Something’s wrong.
Sir nods once again and turns to Dominick. “Show us to your king.”
Dominick pivots on his heels and leaps up the stairs to the palace. Two guards stationed there swing the doors open, eyeing our vibrant Winterian hair. Well, Sir’s and mine aren’t vibrant at the moment; our heads—like the rest of us—are caked in travel-dirt and sweat. But I’m guessing by Sir’s determined march behind Dominick that we aren’t going to get a bath before meeting Noam.
A bath. I fight down a squeak of longing as we stop in the palace’s foyer.
The only source of light is the chandelier above us, which lets off a gentle white glow. The rest of the décor is dark—polished wood walls, black marble floor. Comfortable yet expensive through and through. Rectangular panels line the walls; I can’t tell if they’re doors or just decoration.
One, on our right, swings open.
Dominick rushes forward and pulls back in a sharp salute to a man within the room, out of sight. “My king, I have—”
“More Winterians. Yes, I assumed as much.”
The deep voice matches the warm darkness of the surroundings. Homey almost, a voice I’d expect on a grandfather, not a king.
Sir surges forward, nearly shoving Dominick away. “Noam.”
Once, when I talked Mather into stealing a bottle of Finn’s Summerian wine and we got a bit tipsy, Sir sentenced me to two weeks of scrubbing dinner dishes for being “disrespectful of our future king’s position.” But Sir has no problem snapping the Cordellan king’s first name like he’s a misbehaving toddler.
Noam steps into the foyer, arms crossed. He’s big—not quite as big as Sir, but still commanding. His golden-brown hair hangs loose to his shoulders, edged with gray around his face and even more gray in his beard. He’s got deep and mysterious king eyes that make me feel both naked and invisible all at once, like he can read all of my secrets with just a glance. And his conduit, Cordell’s dagger, sits in his belt, the purple jewel on the hilt glowing ever so faintly in the dimness.
Noam, face impassive, turns his dark eyes to Sir. His gaze travels over Mather before stopping on me, and he grins.
That can’t be good.
“That is all, Dominick. Thank you.”
Dominick pulls back like he expected more. But then he bows, mumbles something about coming back to report on Autumn later, and marches out the front door.
“William,” Noam says though he’s still staring at me. “So glad you made it. Nasty business, dealing with the Shadow of the Seasons. The Seasons can be quite”—he pauses—“volatile.”
I hold back a snort. Volatile. And he hasn’t even met me yet.
But my snort gets caught on what he called Angra—the Shadow of the Seasons. I’d forgotten that’s what the Rhythms call him. Like he’s nothing more than a gray haze cast by the rest of us, and maybe if we move the right way, he’ll disappear.
Sir steps into Noam’s line of sight and I blow a sigh of relief.
“I’d hoped we could discuss it in a more private setting.” Sir looks at Mather. “My king said you had already spoken with him, but I have some matters I would like to discuss as well.”
Sir’s never called Mather “king” before. Future king, yes. Royalty, yes. But never king. King Mather Dynam. A flutter of unease rushes through me. I know he’s our king, and I knew this would happen. I just thought I’d have more time, until we found the other locket half, at least. Not … now.
Noam waves over two servants. “Get Lady Meira settled. We need her looking her best for tonight.”
Both Sir and I blanch. Sir, blanching. I don’t think I like Bithai anymore.
“Excuse me?” Sir grunts.
Noam smirks. “The ball. My court has been waiting in Bithai for two days, expecting a celebration to occur. Now it can begin. Surely your king has told you.”
The way he says the word king makes my skin crawl. I look to Mather, whose face is as red as the azaleas outside, and his jaw set so hard his teeth have to be completely flattened.
The servants move toward me. “Come this way, please,” one says.
I pause. Sir nods at me. But there’s something behind his eyes, something he’s barely holding on to, that makes me want to set my chakram to work ruining Noam’s pretty foyer.
The servants start off and, after a pause, I follow. This must be what sheep feel like before we cut their heads off and roast them over open fires.
Noam’s voice carries as we leave the foyer. Like everything else in Bithai, it’s intentional. “Yes,” he says. “We may yet come to an arrangement.”
I whip around but Sir, Mather, and Noam have already gone into what I can only assume is Noam’s study. The door shuts, cutting off anything else I might hear.
“Lady Meira, this way, please.”
Lady. Really?
I surrender to following the servants. The foyer ends in a ballroom—the ballroom, I’m sure, where whatever party Noam’s planned will happen tonight. It’s big, opulent, with marble and chandeliers and lush green plants and lots of gold. I’m a little sick of Cordell’s wealth.
Two staircases wrap around the room, one on each side. The servants take me up the left one, circling around so I have a 180-degree view of the ballroom. I make a point not to look at it, focusing instead on the mud caked on my boots.
We get to the second floor and commence to weave through so many identical halls that I begin to think Noam’s plan was to get me lost in a maze of annoyingly expensive finery. Wood paneling so polished I can see my filthy reflection as we pass, crystal chandeliers that throw shifting dots of light across my body, maroon carpet so plush and velvety that my boots leave indentations. The same dark accents and expensive yet comfortable feel as the foyer.
Finally the servants stop in front of a door. Its polished surface lets me watch my scared expression swing inward as it opens, and behind the door is, I hate to say it, exactly the bedchamber I’d design if I had endless resources and nothing more to worry about than room furnishings.
It’s simple and pretty. Where I had expected it to be as over-the-top as Noam’s gate, it’s nothing but a canopy bed (a really nice canopy bed), an armoire (a really nice armoire), and an intricate lavender rug stretched over wood flooring. Balcony doors stand open opposite me, heavy white curtains rippling in the wind as I walk into the center of the room.
Both servants are only a few years older than me, dressed in plain but simple dresses made of cloth in Cordell’s hunter green. Brown-blond hair hangs in smooth strands down their backs and one of them, her wide brown eyes giving the illusion that she sees everything, steps up to me. “Is this to your liking, Lady Meira?”
“Meira.”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Lady Meira.”
I frown. “No, just Meira. No lady.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Lady Meira.”
I grind my teeth and turn back to the servants. “Fine. What are your names?”
“Mona.”
“Rose.”
“Well, Mona and Rose, what can you tell me about what Noam’s planning?”
Mona keeps her head bowed meekly and Rose simply shrugs.
“We know nothing except that we are to have you dressed and ready by eight.”
I squint at them. “And if I refuse?”
Mona’s eyes widen. Rose, clearly the one in charge, puts a hand on Mona’s. “I hope you don’t. King Noam made it clear that our future in his service depends on you being at the ball.”
One of my eyebrows shoots up. “And you always do exactly what your king demands?”
Rose bobs her head slowly like she isn’t sure why I’d even ask such a question. I expect the same from Mona, but when I notice her hesitating, wringing her hands, I can’t stop a curious grin. Rose sees my sudden change in expression and faces Mona, who throws up her hands and nods so violently that I fear her hair will shake right off her head.
“Of course I obey him!” Mona declares. ??
?I just—it would be nice, wouldn’t it? If we, I don’t know, had our own magic?”
Rose’s face turns as red as her namesake flower. “No Cordellan wants for anything, and you stand here, in front of a guest, and say such things?” She whips to me. “I apologize, Lady Meira—Mona is new to her position.”
Mona relents, dropping her hands and bowing her chin against her chest. But she doesn’t respond to Rose—she turns to me, her eyes on the floor. “Forgive me, Lady Meira.”
I almost forget to bristle at being called “Lady” when I see her small flicker of fire snuffed out. I can’t get the surprise off my face—the only time she spoke up was at the thought of having her own magic? Of not being indebted and linked to Noam?
I hold on to the thought, trying to figure out how to place it in my mind. I’m reminded of the lapis lazuli ball in my pocket, the small circular stone pressing into my thigh. Mather wanted to believe that it was magic, that anyone could just pick it up off the ground. It would make the world much simpler—no one would have to depend on their king or queen to help them. No one would have to stay within the bounds of their kingdoms to partake in their bloodline’s magic. We’d be much less … trapped? That doesn’t feel like the right word, at least as someone who’s been fighting her entire life to get this kind of magic. But maybe in other kingdoms, kingdoms that have had magic for centuries, they ask these questions. They wonder what it would be like to be free of our world’s strict lines.
I shake my head at Mona. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine to ask questions.” Even if I’m not sure what my answers to those questions are. All I know is Winter needs magic to be free. That’s all I can see right now.
Rose snaps to me. “It most certainly is not fine when such questions contradict our king’s clear orders.” She lifts an eyebrow and a finger simultaneously, ready to turn her threats to me.
I back up to the canopy bed and flop out onto it, arms splayed. “No need to get riled up again. I’ll go to the ball.”
When Rose starts talking again, I can hear the smile in her voice. “Excellent. There’s a bath prepared for you through there, Lady Meira.”
My head pops up in time to see Mona point to a door on my left.
“We’ll be back after you’ve rested,” Rose instructs, and ushers Mona out.
As they close the door, I sit up. The lapis lazuli ball pushes against my hip, making me think of Mather, of Sir, not of magic and who should or shouldn’t have it. I wiggle the stone out of my pocket and roll the small blue ball around on my palm, the repetition soothing my nerves.
Noam wants me for some reason. Stranger still is the fact that a Rhythm king sees something in a Season refugee worth using at all. And Mather and Sir both know what it is, but they’re in a meeting right now with Noam, so my current options are to either sneak around the palace in hope of finding answers in any of these many rooms or take a bath and a nap.
As if my body has already made its decision, I let loose a wicked yawn, my eyes blurring as tears rush in.
I rip off my travel clothes and pile the whole mess of things in the corner with my chakram guarding it on top. The lapis lazuli ball rolls off the pile, thumping against the wood floor and coming to rest on the thick carpet. I pick it up and set it on the bedside table, staring at its blue surface. I know it’s ridiculous, but a small part of me relaxes, knowing a piece of Winter is there if I need it.
Scented soaps and bubbly water quickly erase any lingering worries, filling my senses with lavender and steam. Oh my. I could get used to this.
After spending much too long turning wrinkly, I emerge from the bathroom and frown as the fog of relaxation lifts. Something is wrong. Off. I scan the room twice, mind fuzzy, before my eyes drop to the floor and see—
Nothing.
My things are gone. My chakram, my boots, everything. A nightgown is now spread out on the bed, a gleaming ivory garment that was probably meant to be a fair trade for my clothes. I should be perturbed, except the nightgown is softer than rabbit fur. I ease it over my head and the fog of relaxation drops back on me. And when I slide between the silky sheets and the warm feather blanket, I forget why I should have been perturbed. Or why I should have gone back to Noam’s study and demanded answers. Or where Noam’s study even was because all these halls look the same, and his trees are ridiculous, and sweet snow this bed is comfortable …
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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10
“I’M SORRY. I don’t know what else to do. He’ll be here in a matter of hours.”
I’m in the study from my earlier dream. The warm fire pit, the musk of burning coals, the open window letting in flakes of snow. The twenty-three who escaped that night and would come to live in the Rania Plains with two infants, all huddled together in preparation for leaving. And Hannah, her silent strength wavering as she kneels beside … Alysson?
Why am I dreaming about this again?
Alysson sits on a chair in front of Sir, who leans over the back of it with his head to his chest. They’re both somber, half crying and half not, trying to stay strong before their queen. Alysson has her arms cupped around a tiny wad of blankets.
“I don’t know what else to do,” Hannah whispers, stretching long, pale fingers to touch the bundle in Alysson’s hands. One tiny hand shoots up and Hannah takes it, wraps both of her hands around it.
Mather.
“You don’t have to go,” Hannah says. “You don’t have to obey me.”
The queen of Winter, groveling before her general and his wife.
Alysson looks up at her queen, one hand still around Mather and the other moving to grasp Hannah’s. “We’ll do it,” she whispers. “Of course we’ll do it. For Winter.”
“We’ll all do it.” Sir now. He looks up, alert and focused. “You can trust us, my queen.”
Hannah stands, her fingers absently stretching down to her son. She nods, or bows her head, staying quiet so long that when a distant explosion crashes, everyone jumps.
“I’m so sorry that I did this to you all,” Hannah whispers. “So sorry …”
“Lady Meira?”
I fly awake expecting explosions, ready to grab that tiny baby and run. It takes a couple of deep breaths and a few moments of focusing on the canopy before I believe that I’m not in that study—I’m in Cordell. I’m in Noam’s palace with Rose bending over me, excitement stretching across her face.
It was just a dream. Another dream about Hannah. But why did it feel so real?
“Are you ready to be made beautiful, Lady Meira?” Rose asks, overlooking my steady blinking at the canopy.
I cock an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m not already beautiful?”
Rose’s face collapses. “No! Of course not—I mean—”
“It’s fine, Rose. I’m joking.” I swing my legs over the bed and assess the situation before me. Three additional servants have tagged along with Mona and Rose, each holding either a bag or a piece of clothing. This is part of whatever Sir is planning, I guess—prettying me up, like trussing a chicken before cooking it. Can’t go to a ball in my travel garb, I guess, and I wince that I didn’t realize this sooner. I’ve never worn anything fancier than the same threadbare clothes I’ve always had. I’m not sure whether or not I want to be fancier—every time Dendera described ball gowns to me, my only thoughts were Sweet snow, that sounds like a lot of unnecessary fabric, and Skirts were probably invented as a device to keep women from running away.
“Of course, Lady Meira,” Rose says, and turns to the servants. “Girls! Let’s get to it!”
I fling my hands up. “Whoa—now? Wait! Ow!”
All five girls descend on me at once. They yank me out of bed and shove me onto a dressing pedestal that makes me feel like one of Noam’s silly golden trees with people twittering below me.
“Mona, legs and feet. Cecily, bodice and sleeves. Rac
hel and Freya, hair and face.” Rose falls into step as a general would over a gaggle of confused captains, ordering and scolding. The girls tug me this way and that, shoving me into layers of fabric and dousing me in weird powders and oils. One grabs my hair and jerks it up into a curly design—one paints something glossy on my lips and cheeks—one shoves stiff-heeled shoes onto each foot—one tugs the strings on a corset so tight I can taste the inside of my stomach.
“Are you—sure—all this—is—necessary?” I sputter between tugs on the corset. I understand wanting to be more put together for a ball, but surely all this discomfort isn’t really needed? Can’t I just slip on a simple dress? Or, better yet, not go at all? But Sir and Mather will be at this ball, and I don’t want to wait until it’s over to figure out what they’re planning. If I have to suffer through a few too-tight corset strings, then fine.
Rose, finger on her bottom lip, lifts an eyebrow at me. She turns to the armoire without a word and pulls it open. On the inside of each door is a mirror, and even though the racks within are stuffed with dresses and nightgowns, I’m too focused on the reflection staring back at me to notice much about the clothes.
Noam’s servants are talented. Or I’m prettier than I thought.
The dress they stuck me in—or are still sticking me in—is a deep ruby red, billowy, swishy, with an intricate gold design threaded into the bodice. The gold loops up into two sheer straps that slide just under my collarbone, showing off the necklace of braided gold one of the girls has fastened around my throat. My hair, a giant array of pinned-back curls, hangs messy yet soft with a few white strands dangling free around my face.
“Well?” Rose crosses her arms. She seems way too satisfied with herself.
I click my mouth shut. Maybe being a little fancier isn’t a horrible thing. “You’re … good at what you do.”
Rose sighs as the girls back up, finished with their assault. A few of them coo at me, “Aren’t you so beautiful, he’ll fall for you for sure—”