Page 78 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Nonetheless, Ariadne instead chose an older, less fanciful, powder blue dress to wear with sleeves long enough to hide the bruise. Sympathy did not pair well with celebration.

Though celebrating remained far from her thoughts as she settled into the chair before her vanity. Maids swept around her, pulling strands of hair into curls, swiping rouge across her cheeks, and lining her eyes with black. The first time she had gone through the preparations for the traditional ball, they had bathed her and dressed her. They had done neither since her return from the mountains. Dressing for the event was no different.

As they worked, Emillie entered in her pale green dress. The maids pinned her hair back and powdered her cheeks as well.

“You chose a different gown.” Emillie’s mouth tightened. “Why?”

Ariadne did not look her in the eye. “It is cooler tonight than I expected.”

“You fretted over that dress,” she said with a narrowed gaze. She did not miss much. “But you look beautiful no matter what.”

“Thank you.”

A silence stretched between them for a long minute. The brush combed through her gentle curls, and as one maid began braiding small strands, another fixed Emillie’s. She focused on the strokes of the brush and sweep of powder across her cheeks to make the blue veins on her throat and jaw stand out.

“I overheard,” Emillie said to break the lingering quiet, “the Lord Governor Caldwell’s funeral pyre went well.”

“I am certain the ceremony was beautiful.”

Her sister hummed in agreement. “Have you heard who will be taking up the title as his heir?”

Ariadne parted her lips to allow for a rich red stain to be spread across. “I have not. Though, as far as I know, he only had one child.”

“Mariana.” Emillie sat back in her chair. “She died, did she not?”

“Murdered,” Ariadne breathed. Her chest tightened at the thought. It was a brutal tale meant to frighten the recent generation of young Caersan out of the woods. “By dhemons.”

In the mirror, she caught the maids glancing at one another before declaring themselves satisfied with their work. Emillie said nothing else on the matter. She did, however, reach out and take Ariadne’s hand. The squeeze she gave was longer and stronger than most in the past. Ariadne squeezed back—a half-hearted, gentle press of her fingers.

Then Emillie left as swiftly as the maids.

Ten…

Ariadne sucked in a steadying breath to clear her mind of any memories tainted by dhemons. If Mariana had not died in those woods outside the Caldwell Estate, would she have suffered the same fate as Ariadne? No one could say, and to dwell on it meant losing herself to the dark halls of that dungeon once again.

Nine…

On and on the counting went, her breaths timed with the inhale and exhale. By the time she reached three, Ariadne stood and made her way out of her suite. Not a soul stood outside her door. Maybe Emillie warned any others away, knowing well she needed time alone.

Or maybe Madan, now assigned to her personally, stood just around the corner.

She crept down the halls, past a window overlooking the front drive flooded with Caersans of the Society arriving for the celebration. More, certainly, than the ball held in honor of her and Darien. In a matter of moments, the manor would be crawling with more vampires than she had ever seen in one place.

Until, of course, the wedding.

Down the first flight of steps she went and turned down the hall, away from the ballroom teeming with noise and toward the quiet sitting room. There, Loren would meet her before descending the final staircase, where both their fathers would introduce them as officially betrothed. Praise for the General capturing the eye of the Golden Rose would pour out while others looked for the next catch of the Season.

Ariadne made it halfway to the sitting room when, down a side hall, she saw him. Her heart lurched into her throat before kicking up the speed to hammer against her ribs like a drum. Exiting the small room meant for servants, a knapsack in hand, Azriel froze.

After a beat, a strained smile curled his lips, and he started toward her. “Miss Harlow.”

No more first names, then.

She should not be with him. Her father had forbidden it after meeting with Loren the morning before. Still, she wanted to go to him more than the sitting room.

Ariadne bit her lip and nodded to the bag in his hand. “Going somewhere?”

He looked at it as though he had only then realized he had it in his hand. His throat bobbed. “Transfer.”

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