I hadn’t had time to have a dress made. Of course I hadn’t. No one can handcraft an evening gown in an afternoon. Not that Alder even realizes this doesn’t match the maroon coat I took from the wardrobe he’s pretending is his.
One of the noblewomen who’ve been quietly planning a revolution beneath the kitchen offered me this dress the color of crushed sapphires. Sylvie sewed lace panels into the sides, sheer and slightly scandalous, to accommodate my figure and make it mine. Because bodies aren’t mistakes to be reshaped—they’re all different, all beautiful—and clothes should rise to meet them, not the other way around.
It fits like power. Like the first victory in a war I intend to win.
We move slowly past jeweled collars and polishedsmiles. Noblewomen drip with diamonds. Noblemen sweat in brocade. Every gaze flicks from Alder to me and back again, as if they’re deciding whether I’m a trophy or a threat.
Alder leans down. “Smile, Gemma. You look like you’re planning a murder.”
“Maybe I am,” I say, voice sugary. “Careful where you stand.”
He chuckles, but his grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Delphara rises, and the room stills. She lifts a goblet in one hand, the wine inside glinting like fresh blood.
My stomach twists. Knowing Delphara, it might be.
“To the Kingdom of Cups,” she says, her voice low and mellifluous, woven through with something sharp. “To the return of glory. To the machines that sleep no longer. To the gods who demand our devotion. And to the offering that will awaken the land once and for all.”
Applause erupts like thunder cracking through the room. Silver goblets clink, laughter bubbles, and the Queen’s smile turns wicked as she basks in it.
Victor rises slowly beside her, goblet in hand. His expression is all polished civility, but there’s a slight tremor in his arm, a tightness in his jaw. “To the cost of progress.” He lifts his glass. “And how steep a cost it is.”
The applause that follows is more hesitant, less certain. But Delphara’s smile doesn’t waver. Instead, she turns toward Victor and rests her fingers against his wrist.
And just like Clara’s sacrifice, it begins.
A glow unfurls beneath her touch, and if I hadn’t seen it before, I would assume it was a flash of light off gemstones. Sea-blue dances across Victor’s skin, pulsesonce, twice, then melts into silver. It flashes like a blade before sinking into him and disappearing.
He stiffens, blinks, then he smiles like nothing happened.
But I know better now. I know that smile. I’ve worn it myself. Obedience disguised as devotion.
Delphara leans forward and murmurs something only he can hear. He nods.
My stomach sours again.
Movement catches the corner of my eye. One of the masked guards has approached Alder. I watch, careful not to shift too suddenly, as the guard passes him a folded piece of parchment.
Alder opens it. Reads it. His expression doesn’t change, but his focus moves from the note to Delphara.
“Gemma, sweetheart, I have to go attend to—” Alder begins to tuck the note into his pocket and walk away when a man in a seafoam green brocade sidles up beside him.
“Lord Lockhart,” the man says. “I was hoping to speak with you about the new terms from Pentacles. I have been told you’ve brought a rather compelling counterproposal.”
Alder slips seamlessly into his role, that easy smile lighting his face as he extends his hand. “Of course,” he says. “Always happy to discuss business. Especially when it’s profitable.”
Whatever was in that note, wherever Alder was going to disappear to, it has to wait. Because now, it’s time.
Alder is laughing at something the man beside him said, charming and effortless in his golden silk jacket. He’s glowing under the chandeliers, every inch the lordof the realm.
I smooth my hands down my gown, letting the confidence I don’t completely feel straighten my spine and lift my chin as my stomach does cartwheels.
I excuse myself from Alder’s side with a smile that feels almost real and speed walk toward the refreshments table. One of the naked women lies artfully across the tablecloth, grapes cascading over her hips, a platter of cheeses perched delicately on her thighs. Beside her, mercifully clothed, stands an attendant in a crisp, pale-blue dress, looking far too composed for someone literally working a buffet made of bodies.
She perks up the moment she sees me. “Wine, my lady?”
I offer her my goblet and channel every unhinged rom-com heroine who’s ever done something insane in the name of a plan. “To the top, please.”
