Short Stories
Jade Dreams
Astrid rolled over on her bed, splashing hair over her pillow like ink over a page.
Outside, the waning moon slid behind a cloud. And at long last, Astrid’s eyes felt heavy.
I’ve returned, she thought before it was strictly true.
The air sagged with the weight of salt and the sloshing sound of the sea. It was a sound Astrid only heard in videos. And here.
In the jade hall.
Astrid had been here so many times, she didn’t even have to look to register all the details. The tall, narrow windows which had no glass. The green sea and green sky stretching out past the windows, both unmarked by land or clouds. The oxidized bronze plaque whose words Astrid didn’t need to read in order to recite: The next heir to the throne will restore the balance. Unlike past prophecies, this didn’t rhyme. That was because the prophet had fallen into a coughing fit before completing their delivery. And, as the Prophetic Wars quickly established, no one got the missing lines out of the prophet before they passed away. So most people behaved like the one line they knew was the only one that mattered. The Jade Kingdom and Waxing Moon certainly did.
Astrid stepped forward very cautiously.
When the waves crested high enough, water swept in, coating the veined green floor in a fine, slick layer. Although Astrid had entered this hall plenty of times, she still found herself fearing that she would slip. She was usually quite steady-footed in the real world—as one would hope someone with her job would be—but stumbling here would be embarrassing.
At the end of the hall was a throne. Like everything else, it was carved of jade. But while the rest of the hall was threaded with white, the throne was almost pure green. Pure power. Like the rest of the default items in the Jade Kingdom, it was constructed in a simple but thoroughly-high-quality manner.
The shape was simple, almost more of a chair than anything else.
Astrid stepped forward, her robes skimming over the water as she approached the throne. Here, the air was even saltier, almost enough to make her eyes water. At least the coppery, bloody edge had faded.
She knelt before the throne. “I have returned, my queen.”
The throne creaked. Astrid closed her eyes. It was not proper to watch someone midway through their transformation.
“Hello. How do the scales tip today?” Her queen’s voice was deep, cracked around the edges as she completed the transformation.
“In our favor,” Astrid replied, as she always did. But it was always the truth. The jade hall was closed to her unless the moon was losing its light.
“You may open your eyes.” Her voice was smoother now, rich and velvety as cream.
Astrid obeyed. There, on the throne, sat a woman constructed out of jade. She moved exactly the way that an artist convinced you that their statues moved: stable grace that made her robes flow as smoothly as a river.
“Have you accomplished your task?”
“Yes. He died by the light of the full moon.” Also known as 1:03 a.m. But Astrid wasn’t sure that the queen knew what that meant. She only kept time by the light source: sunrise, noon, sunset, moon. Sometimes equinoxes or eclipses, if they were feeling especially theatrical about it. The most devout members of the Jade Kingdom even imitated this, doing away with their clocks and phones. But Astrid couldn’t part with her phone.
“A neutral time. Thank you for following my request.”
This often confused outsiders, who mistook their conflict for being between light and darkness. In reality, the Jade Kingdom and Waxing Moon were most at peace during a full or new moon. Because when the moon swelled with light, the night belonged to Astrid’s enemy. When the darkness swallowed it, the Jade Kingdom regained its foothold. That was usually when Astrid preferred to carry out her tasks. But if the queen requested something else, she had to honor it.
“Of course. I will always serve you.”
The Jade Kingdom that Astrid served believed that the unfinished prophecy doomed the land to decay. After all, the decades before, the land had been blessed with great prosperity. Therefore, balance would mean a famine of some kind. But the (uncreatively-named) Waxing Moon focused on the word restore, insisting that the heir would restore the land to its ancient glory, when the streets were paved with sheets of onyx and the buildings were crowned with rubies. That era, the Jade Kingdom argued, was not only long-gone but purely fantastical. Their conflict, which began when the prophecy was announced, had continued for the past two decades.
“Good. Are you ready for your next task?”
The queen asked her this every time, always with the same sincerity.
Astrid answered the same way she always did. “Yes.”
“You remember Gavin Wei, yes?”
Astrid stiffened, surprised for the first time since she’d entered the hall. “Yes.”
“He has risen in the ranks of the Waxing Moon. It would be prudent to stop him now, before they give him any more abilities.”
Yes, it would be. Gavin’s invisibility was already powerful in its own right. Astrid didn’t want to imagine what another ability would do for him. The Prophetic Wars had always run on this logic: stifling any potential new talent before they could inflict any more harm. Well, always was a bit of a stretch. It had run on this logic since the heir’s first birthday, nineteen years ago.
It was tradition for an heir to be shown to the capital city on their first birthday, held up from a high central balcony before an adoring crowd of citizens and cameras. Usually, it was quite a nice tradition.
But when the courtier held out this particular heir, the crowd grew frenzied, people strangling one another for the chance to reach the baby who would restore balance. Rocks flew at the balcony. Five people died in that crowd.
When the courtier witnessed this, he panicked. And, in the most nonsensical decision in the history of the land, he killed the heir. Just grabbed a rock that someone had thrown and smashed it into the baby’s head. Astrid supposed that he got what he deserved, though, since he courtier wound up being the first victim of the Prophetic War. The footage of his death was the most-viewed video from that decade.
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“I could assign this task to someone else. Would that be preferable?”
Hesitance crept up Astrid’s throat. “Um, no. I can do it.”
“Very well. I expect this task to be completed by the winter solstice.”
“What? That’s… that’s a lot of time for one job.”
“It is a difficult task.”
“Okay. Do you need anything else?”
“Not at this moment. Is there a dream you’d like to revisit? Or do you have a new story you’d like me to spin?”
“Take me back to the lilac field,” Astrid said.
“With pleasure.”
The jade hall rippled, folded, vanished. In its place was a vast stretch of lilac under a soft golden sky. This had been a recurring setting for Astrid’s dreams when she was a little girl, and it still smelled faintly of warm sugar and flour. Although Astrid hadn’t baked in almost two decades, whenever she was here, she felt transported back in time, waiting for her mother to take the cookies out of the oven.
This was her queen’s simplest power: organizing peoples’ dreams. She could shuffle her enemies through a deck of nightmares, let sedated soldiers reunite with their sleeping family members, and connect her spies in fortresses spun from clouds. Astrid had connected with some other members of the alliance before, but only as the queen demanded it. She much preferred this: peacefully basking in the eerily squared-off blue sun.
Dream-thoughts were much slipperier when her queen was gone. In the jade hall, Astrid was exactly as she was in the waking world. But here, in the lilac field, Gavin’s face was far fuzzier than it should have been, and Astrid was far less concerned with how she was going to kill her ex.
Instead, she was hastened by a desire to hold the bunny plush from her childhood. The moment the half-thought formed, a small, familiar shadow shifted in the lilacs. Astrid pulled the watery image of a bunny to the forefront of her mind. The shadow transformed into a… creature with a twitchy nose. It was undeniably cute, but also undeniably not a bunny. Or a plush. Astrid had a gift for accurate shadows, but creating a proper creature required focus. And focusing too hard in a dream meant—
—waking up.
Astrid’s eyes snapped open.
The cotton of her tank top and pajama pants was almost itchy against her skin compared to the silk robes she’d worn in the jade hall. And her room, even glazed silver in the moonlight, was jarringly stale. Like most places in the city, it had been furnished by some long-gone tenant with a budget lower than hers and a taste for minimalism that didn’t pair well with their impatience for laundry. Astrid could never get the faint scent of mildew out of the walls no matter how hard she tried.
She propped herself on her elbows, shaking off the few hours of sleep she’d received. Visits to the Jade Kingdom did register as rest for her body. It was more than usual, at least. As she rolled up, her pillow shifted and a hard object prodded her shoulder. She pulled it out. A knife. And behind that, her phone.
Astrid groaned, then opened her phone. The cracked, obscenely bright screen cheerfully informed her that it was almost two in the morning. She tapped on a contact she hadn’t used in six, almost seven months. Gavin Wei answered immediately.
“Astrid?” His voice was just as she remembered: soft but just deep enough to lean gravelly. She’d clearly woken him up, but she couldn’t have cared less.
“The queen wants you dead.”
Gavin’s voice took on a new edge. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I owed you a favor. I don’t anymore.”
Gavin had the audacity to sound amused. “Thank you.”
“I’m only being fair.”
“When can I expect to see you?”
“What?”
“The queen never tells you anyone else’s orders. Which means you were ordered to kill me. And you know where I live.”
Memories of his apartment rose unbidden to her mind. Lacquer tables, cinnamon wood chairs, enormous paintings of bamboo forests and herons in a peaceful lake. The golden statue of a dragon that she’d mocked, claiming it’d feed her for months. Like her place, his apartment held no marker of the current inhabitant. Just the pieces that the noble who’d fled the city had left behind.
“That doesn’t matter. I’d never be able to find you.”
“Don’t undersell yourself. You’re a great assassin, I promise.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Astrid said dryly. “When did you even join the Waxing Moon?”
“When I realized I couldn’t dream-walk.”
Dream-walking was what outsiders called entering the Jade Kingdom. Astrid wasn’t fully clear on how this happened, but members of the Waxing Moon had powers that strengthened as the moon became more visible. Right now, Astrid estimated that Gavin wouldn’t be able to hold his invisibility for longer than a second, if that. But in two weeks, he’d be able to maintain it for an hour.
“That’s your problem. You people always think it’s about your abilities. But it’s not. The queen picks whoever she wants.”
“Not a very effective strategy for building up an army.”
“We don’t need an army.”
“If I have to hear one more of you brag about your enhanced strength, I might have to take drastic measures.”
“Not all of us live in the royal court, okay? Strength is helpful in neighborhoods like mine.”
The Waxing Moon, who won the first battle of the Prophetic War, had laid claim to the royal court, guarding it with a mix of powers, locks, and signals that would take Astrid weeks, if not a month, to figure out. By then, Gavin would be long gone. And that wasn’t even accounting for his invisibility.
“I’m not killing you, Gavin.”
“Are you sure? How much time do you have?”
“Until the winter solstice.”
Gavin laughed. “You have two and a half months and you’re not even gonna try?”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“Why not?”
“Gavin, how would you feel about killing me?”
He cleared his throat. “Okay, point taken.”
“I can’t believe we ever dated,” Astrid murmured.
“It was fun before.”
Yes, before. Before Astrid was called into the Jade Kingdom and Gavin wasn’t. Before someone started the rumor that the prophet wasn’t really dead, reigniting the longing for answers on both sides. And the tension alongside it. Reigniting the war that had already broken the city once.
All the money Astrid had set aside in hopes of moving out had gone to weapons.
“I guess so. But things have changed.”
“Astrid?”
Before he could respond, she hung up, and dropped her head against the pillow, letting her inky hair swirl against the cotton once more.
Lady of the Court
Lady Delia Golstier gripped the banister with her gloved hands.
“Chin up, darling,” her mother said. “And lower your shoulders. You look like you’re preparing for combat.”
Delia adjusted her mask. She could put up with the banquets of never-ending small talk and the galas that forced her to sit around for hours on end feigning interest in charitable causes she could never afford to donate to, but she despised the scratchy texture of a mask against her face. “Perhaps I am.”
“That is no way to approach a prince.”
Delia stilled. “Prince? You only said you invited other nobles.”
“I did. But you know that all noble events invite royalty out of propriety. I suppose His Highness saw it fit to stop by tonight.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I myself was only made aware a moment ago.” The only sign of her mother’s anxiety about this fact was the subtle waver of her voice. “But this is a perfect opportunity. Are you ready?”
As with all questions her mother asked, there was only one answer: “Yes.”
Delia swept down the staircase, her yellow gown pooling over the wooden steps. The Golstiers were too poor to outfit their homes with the fashionable stair runners and colored chandeliers, but Delia secretly loved the pared-back elegance of her childhood home.
Shame that none of the nobles agreed.
“It’s so… quaint,” one woman said, laughing like a sickly bird.
Her husband nodded vacantly. “Do you think they have any good wine?”
In Otihl, a proper lady would never partake in alcohol, so Delia didn’t know what wine he referred to, but she could guess that they didn’t have it.
She moved past the couple to survey the guests. She was pleasantly surprised to see multiple Eltas in their teal coats and gowns. Maybe they had told Prince Lenox about this event.
Delia was about to make her hostess rounds when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned and found herself face-to-face with a man whose breath smelled slightly of wine. She recognized his face instantly: Prince Lenox Cizki, the tastemaker of Otihl. Lenox decided the fate of all vineyards in Otihl by ranking their wines, determining the price which they could charge and the social standing one could attain by owning specific vintages.
Despite knowing this, Delia was still surprised to see him so visibly drunk. No wonder the newspapers praised his beauty so highly: there wasn’t much else they could compliment.
She curtsied. “Your Highness, it’s an honor—”
“Are you a dancer?”
The question was so abrupt that it took her a moment to respond. “I have received eight years of dance lessons. But I am not notably talented.”
“I disagree. You move like you’re part of the air.”
“Oh.” Delia had received a great deal of compliments throughout her life, but none had ever resonated like this. Because that was her true dream: to be so graceful that she actually looked like a natural part of the scene, instead of the intruder she often felt like. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Would you care to dance with me?”
*
Six months later, Delia had gotten used to some aspects of living at the palace: the grandfather clock that announced every passing hour with shocking volume, the delicate perfume that lingered in the halls, the hatred in other nobles’ eyes when they looked at the girl His Highness had specifically requested from House Golstier.
But Delia still wasn’t used to having other people comb her hair.
“It’s like silk. How do you get it so smooth?”
Then again, maybe she’d never get used to having Lenox in her chambers, brushing her hair like a servant. Or a man drunk on love as well as the wine he’d ordered to her room. She wondered if the palace staff had his favorite wines on standby for such orders.
“With a great deal of effort,” she answered. She picked up a citrine necklace. Would wearing it come across as a cheap attempt to hide the simplicity of her taffeta gown? “Should I wear this?”
“You look stunning,” His Highness answered unhelpfully.
Delia exchanged the necklace for the pair of pearl droplets that her mother had worn to her wedding.
Lenox gently lifted the earrings. He tucked aside the hair he’d just brushed to pin one earring, then the other, with unsteady hands. “You look like a princess.”
Delia would’ve had an easier time believing him if Lenox’s words weren’t so slurred.
His reliance on wine seemed to be getting worse with every passing day, but Delia couldn’t bring herself to say anything about it. Her mother hadn’t invested this much time and effort for a daughter who threw it all away with a stupid question. Besides, how many tastemakers before Lenox lived with a bottle affixed to their side?
“Is it just me or do you seem more stressed than usual?” The trace of amusement in his voice irked her.
“This is the Queen’s Ball, Your Highness.”
His fingers traced the curve of her cheekbone with a feather-light touch. “There’s nothing to worry about, Delia. My mother loves you. We all do.”
“Not the nobles.”
“You are nobility. What reason do they have to hate one of their own?”
He was well and truly drunk, to say something so foolish. “Just about every reason imaginable. Do you know how many dukes had plans for you to marry their daughters? Do you know how vicious they already were before I was even invited here?”
Lenox looked away from her. “No, Delia, I don’t know these things which you’ve kept from me.”
“I don’t want to burden you. My troubles are small compared to yours.”
“Clearly not, if they distress you this much.”
“I can’t afford to lose face here. You know that.”
Lenox nodded gravely and set his wine aside. “You won’t. I promise. You’re perfect.”
She wished she could believe him.
*
By the time Delia was satisfied with her appearance, the wine was already being poured and men were twirling their wives across the polished oak floor in time with the string quartet’s music.
More than a few girls were wearing yellow. The Golstier house color had apparently caught on. How ridiculous, that anyone would think Lenox favored her for the color of her dresses. But that was a good summation of courtly games on the whole: ridiculous.
“Delia! You look magnificent as always,” Her Majesty Queen Cressida Cizki said, seemingly addressing the other guests more than Delia herself. Lenox sometimes did this too, as though he didn’t know how to speak without performing for an audience. But when the queen spoke, with a voice dusted with the curling vowels of the Northern Isles, it was always to a larger crowd than her son could conjure. “I just adore your necklace.”
Delia resisted the urge to touch the citrines she’d put back on. “Thank you. And you look wonderful as well, Your Majesty.”
Queen Cressida wore a decadent gown of lavender silk paneled with ivory lace so intricate it made Delia’s fingers ache just looking at it. Her hair was fashioned into an elegant updo festooned with diamonds. “Thank you, dear. It took me nearly three hours to prepare.”
“And it was worth every second.”
“I’m glad you think so. My son will be down shortly,” the queen said at a volume that she probably considered a whisper but was audible to everyone around them. A few nobles drifted over from the large windows overlooking the beach beyond the palace towards the queen.
“Wonderful, Your Majesty. I’m so glad we could all be here to celebrate your anniversary.”
“It all happens so quickly. Twenty-five years of the crown and I barely recall any of it.”
Delia picked at her gloves uneasily. What was she supposed to say to that? “Your reign has been a blessing for us all.”
“You’re too kind. I confess that my favorite part of my job is the privilege to summon everyone to celebrate every occasion with me.”
“Your invitations are always an honor, Your Majesty.”
“An honor which my son seems to care little about,” Queen Cressida muttered, this time at an appropriate volume.
“Nonsense, Mother.” Lenox ambled down the stairs behind her, nodding politely towards Delia. He’d changed into a deep purple suit and looked every inch the tastemaker he was. “Hello, Lady Delia.”
“Lenox, how generous of you to make an appearance.” Even Her Majesty’s maternal scolding sounded regal.
“I was putting the finishing touches on something. I—”
“My lady? May I have this dance?”
Delia turned to face the speaker, another noble man. Based on his teal coat, he was one of the Eltas. Given his family’s close ties to the crown, it was unsurprising that he was bold enough to interrupt a conversation with the prince.
Delia would’ve loved to deny him, but she had an image to maintain. “Of course.”
By the time Lenox extricated her from her partner’s arms, Delia had danced with six different men. Her mother had been wise to put her in lessons so young: dancing distracted the lords from her shortcomings. But there was no fooling the ladies, who tittered when they thought she couldn’t hear, whispering about fake pearls and cheap fabric.
Lenox grasped her fingers, centering Delia.
“Have you found a suitable victim yet?” he asked as they settled into a waltz.
“Victim?”
“For your marriage plot. Since you refuse to marry me—”
“Your Highness,” Delia hissed, “please lower your voice when you speak of such matters in this company.”
“Apologies, my lady. I forget myself.” His words were nearly a whisper against the outer shell of her ear. She could still smell the wine on his breath.
“And to answer your question, I haven’t found anyone. They’d all expect too great of a dowry. I couldn’t put that on my family.” This was a halfhearted excuse, since Delia could probably ask any noble to waive the dowry as Lenox promised to. But it was something to say.
Lenox exhaled. “I understand, Delia. But I still can’t see why we couldn’t solve this by…”
“No.” Delia kept her voice as firm as she could in the presence of royalty. This was the one firm line she’d drawn with Lenox: she couldn’t marry him for at least two years. Anything sooner would reveal too much desperation on her part.
He inhaled, long and slow. “Then we should end this.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I can’t go on like this for two more years, my lady.” The miserable finality in his tone skated across Delia’s skin.
“Why not, Your Highness?”
“Because I have come to rely on you like one would a wife. If you cannot make that a reality, then I have no choice but to dismiss you from the royal court.”
Devastation gripped her by the throat. “Your Highness, I—”
“After this ball, you are to return to your family’s estate, Lady Delia.”
“Lenox! You can’t do this to me. Not after—”
Lenox’s face went blank in the same way it did right before he gave a speech. “Lady Golstier. I have never had to remind you of this in the past, but as a citizen of Otihl, you serve the crown first and foremost. This is what the crown asks of you now: go back home.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. She couldn’t feel her fingers. Couldn’t feel her own mouth say, “Very well, Your Highness.”
“Thank you.”
“Was this your grand surprise for your mother? A proposal?”
Delia’s voice was as bracingly cold as a first step into the ocean, and Lenox reacted to it in much the same way. He inhaled sharply, but pressed his mouth shut.
A ridiculous thought occurred to Delia: she wanted wine. She wanted to drink something that would take the sting of this whole day, this whole stay at the palace, this whole life.
But such mercies were not permitted to ladies.
High (risk) society
The room was alight with curses. They flashed in diamond earrings and ruby brooches, swirled around sherbet colored ball gowns and over patent dress shoes. Reina would have rolled her eyes at them if she wasn’t well aware that they’d only preen at the attention. Curses were showy by nature. Just like this crowd.
Reina winced as the singed hem of a peach gown brushed against her leg. Of course, it wasn’t really blackened. That would be a terrible insult to the hostess. The gown was instead painted with a curse of death, promising that its wearer wouldn’t live past this evening. But every party came with a price. Those prices were what this city ran on. Every spell was made with the leftover magic from a curse, every curse was made with the leftover magic from a spell.
The death curse must’ve been purchased by a group, Reina mused. No single person wealthy enough to purchase it would have goals as small as killing another fluttering socialite. But the common people could have had a debt to settle. For the blackened edge to be so heavy, so clear, they must have approached a competent cursemaker. The way it crumbled into fine glitter was unrecognizable to Reina, so the cursemaker wasn’t renowned enough for her to know their signature, but they were still credible. Still expensive. Which implied a whole village worth of rage.
Reina’s satin heels clicked against the floor. Per the latest style, they didn’t match. One was the color of honeydew, the other petal pink, with coordinating bows on the heels. All to match her the pink and green pleats of her dress. And because that alone wouldn’t satisfy the guests, a frilly headpiece intent on drowning itself in lace was set in her dark hair. Ideally, her hair would’ve been lightened by powders, but Reina had always been suspicious of those.
Gritting her teeth, Reina accepted a flute of champagne from a silver tray, only to catch sight of the pale pink ribbon wrapped around the base. It fluttered aggressively under her gaze. A love curse. The worst kind.
A cursory glance at the other flutes told her that someone had bought a variety blend. A risk-taker, then. Only those who lived life on the edge would let the cursemaker choose for them. Love curses were among the strongest in the bundle. But what did it matter to her? Her love was the sort of broken that no curse could make worse.
Reina took a sip, watching impassively as the pink ribbon slithered up her left wrist, joining the family of curse ribbons she’d acquired. Her right arm was similarly wrapped in spells. Most of the curses were fluttery little pastel silks, like this one, acquired in similar circumstances at similar jobs. Only one stood out: four times as wide as the others, it was made of deep turquoise velvet. Sight made curses and spells look different for every individual. For Reina, curses and spells looked incredibly similar: colorful ribbons that wrapped around people and objects. But their difference was still obvious to her: spells hung loosely around the wearer, ready to slide off and take effect, while curses clung tight, digging their claws into victims right away. The teal velvet had all but soldered itself to Reina’s skin.
She sighed and continued to wander, careful to never let her gaze linger over anything for too long, even as the ribbons flocked for her attention, braiding themselves around candelabras and necks alike.
“My lady?”
Reina turned to find a young servant boy. “Yes?”
“May I see your invitation?”
What kind of a party allowed people through the front doors before requesting the invitation, she did not want to ponder. She drew out the cream cardstock addressed to Lady Felyth from her voluminous skirt. The servant boy hid his surprise well. Modern society dresses were often devoid of pockets. But Reina had never bore much love for modern society.
“Thank you.” As he added the invitation to his growing pile, a deep green ribbon wound its way up his right arm. A luck spell. Reina was no spellcaster, but she was an excellent conduit for them. And based on the curl of periwinkle lace strangling his left wrist, this boy could use some luck.
Reina took another sip of the champagne. Not because she needed to get drunk (although she did) or for lack of anything better to do (although there was nothing better to do) but to give her an excuse to stand still for a moment and observe.
In the citrons of a woman’s necklace, a slow poison curse winked. Reina resisted the urge to pick at her largest ribbon in response. Tonight, she had a job to do. And it didn’t involve that woman’s imminent demise.
“Enjoying yourself?”
She immediately softened her stance. “Thank you for inviting me, Madame Delacourt.”
“Oh, it was no trouble.”
Madame Delacourt announced her status with a gown of deep crimson satin overlaid with burnished gold on the skirt that most certainly lacked pockets. She had one gold shoe and one red. Both deep, rich colors were off-limits for anyone lower in status than the hostess, including Reina and most of the other guests.
“You’ve done a wonderful job of decorating, as always.”
“Thank you.” She eyed Reina’s dress. “I must admit, I didn’t expect this of you.”
“Well, I wasn’t hired to make a scene,” she whispered, already tapping her fingers against a bit of lace to unwrap a muffling spell around them. A strong one, which she’d picked up from her favorite spellcaster a few hours ago so it would be as fresh as possible.
“So you are on the clock. And here I was, thinking you might enjoy our company.”
“I am enjoying your company plenty. While also making sure that you and your husband leave this place in one piece.”
“It’s me you’re looking out for? Fascinating. Who requested this?”
“Your son.”
“Oh?”
“Sir Delacourt is a very skilled spellcaster, but his Sight is far weaker than mine.”
The lady of the house arched a brow. “I agree wholeheartedly, but our son would have the most to gain if we died.” So why did he hire you to look after us? went unsaid.
“Not until you sign the new will. He needs you alive to affirm his fortune.”
“Ah, the new will. I forgot about that.”
“Yes, and everyone in this room knows it. Sign those papers, Madame.”
“Very well. Who is out to kill me tonight?”
“Everyone, but only two have even a sliver of a chance at succeeding.”
“Go on?”
“The man in the blue suit over there has enough tranquilizing curses that, if passed all at once, could probably make you sleep for a hundred years. From the looks of your protective spells, your body would accept the curses as a sort of medicine. You’d faint, and never wake up. The death would be peaceful, though.”
“How kind,” Madame Delacourt said drily. “I will strengthen those medicinal spells.”
A few green ribbons around her right arm widened as she spoke, reminding Reina that her son’s spellcasting skills were inherited. Many spellcasters were reluctant to work on themselves, but the Delacourts had a long legacy of bold innovation in that regard. Their novel ideas almost compensated for being weaker spellcasters than many other noble lines. Still strong, but not always strong enough.
“That’s probably a good idea, but I don’t think you’re his target. He’s been eyeing his older brother all night. Oh! And there’s also a cellist in the quartet who could theoretically inflict a curse that would rupture everyone’s eardrums. But that seems to be reserved as a means for threatening his younger brother, who I believe also has Sight.”
“Lots of fratricide in the air tonight.”
“Nobles never stray from their roots of familial strife. And neither do musicians, apparently. You’ll know your ball was a success when ten of the guests die before your next one.”
Madame Delacourt’s smile was perfectly genuine, reminding Reina why she’d agreed to this job in the first place. She didn’t like any nobles on principle, but some were more tolerable conversation partners than others.
“It’s what all hostesses strive for, yes.”
“And only half the murders would have to do with your will. You’ll be the talk of the town for weeks. Congratulations in advance.”
“That was a question we always had about you, Reina. What sort of Sight allows you to see other people’s motivations?”
Tolerable to a point. “Not every trick has its roots in magic, Madame. Some of us are simply perceptive.”
“Perceptive and skilled at marketing oneself. A powerful pairing.”
“Thank you. I try to make the most of it.”
“I suppose that’s true enough. Who is the other potential killer?”
“You don’t have to worry about her.”
Madame Delacourt smiled, but her eyes were full of wistful sadness. “You’ve grown so confident in your abilities, Reina. I’ve been a highly-respected lady of society for longer than you’ve walked this earth.”
“I’ve earned that confidence. I could easily end your life, even if I kill you like a lady.”
“Your generosity is unthinkable, Reina.” Madame Delacourt’s sarcasm was spread thicker than the frosting on the nearby cakes.
“I know you all think weapons are ‘crude’ or whatever, but the curses make all your deaths so… toothless.”
“We did carry weapons not so long ago. You must remember the bladed jewelry? And the purses with the darts sewn in? Those were the times. But one of Lady Halycott’s complained that it made them scared to serve guests and suddenly the trends shifted.”
As a former employee of Lady Halycott, Reina was honor-bound to reply: “And her servants are highly appreciative of that.”
Madame Delacourt continued as if Reina hadn’t spoken. “Someone with her past would want her servants eating out of her hand.”
“I wouldn’t speak ill of someone whose cursemaking abilities are twice as strong as yours.”
“For someone with such a disdain for high society, you do seem to keep a close eye on the rumors. Or has your Sight developed even further?”
Reina didn’t rise to the bait. She only smiled primly and said, “Are any more guests on their way? Because if not, I think you should be perfectly safe.”
“I’m only waiting for one more.”
Lady Delacourt came from a long line of actresses, a fact which Reina always forgot right up until she didn’t.
Because at that precise moment, a servant crowed, “Announcing Her Highness, Princess Genevieve!”
Reina’s grip on the champagne loosened. Evie?
“Ah, there she is.”
The muffling spell drooped to the floor and promptly disintegrated into a mess of dark shards of what looked like obsidian. The raw magic which could be distilled into curses, once a cursemaker’s apprentice came by to sweep it up. But Reina barely noticed.
Evie stood at the top of a staircase in an inky gown that absorbed so much light, it appeared black. But an eye as practiced as Evie’s recognized the true dark teal instantly.
Just about every stone in her tiara was embedded with an ancient and frankly masterful spell meant to imbue the wearer with every manner of protection imaginable. As reluctant as Reina was to admit it, royalty did historically have the best craftsmen on retainer.
But even with the tiara’s requisite protection spells and the beauty spells swirling around her wrists, Evie was rather minimal compared to the other guests. Her way of honoring her husband’s policies, no doubt.
Evie descended the staircase, the train of her gown flowing down the stairs behind her. “Madame Delacourt, thank you for inviting me.”
“Of course, Your Highness. It is an honor to have you here.”
An honor indeed. Anyone whose ball tempted the recently-coronated princess to drop by would find every door this city had to offer open to them. Every gala and banquet and soiree would give them a seat of honor and maybe even a dedicated toast. Having that many eyes on her would protect Lady Delacourt long after this ball. Which meant Reina couldn’t rely on her son for another job at the royal parade in two weeks. She mentally flicked through alternative jobs in her head, but many of them required more research than she had time for or more spells than she could afford.
While her mind whirred, Reina said, “Hello, Your Majesty.”
“Lady Felyth. It’s been a while.”
“Indeed. I know it’s late to offer congratulations, but I was out of town during the wedding. You’ve done well for yourself.”
Evie’s face tightened. “My husband is very kind, yes.”
“Will the prince be dropping by?” Lady Delacourt asked.
Evie shook her head. “Oh, no. He’s far too busy.”
With other women?
“Where were you during the wedding, Lady Felyth?” Evie asked, her voice falsely light. “Most nobles make a point to be at court during the spring.”
“I was called away to the coast to be with my ailing grandmother,” Reina lied. She lifted her flute of champagne. “She made full recovery.”
“How wonderful. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Some people bounce back from the worst situations so… quickly.”
“Yes,” Evie murmured, looking as close to ashamed as her face ever came. “Some are resilient.”
“That’s a word for it.”
Madame Delacourt cleared her throat. “Well, thank you so much for gracing my humble abode, Your Highness. I’m afraid someone is summoning me, but please, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you.”
Evie assessed Reina slowly, unwinding a muffling spell of her own. “You didn’t lighten your hair.”
“You know I hate it.”
“But it would show deference.”
“I hate that, too.”
Evie smiled, looking out at the guests that had gathered outside the bounds of the muffling spell, craning their necks to glimpse of the princess. The lowest tier of nobility, who treated royals like actors or opera singers. Evie had always been especially generous to them, so Reina wasn’t surprised when she waved at them before telling her, “I always admired that about you. Your audacity.”
“Unsurprising.”
“Pardon?”
“We admire in others what we lack in ourselves, no?”
Evie’s back went impossibly straighter. “I suppose that’s true enough. You always appreciated my sophistication.”
“Did I?”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Evie said abruptly. “Who hired you?”
“Sir Delacourt.”
“Waiting for his parents to sign off on the new will?”
“Exactly.” Reina smiled. “Now that you know what I’ve been up to: how’s your darling new husband? Still favoring younger women?”
“I try to show you kindness and this is how you return it? What did I ever do to you?”
“Marrying the prince was a big thing, I’d say.”
Evie had the gall to look surprised. Shocked, even. “What does he have to do with any of this?”
Reina came dangerously close to answering honestly. “The fact that he keeps trying to ‘crack down on’ unregistered cursemakers.”
“You’re only unregistered in name. And when was the last time you made your own curses? All you do is spot them.”
“Just because I’m safe doesn’t mean that anything he’s doing is acceptable.”
“I know you have a lot of issues with authority, but you don’t need to take them all out on me.”
“Don’t you get it? This isn’t about me! Not everything I want is.”
“What a change of pace.”
“Prison gives you plenty of time for self-reflection.”
“Don’t act like that stint in the dungeons was you serving time.”
“How else am I supposed to act? I lost two months of my life, Your Highness.”
“Reina—”
She tipped the last of the champagne into her mouth, then squared her shoulders. “You were the last guest to arrive. Since none of the other guests were threats and neither are you, my job is done. Tell Madame Delacourt that she hosted a wonderful evening but I had other obligations.”
“What if someone tries to kill her without magic? Would her son hold you accountable?”
“Do you honestly think anyone here would commit such an unfashionable murder? Of the hostess? In the presence of royalty? I know you’ve been past this level of society for a little while now, but nobles have some sense of decorum.”
“I only meant that you can’t be sure that Lord and Madame Delacourt are safe until the ball is over.”
“They can handle themselves. I mean, they’ve lived this long.”
“But Reina—”
“It’s Lady Felyth to you.”
“You aren’t even a lady.”
“I am whatever I’m paid to look like.”
“Don’t you ever miss the old times?”
Reina’s throat felt thick as she replied, “Before you married a traitor to magic? Sure, Your Highness. But I’ve made the most of the now times.”
Evie pressed her lips together. It was strange how even her lips were different now, thinned by artful placement of cosmetics and spells. Evie’s natural features had recently swung out of fashion, and her status dictated that she do whatever it took to swing herself back into the neat box of beauty. Reina obviously preferred the version of Evie who saved up for months to buy the pale pink powder that real noble girls dusted on her cheeks and lips to add color. The version who loved dark teal because it was the color of the private school uniform she’d stolen and worn nearly every day for a year. That was the school where royalty sent their kids, and Evie would’ve killed an heir to the throne to attend. It was too bad that her poor noble mother had trained her in spellcasting instead of curtsying. Because when Evie wasn’t handed the life she wanted, she fought tooth and nail to get it, sacrificing anything that got in her way. Even Reina.
“I hope the rest of your night is better than this,” Evie said after a beat.
“One thing’s for sure: it won’t pay as well.”
“Why are you so concerned about money?”
“Your muffling spell is fading.” With her next breath, Reina switched to a safer topic. “How has palace life treated you?”
“Quite well,” Evie replied with a tone that only sounded strained to someone who was paying too much attention.
“I heard you recently installed a fountain.”
“In the west gardens, yes. It’s made of pink marble and the import costs were ridiculous. But it was—”
“—so worth it,” Reina finished. She would not cry. She refused to cry. “I’m glad you like your decorations, but I’m afraid I must go.”
“Do you have another job lined up?”
“Not tonight, but there are some time-sensitive matters which I must research. And that’s half the work.”
“Right. You probably know every noble’s weakness better than their doctors.”
“If I’m going to call myself an expert, I figure I’d better live up to it, right?”
Evie smiled weakly. “I’ll let you go, then.”
With the princess’s permission, Reina left the ballroom on embarrassingly shaky legs, one curse richer and two silent tears poorer.