11

DARLING

Despite Talon’s offer to spar, one I’m looking forward to a bit too much, I have more pressing matters to attend to. Because there are even more dress fittings than before, a revelation that almost sends me into a spiral of despair.

It turns out that none of the dresses I’ve already been measured for and sewn into are appropriate for Caspian’s grand tour, so I am once more put through the paces of the court seamstress and her army of assistants. The morning after the gala, before I have even done my morning exercises or broken my fast, Lady Fringues and her people are at my door, ready to work. She barks orders at them like a general, and when I make the mistake of sighing as I am refitted for yet another dinner gown—honestly, six seems like plenty—one of the assistants snaps at me.

“You should be honored. Lady Fringues is one of the few House Cockatrice tailors left on the continent. Her services are highly valued and respected. She had to cancel several appointments with well-respected scions to fit you in,” he says while pinning a dress on me.

I give him a long stare. I still don’t believe I’m the scion of House Sphinx, but I doubt any other noble would let him speak in such a way. And appearances are important. Once he wilts a bit, I finally respond. “If she would sew me a pair of pants, I would deeply appreciate that. But these dresses are frankly not to my taste. So I will tolerate this as I see fit,” I say. Lady Fringues overhears me. She appears at my elbow, color high in her pale cheeks and anger snapping in her black eyes. Her straight black hair is twisted up in a complicated bun on the back of her head.

“You dislike my designs?” she says, her voice low. The room goes quiet as an ancient tomb, and I can’t help but sigh again.

“The designs are lovely. As are the colors. It’s just that . . . I’m a soldier. A fighter. I can’t kick in this,” I say, demonstrating how the skirt gets wrapped around my leg when I lift it. “I can barely move. If I can’t fight, no matter how pretty the dress, I’m not going to love it.”

A murmur goes up in the room, and the lady raises her hand sharply for silence, which she gets. “This is interesting. Hmmm. Yes, I see the problem now.”

She retreats to pull a large drawing tablet from one of the numerous cases, waving over a few of her assistants. She begins to sketch, and as she does, they all murmur in low voices. There are a few glances in my direction, and I realize that she actually listened when she returns and shows me sketches that give me a measure of hope.

“I wish you had raised this issue earlier,” she says when I grin at the new designs, “but we can adapt. We’ll take the measurements we have and return before you leave with dresses that accommodate your needs.”

They depart, and I figure that I am about to have the rest of the day to myself. But there is no time for me over the next couple of days. There are, instead, numerous lessons on decorum, the histories of the various Houses, and fittings for shoes. I even have to pick the drakes that will be pulling my carriage, because apparently I will have an entire carriage to myself, and it is vitally important that I pick the color scheme.

I hate every single, vapid moment of the exercise. It is only the reminder that I hold the fate of House Kraken in my hands that has me playing along with the farce. Even learning the history of House Sphinx makes me feel a deep sense of unease. I’m a Kraken, but there is something vaguely familiar about the stories of dust storms and seasonal rains. Are they long-buried memories or just a deep longing to understand who my family was?

But as quickly as the emotion wells, I push it away, focusing instead on my goal: Leonetti’s freedom. All of this is pointless without that. Despite Caspian’s promises I am beginning to worry that I am being played for a fool, and even though Caspian rejects my requests for an audience, I have to believe that he means what he says. What does he have to gain, otherwise?

By the morning of the day before we are supposed to depart I am sick of travel and sick of House politics, and we have not even left Phoenix Crest. I am meeting one last time with Lady Fringues and her team. The changes she’s made to the designs are brilliant. There are now cleverly hidden slits in the skirts that allow me to kick, as well as weights in the hem that draw the material away from my legs. Some of the skirts have clever ribbons sewn in that ruffle them up to the bodice. A set of sheer leggings complete the various looks. They’re still not my Barb blacks, but they are much better than they were.

I am just being fitted into what I’m told is one of several traveling dresses when the door opens, admitting a flurry of Dragon guards. Before I can object, a woman dressed in shades of green and gold, House Dragon colors, sweeps in.

“Lady Fringues! Oh, what a simply stunning design,” she says, walking around me as though I am a dressing dummy and not a person. “I must have something similar designed for me when the Prince Regent is no longer making demands upon your time,” she says, taking in the sheer halter neck and fitted bodice.

“Can I help you?” I say, my tone polite. Bland. I can tell a setup when I see one, and this woman is a bear trap waiting for an unwary step. I don’t know who she is, but there is something about her face that reminds me ever so slightly of Talon and Caspian.

“Oh, you’ve met so many people in the past several days,” she says, her trill of laughter as false as her lashes. “I’m sure I can’t blame you for not recalling.”

That reminds me: Caspian did indeed introduce us at the gala. Dismissively. “Oh. You’re the aunt.”

There’s a subtle shift in her expression, no more than a tic, but I can see that the simple comment annoys her somehow. “Yes. I am much more than that, though. I am Lady Aurora, the Dragon Seer.”

Ahh. That explains the necklace she wears: a dragon’s talon clutching a large, clear diamond. Probably some Chaos-forsaken seal of her office.

When I don’t answer, she repeats the phrase slower and a bit more loudly, as though I am simple. “The Dragon Seer?”

It raises my hackles instantly.

I am not stupid. Even though I grew up in the sewers of Nakumba, I know how House politics work. Not because of some long-buried memory of House Sphinx, but because I spent so much time with Adelaide and House Kraken. The House might not have had galas and tailors on call, but there were still minor nobles and their partners scrabbling for favor and concessions. I have seen firsthand how a friendly overture can turn as sharp as a throwing blade, and I am not about to play this woman’s game.

But I will have some fun.

“How does it work?” I say, waving the assistant back over so she can finish her adjustments. She gives Aurora a wary look, cementing my suspicions. Never trust someone the servants fear. There is a great deal to be learned about a person by the way they treat those they see as lower than them, and the fear from the tailor at my waist is noticeable.

Aurora gives me a sly smile. “Oh, it’s like any other boon. It comes when it wishes, and I am changed after each vision.”

“Did you have a vision of me?” I ask, my voice sweet. One of the benefits of my smoked lenses is that they hide my eyes, which makes it all that much easier to lie. There is much the eyes give away, and not having to worry about that tell is its own boon.

Aurora seems surprised. “Why would you think that?” she says.

“Well, the way you burst into my rooms made me think it was something important.” I turn back toward the soldiers loitering uncomfortably in the doorway. “Or do your troops make a habit of storming into the rooms of House scions when they are dressing?”

Aurora makes a shooing motion, and the guards leave. “I do apologize. Caspian asked me to keep you company these past few days during your fittings, to ensure that you were well cared for, but I was quite busy.”

“Ah. Well, luckily I have been dressing myself for seventeen years.”

“How is the fit, my quill?” the tailor says.

“Brilliant,” I say, and we retreat behind the screen so that I can be stitched into yet another concoction. Only there are no more, and while I slip into a set of trousers and a loose top, Lady Fringues and her army retreat to make the necessary adjustments.

I do not miss the wide berth she and all her assistants give Aurora.

“Well, it looks as though I have been completely attired,” I say with a smile. “Please do not let me distract you from your normal duties.”

“Nonsense! You will soon be on the council. We should become acquainted.”

And there it is, with a minimum of trawling. I gesture to one of my maids, a woman with brown hair and tan skin who I am rather certain is a soldier Talon assigned to spy on me, and she approaches. I could have sent one of the others, but I quite enjoy sending the spy on errands, a fact I am sure she has noted by the way her lips press into a thin line before she curtsies.

“Please bring us a pot of strong tea and maybe some of those little sandwiches we had yesterday if there are any left.” When she’s gone, I turn to Aurora.

“I’m not sure what you want from me, but I am in no position to start political maneuvering. You don’t have to worry that I’ll turn on Caspian, as he truly has a very good grip on my strings,” I say, blunt and to the point. “If you’re trying to build a cabal or what have you, I am next to worthless.”

She laughs as I walk to the sitting room and take the chair I like, the one that puts me in a position to see all the possible entrances and exits. She takes the chair on the other side of the small table with a bit of skirt ruffling and resettling.

“Your performance the other night at the gala was quite impressive. You are quite the talk of Phoenix Crest,” she says.

“I could have shown up and disappeared into the wallpaper, and people would be wagging their tongues,” I say. “That doesn’t explain why you are here.”

The maid/spy returns with the tea and little sandwiches cut into the outline of a feather, probably a nod to the House of Sphinx. It’s silly. It isn’t as if it will make the already delicious food taste any better.

I pour a cup of tea and hand it to Aurora, and there’s a moment of surprise before she reaches out to take it, like she didn’t expect me to have basic table manners. As though I haven’t spent the past couple of weeks being drilled by the protocol tutor Caspian sent over.

“I suppose I was curious,” Aurora says, staring at the tea a moment before taking an exploratory sip, the column of her pale throat revealed as she does so. That’s when I see it. Anyone else would think it was a mole, perhaps a bit of errant cosmetics. But the tiny droplets in the hollow spot where Aurora’s throat and ear meet are definitely blood.

No one ever warned me how messy killing was, but there is a reason Barbs wear black. Killing, even a quick knife across an unwitting victim’s throat, is dirty business. The blood gets everywhere, and there have been too many occasions when Leonetti would chide us to take time to clean ourselves up after a mission.

Don’t come to dinner bloody! It’s coarse. We may be soldiers now, but we will not always be tied to this life, and we cannot forget ourselves, he would say, and anyone fool enough to ignore his warning would get a cuff upon the ear and then a lecture about manners and representing House Kraken.

Sudden tears threaten at the memory, and so I busy myself pouring my own cup of tea.

I say nothing for a long uncomfortable moment, pretending to sip my tea the way Aurora does. I don’t drink, though. I am starting to have a bad feeling about this meeting, and while my boon can heal, I don’t know if it will keep me safe from poison. Miranda and I were never brave enough to take the chance and try it out.

Despite the jangling of my nerves, I pretend to be nothing more than a bored scion, not rising to the bait she has let dangle. I don’t care about politics, but a woman who proclaims herself a seer and then finds her way to getting blood upon her person is dangerous indeed.

“Aren’t you curious about me?” Aurora finally says, and for a moment I worry that she’s read my mind.

“Only to wonder if you’ll be accompanying us on this grand tour,” I say, picking up a sandwich and setting it down before biting into it, as though I find it distasteful. How many poisons can be absorbed through the skin? Too many. Is this an assassination attempt, or has my time at court made me paranoid? There’s nothing about the woman to make me think she is going to try to kill me, with the exception of the blood, but I touch the hair sticks that are currently holding the mass of my curls in a complicated updo anyway. I have no weapons. The throwing knives were very quickly taken from me after the gala. But I know a dozen ways to disarm an attacker, and a hair stick to the eye would be a painful way to go if it came down to it.

If she has poisoned me, I doubt I will get the chance.

“Oh, I’m afraid I cannot. I have my duties to attend to. Speaking of which”—she sets down the teacup and gives me a bland smile—“I must return to them. Thank you so much for indulging me, and I will see you at the end of your tour when your title is reinstated.”

“Thank you for the company,” I say, even though we both know that I don’t mean it. She leaves, and as soon as she is gone, I put my cup back on the tea tray and explode out of the chair.

The maid, who I am now certain is really a soldier playing at being a servant, hurries into the room. “My quill, is something amiss?”

“What’s your name again? Your real name?” I say.

She opens her mouth and then sighs. “Marjorie. Was I that obvious?”

“Most of the servants here walk like they don’t want to be noticed. You walk like a soldier.” I point to the serving tray. “Have that taken away. And make sure no one touches anything.”

She glances at the food. “It’s safe. I checked it myself.”

Just what kind of orders did Talon give her? The idea that he could’ve sent someone to keep me safe makes me feel odd, and I dislike the sensation immediately. “That was before the Dragon Seer came to visit.” It may seem silly to be so paranoid, but I have a sister who can poison with a touch. Who knows if this Dragon Seer has some treacherous boon of her own?

Luckily Marjorie doesn’t make excuses or tell me I am being silly. Instead she puts on leather gloves and removes the tray, stopping in the doorway. “The protocol tutor will be by at the top of the hour. Would you like something before they arrive?”

“No,” I say. I’m too anxious to eat. Instead I walk out to my private garden and pace, trying to let the singing fountains and fragrant flowers of a land I barely remember soothe my nerves. I do not like the Dragon Seer, but I cannot figure out why beyond those few splatters of blood. What is it about the woman that is so distasteful, more so than the other minor nobles who bow and scrape and social climb?

And just what kind of game has Caspian roped me into?