Page 118 of House of the Raven
Fabric drapes around me like spun moonlight, a delicate combination of silvery threads that shimmer gently. The bodice of my exquisite dress is adorned with intricate lace, painstakingly woven to resemble delicate snowflakes. The skirt billows in cascading layers edged with tiny pearls that catch the light and resemble glistening dewdrops on a morning bloom. The sleeves are sheer, veiled with lace that reaches my wrists, giving the impression of gossamer wings. A silver diadem, adorned with precious gemstones, nestles atop my head, its ethereal glow matching the gown’s radiance.
Jago walks next to me, my hand perched on his arm. He wears his academy uniform and looks dashing. I appreciate his company, but I wish Bastien was here instead. A different guard has been in his post all day. I hate the twitch in my heart that his absence causes—the same twitch that has been there since I woke up this morning and found him gone. My bed felt empty and cold, the same as my heart.
I can’t help but wonder why he isn’t here. Is it because he doesn’t want to see me next to Don Justo? Does he care enough for that? I know I would hate to see him with someone else.
“You don’t look too bad, cousin,” Jago says.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.”
“Where is grumpy face?”
I shrug, trying to appear indifferent, but I can’t fool Jago, and his raised eyebrow is practically a condemnation.
I lean closer to whisper in his ear. “I slept with him.”
He pulls back to better look at me, as if he’ll be able to discern the sign of my new womanhood. His surprise only lasts for a few seconds, however, and he immediately does what he does best: tease.
“Saints and feathers! What is Don Justo going to say?” He fans himself by batting a hand around his face. “He’ll return you on your wedding night once he finds out you are soiled!”
“You know well I don’t intend to make it that far with that vapid man.”
“I didn’t think we would make itthisfar, and yet here we are.”
The melody of a tranquil waltz permeates the hall as we approach the ballroom.
I scoff. “Things haven’t gone as I hoped. I’m just buying us some more time, so we can figure out how to solve this.”
“I don’t know, Val. I’m starting to think this is a hopeless endeavor. Amira… she… well, maybe you’re wrong about her, and this is how it’s going to be from now on.”
I can tell from his own uncharacteristic hesitancy that he’s been holding this opinion for some time.
“I amnotwrong,” I argue. “That’s not my sister. It can’t be. Now, shut your mouth. We’re here.”
He steps back and bows. “Don’t trip.”
When I was seven, during one of the first parties my parents allowed me to attend, my foot got tangled in my dress, and I went tumbling down the steps like a helpless kitten. Jago has never let me forget it—not that I would, even if he didn’t tease me. Everyone laughed at me, and I was mortified. That was the day I swore dresses were evil, and I vowed never to wear them again. How thoroughly I lost that battle, too. Father didn’t let me get away with it during any official events.Princesses wear dresses, not trousers.I have to admit, they have their uses, and I’m going to put this silver monstrosity to good use tonight.
I turn the corner and head toward the twenty-foot-tall, gilded doors. They lead to the grand staircase and are flanked by two pages, who bow then pull them open to let me in.
The din of voices, music, and the glow of too many crystal chandeliers assault me, overwhelming my already addled senses. To make matters worse, two pages on the other side of the doors blow on matching horns and obnoxiously announce my arrival.
The chatter stops and every set of eyes in the place turns my way. I stop at the top step, two black marble columns carved like the feathers of a gigantic raven standing at my sides.
Now would be the perfect time to be loyal, I warn my feet.
Affecting the self-important air that court demands, I start my descent, dress swaying back and forth with every step, heeled shoes tapping on the marble.
I incline my head as I meet people’s gazes. Conde Salvador Almolar, a nobleman who once asked Father for my hand in marriage and who sports a mustache resembling a dog’s tail, raises a wine glass in my direction as if to sayit’s a shame you didn't choose me. Conceited bastardo!
I scan the ballroom in search of my sister, but it appears she has not yet arrived. This will be her first social event as queen, so I assume she’s determined to outshine me. Good thing I don’t care about being the center of attention. I want this to be over already.
Don Justo strides across the center of the floor, stops before me, and kisses my hand.
“You look enchanting tonight,” he says, his mouth still on my knuckles as he peers up at me from under perfect eyebrows.
“Thank you.” I curtsy.
Smiling hugely, he tucks my arm under his elbow and proceeds to parade us around the room like two preening peacocks. His posture is so stiff, he appears as if he swallowed a rapier. Yet, all the young women’s eyes are set on him. Only a few seem interested in me—or more precisely my dress.
