“Nervous?” Carlijn asked once she was gone.
“Terrified.”
Carlijn gave her hand a sympathetic pat. “I’ll be in the front row. If you feel faint, look at me. I’ll make a rude face, and you’ll be forced to smile.”
Just the suggestion made her smile. Carlijn always knew how to lighten a mood.
Cléa returned a short minute later with even more energy than when she’d left. “Everyone is assembled,” she said breathlessly. “They only wait for the human king and queen to take their places. Then the bells will ring, and all will watch you walk to the platform. Come now,” she added to Carlijn. “We must join the others.”
After a final round of fussing over Hannalinde’s appearance, they departed arm-in-arm, and she was left alone.
Without their concerned chatter, she could better hear the crowd outside: the dull murmur of human voices from the ground level, the scrape and rustle of gargoyles perched on the balustrade that circled the second floor. Doubtless there were even more on the roof.
She adjusted the veil and checked the mirror one final time, admiring the skill of the seamstress more than her own figure. The bodice’s neckline was cut wide to reveal the scars of her mating bite, and the embroidered sleeves draped over her hands almost gave the impression of gold-tipped wings. Despite her human face, she looked every bit like a high-tier gargoyle’s mate.
Voices filtered from above, deeper than human speech and rough-textured, not bothering to lower their volume.
“—can’t believe he agreed to this farce. A ground ceremony. Like he’s a human himself.”
“What choice does he have? You’ve seen his wings. Might as well cut them off. I’d never be able to show my face in Solvantis with those things hanging off my back. Can you imagineclimbing to your eyrie like a keeper? The seventh tier is wasted on him.”
Laughter came, low and cruel. The sound gutted her.
“The whole thing is disturbing, if you ask me. The Nadir takes a human mate, and we’re all supposed to pretend it’s normal? The moths say he has a perversion for them. But even so, he has to hire harlots to do the job. Nobody wants him, not even a dirtcrawler.”
“So what’s wrong withher? She must be a monster if she agreed to mate with him.”
More laughter. Hannalinde’s fingers curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
“I heard she’s beautiful as humans go. But my watchmate said she’s the traitor’s daughter.”
“Ah, that explains it. She’s the only creature who can stomach standing next to him in public, and he’s the only one who will stoop low enough to take her on. They deserve each other. Still, can you imagine fucking him? I couldn’t.”
Hannalinde stood very still. How could they speak of Rikard that way, when he was a hero? His wings weren’t disgusting. They were evidence of all he’d endured during the war, all he’dsacrificedfor Solvantis. It wasn’t shameful that he had to climb to his eyrie, either. It showed his determination, his humility. No wonder he’d take a human wife, if this was how gargoyles thought.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, pale and exquisite in ivory silk, and suddenly she hated it. She hated how perfect it was. How pristine, as though she hadn’t crawled through nine years of mud and blood to get here. She was as shredded as he was.
She barely knew Rikard. Their relationship was a contract, cold and transactional, built on mutual need, not mutual affection. But she would not walk out there and stand beside himlike a porcelain figurine next to a cracked pot while the whole Tower smirked at the contrast.
She rummaged through the drawers of every side table in the parlor until she found the lady of the house’s sewing kit. As she’d hoped, it contained a pair of sharp, steel embroidery scissors.
The silk of her left sleeve parted with a soft, sighing sound, the slashed edges falling in ribbons around her wrists. Without remorse, she cut the right sleeve to match, the uneven strips hanging like tattered pennants on the battlefield.
The skirt was next. She knelt and sheared through the pooling fabric until the hem was as rent as Rikard’s wings, the edges raw and fluttering. Golden embroidery threads caught the light where their perfect pattern was severed.
Lastly, the veil. She held the gossamer fabric between her hands and tore it with her fingers, ripping along the grain until it hung in long, frayed ribbons down her back.
She stood and faced the mirror as the bells began to ring. The woman looking back was not a lady. She was something else, something ruined but still beautiful, like Rikard. They matched.
Heartbeat slow and sure, she tucked the shears back into the drawer, adjusted the circlet on her brow, and walked out.
She felt every eye track her as she crossed the cobblestones, following the lantern-lit path to the platform in the center of the courtyard. The moonlight caught the gold thread in the remnants of her veil that drifted behind her in the faint breeze.
There were gasps in the human contingent, and a murmur rippled through the gargoyle perches above. She didn’t look up. She looked ahead, at the platform and the gargoyle who stood on it, waiting for her.
Rikard was motionless as he watched her approach. He wore ceremonial armor, burnished steel with gold inlay, and his horns were decorated with gold rings. His wings were unbound for the occasion and stirred in the same breeze that moved her veil. Asshe drew closer, she could see his eyes travel from her face to her sleeves, to the ragged hem, to the ruined veil. Something moved behind his expression, tectonic and monumental.
He understood why she’d done it. They matched. Theymatched.
