Page 95 of Monsters in Love

Giving Emmi’s hand a squeeze, Isabelle released her grip and stepped slightly behind her mother. Careful not to draw attention, she tugged at her dress, lowering her neckline from proper to almost-scandalous.

Well, scandalous for their current year. Three years ago her neckline would have been considered acceptable, possibly conservative.

How things had changed.

What they ate, what they could safely speak in public, all seemed to be tightening around them. More than necklines had changed when it came to style in Windhaven. She felt strange in her formal dress. Old-fashioned, with long sleeves and high waist. A style that had gone out of fashion with the old gods, but that the bishop was determined to resurrect.

Even Mama had seemed shocked when the bishop had described “acceptable” dress for young ladies. Isabelle and Emmi had been forced to take apart multiple older gowns to match the style—which limited their options when it came to fabric and colors.

But Belle didn’t mind.

In fact, she rather fancied her combination: green in memory of Thomas, steel gray for bravery, and red for courage.

Tonight, she needed all the courage she could muster.

Emmi had cobbled together a dress in similar hues, though her sister had more green, with just enough red left for trim. Surprising no one, their mother wore subdued tones of brown and ochre.

They reached the square and flowed with the others around the Chastry. With every step her insides tied themselves into tighter knots. Struggling to keep a placid expression on her face, she quietly greeted their neighbors and acquaintances, with a special glance for her co-conspirators.

She nodded at the blacksmith.

“Good eve, Miss Isabelle,” he rumbled.

“Ser Braww,” she replied, pleased to note the red scarf at his throat. “You’re looking well.”

“Come now, girls.” Mama ushered them along, pushed ahead toward the line of people waiting for their turn to enter the Keep. Her mother huffed, clearly displeased with their position. But Belle welcomed the four wagon-lengths between them and the doorway.

She focused on breathing, on readying herself for what was to come. Her whole life she’d done what she could to please her mother in public, to behave at events and maintain a perfect reputation.

But not this evening.

Awareness tickled the back of her neck.

She turned around, and her gaze followed the sensation to the belfry. Nothing moved beyond the torchlight glimmering along the brass bell, yet she felt a presence as she often did. If her father’s spirit or Thomas’ or a single scale of the lost gods resided in that stone tower, she would take any support they offered—she needed it, for what was to come.

“Bless me, Belfry,” she whispered. “For I am about to sin.”

“Come, Isabelle,” her mother announced. “Keep up.”

Respite over, she held her head high and walked into the Keep beside her sister and mother.

Despite her worries, Isabelle couldn’t help but marvel at the inside.

The stone block of a building had been transformed into a space of magic and mystery. The very air seemed to sparkle, glowing with the light of hundreds of tiny candles set within faceted glass jars.

Fall’s bounty had been twisted into fantastical constructions. Wreaths of vine and tiny gourds hung along walls, pillars of the same framed the great hall’s heavy stone columns. Yet none of those held a candle to the display covering the far wall: a massive autumn dragon woven from branches, shafts of wheat, and strips of shimmering fabric.

All in shades of gold, the dragon circled the stained glass window and loomed above the bishop’s seat.

“Whoa,” Emmi whispered.

“It is extraordinary,” Belle said.

They were ushered into the interior receiving line. Everyone attending this evening—and that was the entire town, to be sure—were expected to be formally introduced to their host, the Chastry’s Bishop.

And to pay homage to him.

Her wonder fled as her gaze landed on the man.

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