Page 82 of Thorn Season
“Did Briar find out you released her prisoners?” I asked, swerving off topic.
Father winced. “Garret took sole blame. Briar gave him twenty lashes for insubordination. She came to the manor to taunt me about it.”
Twenty lashes.I recoiled at the mental image of Garret’s shredded back—and those rope burns, probably caused by sagging against restraints. Then I realized... Garret had fought my attacker with those wounds.
Father said, regretful again, “You care for the boy.”
I couldn’t deny it. I didn’t know what would become of the Capewells after Erik finished with them—if he would choose others to take their place, or force them into service again, broken and blue. But I would use all my influence to liberate Father from the Hunters’ Mark tattooed over his heart. To detach him permanently from Briar’s claws.
And I’d known, for some time now, that I would detach Garret, too.
I wasn’t sure what Father had read in my expression—whether he suspected more about my plans than he let on—but he grasped my hands then, his ink-stained fingers brushing my knuckles. “Yourmother would be so very proud of you,” he said. “Just as I am.”
I sank into his grip. There were still so many lies to untangle, so much pain to process; trying to protect him had distracted me from the greater agony of trying to forgive him. But... I was beginning tounderstandhim in a way I never had. I was prepared to sell myself to a king in the hopes that he would spare my father. Would it be so different to sell the lives of others? To damn them if it meant saving the person I loved most?
I didn’t yet know how to heal this fresh wound between us. I knew that one day, I would have to try.
But for this moment, I let my father fold his arms around me. And I breathed him in with the scent of home.
24
The ballroom sparkled in cherry red.
Tonight was Budding Ball, one of the most anticipated events of Rose Season, famous for how many courtships it kindled each year—especially among the eighteenth-season nobles. Indeed, this evening’s festivities had swept like a cake knife across the tiers of the gentry to skim off the youngest, sweetest frosting layer of courtiers and whip them up into a state of romance.
Silk sheets flowed from ceiling to floor like spilled wine, creating a maze of screens—some falling close enough to form hidden pockets of space, meant for shared touches and stolen kisses. The servers, dressed in burgundy trousers and bowties, sprayed partygoers with blood orange essence, and the mist coasted like a heady syrup through the air. I stifled a laugh as I glimpsed Tari spritzing the essence straight onto her tongue, a ruby moon of rouge at each angular cheek.
Even Carmen, who I’d been avoiding since my attack, had insisted I sport proper Budding Ball attire, and had barreled into my chambers this evening with the most beautiful gown I’d ever seen. Whorls of scarlet lace comprised the sweetheart bodice and gave way to tulle skirts, layered like unfurling petals and dotted with garnets. I’d donned matching chandelier earrings, and Carmen had made me upwith kohl flicks around my eyes, gold-flecked rouge, and a deep red lip.
I’d felt uneasy and strangely vulnerable with my eyes closed in the beauty chair, Carmen’s breaths whispering across my face. At one point, when I’d peeked through my lashes, I’d found her looking toward my closet—and I’d stiffened, wondering if she was thinking about her own closet, and the pink feather I’d accidentally snagged when I’d hidden inside it. The feather I still suspected had led to my attack.
Now she shimmied between the silks, a vision of red diamonds on slinky satin, and I pasted on my performer’s smile. There was something deeply sad about having to use it with the only friend I’d ever made at court.
“Your face matches your hair,” I said.
She mussed her crimson curls. “A burden I must bear.”
Tonight, the ballroom was split into kissers and receivers, with kissers sporting painted mouths in every luscious shade of red, and receivers sporting lipstick kisses across their cheeks, giving the appearance of blooming rosebuds. Carmen, in typical defiance, occupied both roles—her scarlet mouth smudged from kissing, her cheeks boasting more “rosebuds” than anyone else’s.
I leaned over to plant my own. “Another rose for your garden?”
“On the cheekbone, darling. I’m working up a blush.”
I could’ve sworn she tensed when my mouth met her cheek.
As I withdrew, my gaze fell on Perla’s alcove. Swamped in maroon skirts, she watched the party with a cheerlessness more suited to a wake. I had to pity her. When Erik had aimed that arrow at her on the fields, my fear had been red-hot and quaking—but hers had been pale and still. The freeze-up of a creature feigning death.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Carmen said. But her azure eyes were onKeil, currently being devoured—peck after peck—by a group of noblewomen.
My stomach made a strangeflipat the sight.
“What do you think makes him so alluring?” Carmen patted her lips in appraisal. “I think it’s the mystery.Ishe a Wielder?Isn’the a Wielder?”
“You know what he is,” I said, referring to his telltale flinch from the dullroot glasses.
“Well, all right. But would his diplomatic immunity then allow for our romance?”
I barked a laugh. “Your romance?”
