Page 85 of Ocean of Ink
Yours,
Castien
Year 822, Week 37, Cordelia
My pompous prince,
You have yet again taken on your title. My attempt at gratitude was thwarted by your teasing remarks. Perhaps you have spent too much time with your cousin as of late, and his mischief has taken root in you.
I would rather like to visit the Lucent Enclave, but do I sense a scheme in the works? Are you only inviting me to persuade me to write more for you? A Gifted writer’s words come at a price, you know.
Skeptically,
Wren
Year 822, Week 37, Cordelia
My dearest Wren,
I am wounded by your accusations. Mischief and schemes? I would never stoop to such a lifestyle. However, I will confess to a desire for more of your words.
Perhaps it is your Gift that has ensorcelled me, but I find myself craving your script as a man lost at sea yearns for land. I wear my longing like shackles. It is rather unfortunate, given my aversion toward captivity in any form.
And if you seek earnings for your words, you have found a man easily swindled. Name your price, Storyteller.
In chains,
Castien
Anticipation thrummed in Wren’s veins. House of Adira was buzzing with nerves as the dregs of daylight were drunk away by the moon and stars. Wren sat by her vanity, fiddling with a stray hairpin as Blossom tucked tiny pink flowers into Wren’s curls. The accessory would match Wren’s dress perfectly, which was a luminescent pink silk that shimmered like water in the light, accented by hand-stitched green vines that crawled up the bodice.
“I do believe I have outdone myself, Lady Kalyxi. You are always beautiful, but this evening you look as ethereal and radiant as Queen Adira.”
Wren smiled at Blossom’s compliment.
“I am grateful to have you as my lady’s maid, dear Blossom. I do feel rather pretty.”
“Pretty is too simple a word,” Blossom said with a shake of her head. “Lord Finnick is likely to ask for your hand as soon as he lays eyes on you.”
Blossom’s words were kind, but Wren felt a tinge of jealousy belying them. She would have to scold Finn if he charmed hermaid. It wasn’t fair to enrapture a woman of Blossom’s station when his duty was to marry someone of a higher rank.
“We are attending as friends. He has no interest of that sort in me, nor I in him,” Wren reassured the lady’s maid.
“That very well may change based on your beauty tonight.” Blossom’s jealousy waned, eclipsed by her excitement. “I am finished! Do stand by the fire so I may examine you closer.”
Wren stood and glided across the layered rugs on the floor to the fire. She was grateful for the warmth, as sitting on the cold vanity stool had proven less than comfortable.
“You are a rose, a diamond, the sun itself!” Blossom commended with a giddy clap. “Oh, you should have heard the other maids going on and on about their mistresses' gowns and jewelry. None can compare to you, I am sure of it. They will all eat their words.”
Wren let out a giggle. She was not a stranger to fashion and glamour. In fact, she relished in it. She missed her silk and lace while having to wear her academy uniform each day. Jewelry and sashes could only improve a drab frock so much.
“How is my rouge? Should I apply more, or is it sufficient?” Wren asked.
Blossom beamed. “You are perfect, my lady. I dare say you will be the centerpiece of the ball. No one will be able to take their eyes off you.”
Apprehension sank its claws into Wren. While she enjoyed gowns and rouge and jewelry, she typically did so within the confines of her estate. Heron had convinced her mother in recent years to let Wren focus on her apprenticeship rather than participating in society. Wren despised the idea of being on display. What would it lead to? Would her beauty prompt more sinister thoughts and deeds?
My pretty porcelain doll, the dark voice of her nightmares rasped. Bile rose in her throat.Did you dress up for me?
