Page 13 of Her Dark Reflection

‘It’s a beautiful dress. It’ll be perfect,’ I said, a thread of impatience creeping into my voice. ‘And if you take any longer, it won’t matter what you wear as you won’t be meeting the king at all.’

She took the admonishment with good humour and threw herself into her preparations, selecting the rest of her outfit with far more speed than I thought she was capable of. Despite her reluctance to make a final decision, she possessed a keen sense of style, easily selecting accessories for the gown that left her looking neither overdressed, nor slovenly. Though she didn’t remove the plaited bracelet, which was an odd choice, but I didn’t comment on it.

There was an ease to Senafae in evening dress that I had never possessed, little gutter rat that I was. It reminded me of my mother, who had also possessed this instinct for fashion and always seemed a different version of herself when she dressed in her finery, though there had been few occasions to do so when I was a girl. It had usually been when we were in direst need of money, when the meals had become few and far between enough to drive me to thieving from the markets. I had a handful of such memories of my mother: gaunt and hollow-eyed, dressed in moss-green satin that was several seasons out of fashion and hanging from her bony figure, she had still looked regal and rich blooded.

Sometimes, when she returned from wherever she went in her finery, we ate like royalty for days, feasting on caviar and exotic fruits and tender cuts of pork. That was my mother—all or nothing. I’m sure we could have eaten a more modest fare for months on what those feasts must have cost. Eventually, the feasts had stopped altogether, and the green dress hung as a neglected ghost in the wardrobe, a phantom of a previous life too painful for her to look upon.

‘Are you ready?’ Senafae’s voice broke my reveries, and I shook the past from my back like a bird ridding its feathers of rain.

‘I’ve been ready for half the day. Let’s go.’

We convened in the same bare room as we had when we’d arrived the previous day and the air buzzed with an excited energy. Looking around, it was clear everyone else had taken as much pain to prepare as Senafae. Faces were painted, the gowns ranged from fashionable to scandalous, and the hairstyles were elaborate and bedecked with feathers or ribbons or jewels. The war being waged by an array of perfumes made me want to sneeze. Vanaria wore an expensive gown of midnight blue that set off her hair spectacularly, and when she caught me looking, she glowered and turned to whisper to the person next to her.

When Mrs Corkill joined us, she acted as a dampener on both the mood and the noise.

‘Tonight, your role is simple: mingle, talk, and entertain. His Majesty and his council have been in trade negotiations with dignitaries from Creatia and Oceatold all day, and this dinner is designed to ease the tension of those negotiations. They are to have a good time.’ Her expression communicated extreme disapproval, but whether that was disapproval of the dignitaries, the trade negotiations, or of ‘good times’ in general, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps all three. ‘Do you have any questions?’

If anyone did have any questions, I was sure they were all too afraid of her to ask them. She gave a curt nod and turned as though to leave, but changed her mind. She turned her judgemental gaze back to us, her lips pressed together so tightly they seemed to be completely swallowed by her face.

‘I am not your madam,’ she said firmly. ‘I will make no negotiations on your behalf. Those matters are your own business to handle. Now, if you’ll follow Leela, she’ll take you to the Lesser Hall.’

A housemaid led us down a series of hallways, up a flight of stairs, and through a door where we stepped into a lavish, high-ceilinged hall hung with woven chandeliers. I almost gasped at the sight of them—I’d never seen glisoch before, but this was surely what it was.

The art of weaving magic was a secret jealously guarded by the druthi guild, but the enchantments that could be bought by common folk were contained in cord and woven around bottles or into knots, depending on the purpose. Glisoch was woven with real gold cord. The light emitted was cold and steady, utterly unlike candlelight. The glisoch was twisted and knotted together in decorative dips and swirls, dripping with crystals that sparkled in the glow. I’d never seen it because it was not only damn expensive, but like all druthi weaves, the enchantment was finite, so these opulent things would need to be replaced regularly. And embedding the gold with the enchantment that produced light corroded it away, so the gold itself would be completely worthless by the end, only fit for picking through by hungry street children who hoped to find a crumb of the metal untouched.

And there weredozensof the chandeliers. If I’d felt guilty over what I had come to the palace intending to do, I didn’t feel so now.

The housemaid led us through what was clearly the part of the palace enjoyed by those who weren’t servants, revealing glimpses of gilded sculptures, vaulted ceilings, paraquat flooring, frescos, marble columns, and glossy furniture. By the time she stopped, my head was spinning with the opulence of it all.

The housemaid eyed us with interest as we approached the door as a group, the hushed rustling of excited whispers swaying through us like a breeze through dry grass. I could feel Vanaria’s stare burning into me from behind, but I tried to put it from my mind. I had a purpose here and I needed to focus. It didn’t help that focus when a few moments later I was jostled roughly as she shoved past me to get to the front of the group.

I glared at her. I didn’t blame her exactly for hating me—jealousy is a potent poison—but it made me all the more eager to deliver the apple hidden in my room. She would be furious if it did as Draven promised it would. All I had to do was fashion an opportunity to present it to the king. And somehow convince him to eat it.

The door ahead opened, and girls began filing into the room beyond. I smoothed at my dress, ran a hand over my hair, and took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

The room was dimly lit, richly furnished and full of men in fine clothing. The conversation paused briefly as we entered and I felt dozens of eyes running over me and the other maisera, taking our measure, categorising and appraising us. Fans fluttered, hair was tossed, gazes locked, and then the sound of talk resumed as we spread through the room like a drop of dye in water, seeking distance from one another, wanting to make ourselves distinct from the collection.

I scanned the assemblage, the men bristling with self-importance, noting the groupings, the body language, who was an aggressor and who was already conquered. The envoys of three kingdoms stood in this room, princes and ambassadors and priests and lords, all jostling for their place in the pecking order. Any would be a handsome prize, but there was only one king among them, and I picked him out within moments.

Even if I hadn’t seen portraits of King Linus, I would have known him from those around him. On the king’s right, a golden-haired young man in a royal sash sat turned towards him, even though he spoke with someone on his other side, and behind the king sat an old priest with a hooked nose and severe brows, watching him intently, awaiting any moment of attention to ply him with fervent talk. Every other man in the room continually glanced in the king’s direction, as though they were goats checking the location of a lion, making sure the beast hadn’t begun to stalk them.

The king himself was grey and weathered, but he held himself with the confidence of someone used to having all eyes on him, all open posture and relaxed gestures. He cast a passing glance over the women infiltrating the room, maintaining his conversation with the priest as he did. I watched as those eyes snagged on me and widened, interest suddenly flaring in his face. The priest took several moments to realise he had completely lost the king’s attention. He made a few attempts to claw it back before turning his cold eyes on me, a sneer of distaste on his mouth. I smiled sweetly, enjoying the old codger’s irritation.

I moved slowly across the room, determined to be the first to engage the king in conversation, ignoring the pointed gazes of other men eager to talk to me. Someone stepped in front of me, forcing me to pause and turn my attention away from my target. I frowned as I looked into his face.

A sallow-skinned man stood leering at me, a greedy smile on his thin-lipped mouth. He was round-faced and weak chinned, with a tall, wiry figure, and there were specks of what could have been dried blood on his white cravat. ‘What’s your name, darling?’ he said, his words oily. Behind him, I saw Vanaria approaching the king, flicking her unbound red curls as he smiled at her.

‘Rhiandra,’ I replied, my voice stony, seething with resentment.

He glanced towards where my eyes were fixed, and his expression soured. ‘You might think about paying more attention to what is right in front of you,’ he sneered, gesturing to himself with his hands, and as he did my eyes snagged on the sigil hanging from a heavy gold chain against his chest. Three interconnected circles encased within a triangle. Fear prickled at the back of my neck.

The sigil of the Druthi Guild.

This was what I’d been afraid of. I’d been in the palace for a day and already I had encountered someone who might have the ability to oust me, to recognise the use of magic.Might.I offered him my sweetest smile, trying to hide my panic as I searched his face for any sign that he could tell I was glamoured, but his expression relaxed as he gained my full attention.

‘And what entertainment are you offering tonight?’ he asked as his gaze slithered down my body and I supressed a shudder.

I lifted my lute and shook it, trying to keep my expression playful, though he surely would have detected the mockery if his eyes hadn’t been busy elsewhere.

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