Page 58 of The Ordeals
Chapter 19
You’re in Danger
There’s something hanging on my bedroom door. A cream-coloured dress bag, zipped up with an envelope pinned to the front, my full name written on it in swooping black letters. I tear the envelope from the dress bag and catch the wordMasquier. There’s been no mention of the next Ordeal for nine days, but that seems like it’s about to change. I unhook the whole dress bag, hurry into my bedroom and lock the door behind myself.
Placing the dress bag on my bed, I read the card inside the envelope.
You are cordially invited to the Masquier Ball, the third and penultimate Ordeal. Arrive at Keeper’s Hall at nine in three evenings’ time for a night of decadence, dancing and deceit with your chosen partner. You must discern the truth from the lies and find your code word, then find the correct person to whisper your code word to. If you cannot find your code word, if you choose the wrong person, if you trust the wrong people, you will fail. Your clue to unlocking the code word and finding the people to trust is this …
Lies are cobwebs hung around the truth.
Burn this after reading. Bona Fortuna.
The masquier Ordeal, supposedly the one that the most hopefuls fail each year, whittling the number down far closer to the intake of twenty. I am still here, still at Killmarth. Still fighting. And still safeinside these gates. I pull my matchbook from my coat pocket, one of the items I carry every day now after the surprise of the Ordeal of illusion, strike a match and light it up. As the clue burns, the card curling in on itself until it is nothing but flakes of ash, I commit it to memory, burying the words in my mind, locking them away until it’s time to decipher them. Then I turn my attention to the dress bag.
There are very few times you’ll find me in a dress, and certainly not out of choice. But this gown is not meant for practicality, it is meant to be seen. To be worn and preened over and danced in. It is meant for starlight, for the brush of fingertips that are not the wearer’s. It is meant for desire. I touch the silk in reverence, the way it moves like water, pouring down to the floor as I pick it up by the coat hanger and hold it up before me. A screaming scarlet, it will leave little to the imagination. Cut low over the bust, designed to hug the curves of my chest and waist, before skimming over my hips and streaming over my toes. It’ll kiss the floor, even when I’m wearing heels, whispering around my feet as I walk.
The straps are thin and when I turn the dress to examine the back, I groan. The back is cut low to reveal my spine, sitting just at my waistline, the straps crossing at the back. Nowhere to conceal a blade, except perhaps a small one in a holder on my thigh and even then, the shape of it may dimple the silk. I hook the dress back inside the cream bag carefully to hang in the wardrobe. Only then do I notice the silk tied bag, hidden behind the dress itself.
Inside is an eye mask. Crafted from the same scarlet silk, it has a scattering of tiny beads sewn into it, spreading out from the left corner like a spray of stars in the same shade of red. They glisten in the light, drawing the eye to them subtly. A coy little nod to the wordmasquier. I chuckle, tying the eye mask at the back of my head and move closer to the mirror. It transforms my face, sharpeningmy features and lending me an air of refined elegance. All at once, it reminds me of every time I have transformed myself into someone else at the Collector’s behest, infiltrating society functions and finding the marks for his map. I know what it is to blend, to seek information, to find the granular detail of truth in a lie and leverage them until I get what I want. I’ve been trained for this, I realise, since I was a child.
I untie the mask and place it in the drawstring bag, hooking it over the dress to hang in my wardrobe. For a moment, I just stare at it, beautiful as a secret, before closing the door and leaving it in darkness. Footsteps sound on the landing outside and I hurry to the door, placing my eye over the keyhole. It’s Alden. Returned from gods know where, and he’s just found his own dress bag and invitation hanging on his bedroom door.
I’ve barely seen him since our moment after the last Ordeal, when we stood in his room and held each other. We’re no longer partners, unless one of us asks the other, and in the past nine days, he hasn’t asked me. I’ve seen him flirting with another woman in Gantry, a masquier with a sleek black bob and killer legs. I figured maybe there wasn’t anything there. Maybe he just was a distraction. And those threads I imagined, tying us together, were just his moment of weakness. In the days since, I’ve tried to wring him from my thoughts by training. Hard.
I twist the key in the lock, yank the door open and smile as he whips around, secreting his invitation behind the lapels of his jacket. But I catch a glimpse of the contents of the dress bag before he moves to hide it from my view. A black jacket, a dickie bow.
He flicks up his eyebrows. ‘Spying on me, DeWinter?’
‘Checking you’re not a murderer about to bludgeon down my door,’ I say sweetly, crossing my arms as my pulse quickens. ‘What’s your clue?’
‘What’s yours?’
I laugh, tossing back my head. ‘Nice try. How’s your fleetfoot?’
‘Excellent. And your heeling?’
‘Exquisite. Dancing is one of mymanytalents,’ I say, raising one eyebrow in silent challenge. Now I really look at him, I see the telltale signs of his magic use. How it drained him in the last Ordeal, almost to the point of burnout. Dark smudges line his eyes, his skin a shade too close to deathly. But damn, he’s still magnetic. ‘Not sleeping?’
‘A little better, but not enough. The insomnia can be maddening,’ he says quietly, shifting his gaze away to stare at the floor. ‘If only you had kissed me sooner.’
I lick my lips as his eyes meet mine. But rather than finding a teasing slant to them as I expected, all I find is honesty. Solemnity, bone-deep exhaustion and, shockingly, vulnerability. This is the price he pays for nearing burnout, this insomnia that gnaws on the edges of his mind. The price I pay is thumping pain, nosebleeds, my mind seemingly scrambling inside my skull … but perhaps his is worse. ‘Alden, what we were talking about, after the last Ordeal …’
He swallows bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve told you I don’t want to talk about all that. Not when I need to stay focused.’
‘Are we in danger here, at Killmarth though?’
‘Behind the wards, we’re safe.’ He clears his throat, eyes sliding from mine as though he’s said too much.
‘Tell me the truth … are we being trained here because of them?’
His mouth twists and he exhales. ‘If word got out about the cold ones, the vampires, if our enemies knew how vulnerable Kellend is …’ He turns away. ‘Eight years ago, we weren’t ready. But this time, we have to be.’
‘How many people know about them?’ I press.
‘Most people have no idea, even weaker wielders. The cold ones aren’t interested in anyone without magic and so far, it’s been contained. Mostly. They feed onourblood. A wielder’s blood—’
‘Oh gods,’ I say, shuddering, and hug my arms around myself. ‘Which is why they’re attracted to the Ordeals, why they’re sniffing around. All the magic, all the potential in all of us …’
