-orange dress with a one-shoulder puffy sleeve. Two guards trail behind her, and Astrid doesn’t know whether to be afraid or to laugh. This is the first time she’s seen Skylar since she used her power on Zryan, and, given how upset Skylar was with herself for what she’d done, Astrid vows not to bring it up.
“I can tell you’re fucking smirking,” Skylar says. “To be fair if it was you I’d be laughing too, the state of this dress.” She tugs at the long, frilly skirt. Skylar notices Jessa there too, then. “Hi, Big Witch.”
“Dragon Heir,” Jessa drawls, hands on her hips.
“Foxy,” Skylar adds to Quincy, giving him a nod. The fox harrumphs and rolls his eyes. “Are you—” Skylar begins, but she’s cut off by her dragon, who’s squeaking frantically.
“What’s got into you?” Skylar angles her head toward the little beast, bouncing on her shoulder. It chirrups again and a small smile curls Skylar’s mouth.
