Page 133 of Summer of Sacrifice

You never said goodbye.

No, she had snuck out in the middle of the night like a coward and stole the spellbook like a thief.

Carefully, Seleste opened the lid to find a golden gown fit for a queen. Burying her face in her hands, she wept. He knew her mind too well. He knew exactly what message this gown would bring.

She didn’t know how long she cried, but eventually, Seleste managed to dry her eyes. Gingerly, she lifted the beautiful gown out of the box. Beneath it lay three things.

A gold filigree mask, the kind worn by the beau monde for theatre performances.

A stunning invitation, the calligraphy a work of art, to Ballet de Merveille.

An article, the first announcement of the young Prince of Seagovia’s death.

Closing her eyes against the onslaught of emotion, Seleste hugged the dress to her chest. It was very likely a mistake to go, but the time had come to say goodbye.

Shifting to see how the candlelight caught her dress in the looking glass, Seleste contemplated her reflection. The coach arriving to take her to the theatre wasn’t due for some time, but she was nothing if not punctual—overly so, most of the time. For this event in particular, she was glad she’d gotten ready early because something wasn’t quite right, and she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Unbidden, thoughts of the last time she’d worn a gold dress with Cal slipped into her mind, followed swiftly by all their Summer nights together. His lips trailing a line down her neck, her stomach. His fingers tugging at her braids until they were lost in her untamed hair.

Ah, that was it.

He would prefer her hair down, free. Methodically, Seleste unwound every braid in her hair until her buoyant corkscrew curls splayed free, framing her face. Perhaps she should let her hair be free more often. Its wildness reminded her of Aggie’s lush and savage locks.

She smiled at her reflection, allowing one more moment to collect her nerve before descending the inn’s stairs to go out and meet her awaiting carriage. Her awaiting goodbye.

Tucked in the shadows of the carriage, Seleste tried to focus on the sound of the wheels on cobblestones. How the stones on Mer Row were cracked and jarring to go over. How the closer they came to Gemme Road and the theatre, the smoother the ride became.

Alas, it all simply reminded her of the ride to Whitehall two Summers ago. On this ride, there was an Autumn breeze, the Reaping Moon instead of the Strawberry Moon, and the heat was coming from within her rather than the stifling Summer air.

How could one Order from the Grimoire have brought so much pleasure and pain? How could she be on her way to say goodbye to this man she still loved? A moment that, by itself, would mean just as much as all their time together and all their time apart combined.

“We’ve arrived, mademoiselle.” The carriage driver’s voice drifted in through the window just before he hopped down and opened the door for her.

Before accepting his hand to descend the carriage steps and meet her fate, Seleste took in the damp street, the aristocratic passerby, their boots crunching dried and colourful leaves that had fallen from the trees, and the beautiful theatre jutting into the night sky.

She wanted to paint the scene, to remember it forever, or scream at the stars. She didn’t know which. Not yet.

Finally, she took the driver’s hand and descended to the cobbles, pulling her fashionable mask down over her eyes and nose. A stray leaf skittered past her slippered feet and Seleste tried to conjure Aggie’s resilience. The wind cooled her cheeks and she tried to conjure Winnie’s stability. Laughter floated on the breeze to her ears, and Seleste smiled, conjuring Sorscha’s vivacity.

She could do this.

Lifting the hem of her gown so it wouldn’t drag, Seleste strode into the theatre with her head held high.

The attendant took her cloak and her invitation, a good measure of shock crossing his features when he matched what was presumably her skin tone with one of the most important boxes in the theatre listed on her invitation. To his credit, he said nothing, he merely led the way up the plush, red-carpeted stairs to the grand floor. Her heart stuttered when he pulled back the ornate curtain that granted the box privacy.

It was dark in the box, the theatre’s house lanterns already low, prepared for the rise of the curtain.

Was she a masochist for coming?

A hand reached through the dark, finding hers and pulling her into the box until the red and gold curtain closed behind her, shutting them off from the world.

“You came.”

His voice sent a shiver snaking down her spine. It had been over a year since she’d last heard him speak, and she swallowed against the dryness of her throat.

“I did.”

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Seleste could see Cal’s mask was pushed up above his forehead, those searching eyes of his pinned on her. Suddenly feeling like the mask could protect her from what was coming, she wanted to leave hers on.

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