Snow Like Ashes (12 page)
Nothing.
My things are gone. My chakram, my boots, everything. Only the lapiz lazuli ball is still on the table. 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 quilt, 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 . . .
“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, 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! I want my clothes and chakram— 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. Rachel 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 deliberate 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—”
I throw a finger up and look around. “Wait. He who?”
Mona closes her bag of supplies. “Prince Theron, Lady Meira. He’ll be smitten!”
Noam’s son. I frown, absently clutching the fabric of the skirt. I knew I was forgetting something.
The girls start to leave, Rose herding them out with sharp orders to see if other guests need any last-minute assistance. I leap down from the dressing pedestal and grab Rose’s arm.
“General William and King Mather.” Saying his title flows out surprisingly easily, and I start in discomfort. “Where are they?”
“Getting ready themselves, Lady Meira. They did say that if you were to ask for them, they would meet you in the library before the ball.”
“And when is the ball?”
“In ten minutes.”
I smack my fist to my forehead to fight down a sudden migraine. “Lady Rose, if you wish me to attend this ball, you will tell me exactly where the library is. Now.”
Rose points down the hall and to the left. “Two lefts, one right. First door on your right.”
I start to say thank you, but realize—I’m wearing a ball gown. How many times will I have this opportunity? I drop into a sweeping curtsy, skirt fluffing out in my descent, fabric swallowing me up. Rose applauds as I leap up and start to run out the door. Then I pause, grab the lapis lazuli, and stuff the small blue stone into one of the gown’s pockets. Just something to hold on to.
Two lefts. One right. First door on the right.
I repeat the instructions as I run, trotting past scurrying servants and fancy-looking people I don’t know. Cordellan royals, probably. Running in a dress is hard enough, but running in a ball gown is like trying to run while wrapped in a tent, so eventually I concede defeat and heft the whole mess of silk into the air. A few passing courtiers raise their eyebrows, but I hurry past them, too glad to move my legs freely to really care about their shocked looks. I was right—skirts
are
inventions meant to make running harder.
The library door is already open when I dash in, but the room is empty. Books line shelves three floors high, and windows just as tall let in rays of dying sunlight. Three balconies wrap above me and a grand piano stands in the center of the bottom level, but there are no people, not even a servant dusting old books in a corner.
I scurry into the room and scan each level for any sign of Sir or Mather or Dendera, anyone. The more empty corners I see, the harder my heart hammers.
They’re not here.
Their absence shakes me out of the lightness of preparing for the ball, of getting to take a bath, of the luxury and finery of Bithai. Here I am, standing in Cordell’s library, playacting like some foreign damsel, all ball gown and lavender-vanilla perfume. I should embrace this. I shouldn’t care that I won’t find out anything before the ball, because this type of normalcy is what Sir wanted for me, isn’t it? To dance and laugh and wear frilly dresses. To lead an easier life.
But however nice it is to have a tub full of steaming water, however pretty my gown is,
I’ve
never wanted this kind of life. Dendera would talk about the days when Winter was whole and its court was intact, when Queen Hannah would throw lavish balls like all the other kingdoms of the world. The ladies would dress in fine ivory gowns and the men in deep blue suits, and everything glittered silver and white. I would listen to Dendera’s stories and smile at the images, but it was the tales of Winter’s battles that filled my dreams. Tales of protecting our kingdom. Fighting for our land. Defending our people.
Not that the courtiers were any less worthy of Winter than the soldiers who fought for it, but I never wanted the life Dendera said she’d had. I wanted a life of my own, a life where I could feel myself
being
a part of Winter. And that, to me, came through fighting for it.
A piece of parchment on the music stand catches me, and I pick it up. Something about the way the script bends in a frantic, scratched hand, like whoever wrote it was in a hurry to get the poem down, draws me to it.
Words made me.
They shifted over me from the moment I took breath;
Little black lines etched into my body as I wriggled and screamed
And learned their meanings.
Duty. Honor. Fate.
They were beautiful heart tattoos.
So I took them and kept them and made them my own,
Locked them away inside me and only took them out
When other people got their meanings wrong.
Duty. Honor. Fate.
I believed in everything.
I believed in him when he said I was his greatest duty.
When he said I would be his greatest honor.
I believed no one but him and his three words.
Duty. Honor. Fate.
I believed too much.
There’s a pain in it, the same I-want-more-than-this pain that makes my dress a little less pretty. It sucks my breath away. I’d expect something like this just lying around if we were in Ventralli, which is known for its artists, but not in Cordell. Cordell is all money and power and fertile farmlands. Who wrote this?
“Lady Meira?”
I fly around, parchment fluttering to the ground, gown whooshing in a great funnel of red. At first I think it’s Noam. Same tall build, same golden hair, same dark-brown eyes. But this man isn’t old enough to have gray in his hair; he’s only a few years older than me, and his skin is smooth, sporting just a patch of stubble on his chin. He’s much more handsome than Noam too, not quite as harsh, like he’s more apt to sing a ballad than lead a kingdom.
I smooth my dress. “Prince Theron,” I guess.
An intrigued light brightens his face. Then his eyes drop to the parchment resting between us on the carpet, words up, and the light falls. He dives, grabs the paper, crumples it in his fist like he can disintegrate it through sheer will.
“Golden leaves,” Theron curses, catches himself, and grimaces, the paper in his hands cracking through his careful foundation of manners. “I’m sorry. This isn’t—it’s nothing.”
I frown. “You wrote that?”
His mouth tightens. Fighting with admitting to it or getting this conversation back on course.
I motion to the paper he gently sets on a table. “It’s good,” I say. “You’re talented.”
A little of Theron’s panic ebbs away. “Thank you,” he says cautiously as the corners of his lips lift. It’s not Mather’s full-face smile, but it still disarms me, making my legs weak under the layers of skirts and petticoats.
I clear my throat, pulling my focus off Noam’s shockingly attractive son and back onto why I’m here. Even if Sir or Mather shows up now, we would have to talk in front of Theron. So I lift my skirt in a slightly more ladylike way and walk toward him.
“Apparently I’m wanted at a ball,” I say. “I don’t want to risk incurring the wrath of Rose. Are you on your way there as well?”
Theron nods and puts a hand on my arm as I pass him, gently enough for me to feel an indescribable tingle rush up and down my body. A single spark of lightning created by his fingers on that one small spot of my arm.
“I am. Would you mind an escort? I thought it might be a good time to get to know each other.” His eyes flick back to the parchment. “Well, properly.”
How far away could the ballroom be? “Yes, thank you.”
Theron offers me his arm. I pause, eyebrow cocked, before slipping my hand through it and resting my fingers on the green velvet of his sleeve.