MARYNKA WENT TO THE BALL as a monster.
At midnight exactly, the masquerade was opened by Rusja’s ambassador and his sour, moon-faced wife. Over three hundred pairs stood in the first mazurka. Polished boots and a glossy floor reflected the fiery glow of chandeliers and candelabras, the blue moonlight washing through the windows. Glass doors, great arching things, lined one side of the ballroom leading onto a terrace, which in turn led down frosted steps into the castle’s winter-white garden. The doors were left open, so that every so often the night blew in sparkling flurries of snow. Guests spun by in circles, dancing with a furious energy, sliding, leaping, each couples’ feet drumming the floor with such force it was as if they were trying to strike flame with their heels.
Light glittered off the snowflake crown and silver-blue robes worn by a girl dressed as a snow-maiden, off the icy scepter held aloft by a frost demon. A man clinked past in the full armor of one of Lechija’s legendary winged cavalry riders, a leopard skin falling from his shoulder and a curved saber hanging from his waist. The city’s tailors and hairdressers must have been making a fortune. It was impossible to describe all the costumes, but wings were clearly a popular choice.
Marynka watched it all from behind her black-horned mask, searching for the prince hiding somewhere in the crowd, scowling when Beata refused to dance with her. Which was fine; Marynka didn’t need her. Beata would come crawling back soon enough anyway. What other fool would talk and dance with her? It wasn’t like she had any other friends.
“I’m going to ask about the prince. I told you not to wear that costume. Stay here and don’t do anything reckless.” Beata pressed away through the crush of bodies. Marynka watched her stop to flirt with some rich princess, twirling her little sparkling star on its stick. Knowing Beata, she was probably already planning their wedding, dreaming of how they would live together forever in a little house in the woods.
Really, it was quite pathetic.
But she did look beautiful. Undeniably beautiful. And mysterious, with her violet eyes, fat, rosy cheeks, and unknowable smile just visible behind her twinkling gossamer veil. Soft and delicate in a way Marynka knew she could never be even if she tried.
And she had tried.
It wasn’t as if she’d never worn a dress. Never combed her hair so it wasn’t a wild tangle. Never painted red on her lips.
She had a fleeting pang, thinking she should have worn a costume more like Beata’s, before she gave herself a shake. No, changing yourself for others was like admitting defeat. Marynka didn’t dress to please people. She dressed to startle them, to make them uneasy. She didn’t dress so that they would look at her and see something they wanted to touch and taste. She wanted them to look upon her and be afraid. She wanted their knees to tremble when they beheld her. She wanted their voices to crack with visceral fear at her approach.
She wasn’t going to make herself into something sweet, mold herself into something more palatable. Something to be gobbled up and swallowed down. She was not a dessert.
Speaking of which. . .
A servant wheeled past, bearing crystal platters weighed down with sweet things. Karnawał treats designed to suit the season: crusty faworki and almond cookies and cream puffs and glazed pączki piled high into towers. Spicy honey-cake hearts steaming and fresh from the oven. During the Karnawał there were two rules, and the first was to eat as much as you possibly could, to glut yourself on all that was fatty and rich, on all the good things before the strict fasting period.
The second rule was, of course, to dance and drink as much as you ate. So Marynka made a face at Beata—who, glancing back, gave her best impression of never having seen Marynka before. I’ve never seen that girl in my life! Who is that mad creature there? Who let that monster in?—and helped herself to the food.
Not only the sweet, but also the savory, fancy appetizers of smoked sausage and pickled fish and sour radish, washing it all down with shots of vodka glimmering with flakes of burnished gold.
How rich must the people here be, to be drinking actual gold?
Lifting onto the tips of her toes, licking oil from her fingers, Marynka scanned the crowd again. To her left, a boy in peasants’ costume was dancing with a firebird. A girl in a half mask wrapped in a glory of golden silk. Brilliant feathers in dazzling shades of scarlet made a crown in her fair hair. Vast wings of living flame flared from her back, shedding sparks as she twirled on small feet. A priest with a big belly started complaining loudly about divine magic being used for unholy purposes.
Marynka snorted. At least Grandmother didn’t care what she used her magic for so long as she brought the witch her hearts. That was the biggest difference, that she could see anyway, between divine magic and the kind that she had—the holy kind was supposed to be used primarily for the good of others. It wasn’t supposed to be used for petty purposes.
She chewed her lip. What kind of costume would Lechija’s prince wear to his death? Was he the peasant dancing with the firebird? The young man there, who’d come as a bear? She even spied someone dressed as a king, which she thought was rather daring considering Lechija’s actual king was meant to be here tonight, until she realized the man must be the king. The real one. The man said to have been bewitched by Imperial Rusja’s wicked tsarina. Marynka wondered if it was true that he carried a likeness of her in his breast pocket with him always.
As if to prove there was no spell clouding his mind, the king smiled brightly at the beautiful olive-skinned woman at his side. He wore a flimsy half-mask of lace and diamonds, but no proper costume, only a tailcoat and breeches, the foreign fashions he favored.
Most everyone else, if they weren’t in full costume, was dressed in traditional Lechijan attire, the sleeves of their robes trailing through the air behind them as they spun across the dance floor. The girls’ kontusiki were trimmed with pale fur, the boys’ kontusze tied with wide embroidered belts.
Was the prince standing somewhere near his uncle? Was he one of those young men fawning at the king’s side? Karnawał was a time when anyone could approach the king, and it was obvious Marynka wasn’t the only one to know it. A veritable wall of eager admirers separated them. Young and old all trying to charm their way into his graces, falling over themselves trying to bow low enough.
Marynka grabbed a girl outfitted as an angel roughly by the arm. “Hey, which one is the prince? What’d he come dressed as?”
The girl stared at her, appalled. “How should I know?” She yanked her arm free, rubbed her wrist. “No one does. Prince Józef said his costume was to be a surprise.”
What a fool. Marynka scowled, and when another servant swept by, she snatched a goblet of ruby-red wine from his tray. Of course this couldn’t be easy.
She downed the wine in a single gulp and handed the empty goblet off to some random old man. He tugged his gray mustache in confusion and opened his mouth, but by then Marynka had sidled up to a group of boys and girls who looked to be about her age.
They were gossiping about who was there and who they were there with, and most importantly, about the prince. The way people spoke of him made him sound too perfect to be real. He was a saint, a hero, an ardent champion of freedom. A fierce soldier. A seducer of hearts.
“Did you hear about the time he drove a sleigh naked through the city because he lost a bet?”
“They say he’s challenged the ambassador to a duel.”
“They say even the Princess Oscik has tried to sneak into his bedroom.”
Marynka joined in with the group’s hearty laughter, which resulted in several strange looks. A few of the girls exchanged raised eyebrows and snickered in each other’s ears. Marynka ignored an uncomfortable prickle of self-consciousness. If they knew who she was, what she was, they wouldn’t dare laugh at her.
I could reduce you all to ash where you stand. I could burn this castle to the ground.
She took a deep breath and found herself, as she often did when she was in a bind, imagining what Midnight might do. How would she go about this? How would her rival approach her victim? If Midnight were here, would she have already found the prince?
Unless she was already here. . .
The strangest shiver traveled down Marynka’s spine. She was already facing the arching glass doors lining the far side of the hall when the air seemed to change. Candles flared, flickering and guttering as a gasp of icy wind rushed in eager to join the party. Masks and faces took on a newly sinister gleam. Strange shadows jumped up the walls, the dark of night dancing along with the merrymakers.
Marynka turned in a slow circle, pulse thrumming sickly in her veins.
Her eyes caught on a figure standing head and shoulders above most of the crowd, and a sudden hysterical giggle bubbled up her throat, shattering the tension. She made her way over.
“Nice beard.”
“Thank you,” said Zosia through a mouth full of honey cake, looking down at Marynka from below the shadow of her wide-brimmed hat. She was dressed as a cloud shepherd, as one of the nature spirits that haunted Lechija’s mountains. The mercurial creatures carried cold in their rough-hewn sacks and controlled the weather, towing clouds back and forth across the sky by lengths of rope. Zosia was carrying a painted storm cloud on a stick and wore a sheepskin coat and a long, fake silver beard.
She looked ridiculous.
Marynka was unreasonably happy to see her. And she couldn’t help but notice that Zosia looked just as happy to see her. It wasn’t often that people looked pleased to see Marynka—for obvious reasons. Warmth bloomed in the center of her chest. Despite the lingering thought of Midnight, she found herself grinning. “Dressing as a grandfather is definitely the best way to catch the prince’s eye.”
“I thought so,” said Zosia oblivious to sarcasm, sounding pleased. “He likes amusing costumes.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No. Not yet. No one seems to know what he’s wearing. Everyone here is looking for him.”
“Maybe he’s decided to spite them all by not showing up.” That would be just her luck. Marynka held out a hand for one of Zosia’s honey cakes.
Zosia gave her one and watched, with a fascinated kind of horror as Marynka proceeded to cram the whole thing into her mouth at once. “It’s like watching a snake unhinge its jaw in order to swallow prey.”
“Shut up.” Marynka tried to crush Zosia’s foot with her boot.
Zosia dodged, grinning behind her beard. “You look good too.”
Marynka stilled, the compliment catching her off-guard. The tips of her ears burned red, and she was glad for the furry hood of her cloak currently covering her head.
“Of course I do,” she said, recovering, maneuvering sideways as another person dressed as a devil squeezed past them. The man said something to them both in a language she couldn’t understand. She nodded anyway, not wanting to look a fool in front of Zosia.
“You didn’t understand a word of that.”
“Of course I did.”
“What did he say then?”
“He said you have sugar in your beard.”
“What?”
“He said”—Marynka stepped closer, standing on tiptoe, raising her mouth to Zosia’s ear to be better heard above a sudden swell in the music. Zosia went very still—“that you have crumbs in your beard.”
Zosia’s hand rose to her face. “I do no—”
Marynka reached out and swiped a dusting of sugar off the corner of Zosia’s mouth, licking it slowly off her thumb.
For a heart-stopping moment, Zosia just stared at her wide-eyed. Marynka wondered if she’d crossed a line, wondered if she should have drunk all that gold-laced vodka and then the wine.
Zosia opened her mouth as if to speak, then bit her lip, hesitating. Holding herself back. She did that a lot, Marynka had noticed.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, they were interrupted again. A boy asked if Zosia would give him a dance.
She glanced at Marynka.
“What? Don’t look at me, Grandfather.” Marynka’s voice came out too bright, too loud. She waved them off airily. “Go have fun falling on your face.”
Zosia continued to look at her, expression unreadable, but Marynka was already turning her back, chasing off the feeling she should have asked Zosia to dance herself. Her skin felt too tight, too prickly.
God’s teeth, this wasn’t the time to get a crush. She had important things to do.
The song changed. Shouldering through the perfumed throng, Marynka wondered if Zosia was still dancing.
“Now that,” remarked a cheerful voice at her elbow, “is a fantastic costume.”
“Isn’t it?” Marynka held the horned mask to her face, pivoting and turning to find a young man of bear-like physique—tall and barrel-chested—smiling down at her. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of a kontusz in glorious forest green, the silk fabric embroidered with gold and silver thread to make a pattern like scales. He wore the snout of a dragon as a kind of hat. Its upper jaw and fierce fangs shadowed the upper half of his face.
“Why dress as a star maiden or a firebird when you could come as a devil and look as good as this?” Marynka gestured at herself.
The young man grinned. “You’re certainly the best-looking turoń that I’ve ever seen.”
Marynka dipped her head. The compliment didn’t mean as much coming from him as it had from Zosia. Compliments always meant more when they were from girls.
“But I thought you looked a little lonely. I feel like more people should be asking you to dance.”
Marynka waved a dismissive hand. “Alas, no one here has taste.”
The young man let out a bark of genuine laughter.
Marynka started to smile, then jumped at the sudden cold touch of snow on her face. She glanced up, thinking she’d imagined it. But snow really was falling, through a great window in the ceiling left open to the night sky. Glittery white flakes drifted down to powder a servant’s passing tray of desserts, melted into a woman’s raised glass of vodka like sugar.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Mm.” How long was he going to keep talking to her? “Why aren’t you dancing?”
The young man patted his leg, hand brushing the sheathed saber hanging at his side, a ceremonial blade for formal attire. “Old injury. I’m taking a rest. And”—he looked away, out at the crowd—“I heard someone I used to know was here tonight.”
“Someone you want to dance with?”
He laughed again. “Not exactly.” He lifted the dragon’s snout to wipe away sweat at his temples.
Marynka caught a glimpse of raven-black hair and warm brown eyes, flushed cheeks.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he said softly, catching her staring. “I’m really not in a mood to play nice with my uncle and Rusja’s ambassador.” He nodded his head at the frost demon who had moved to stand beside the king.
Oh.
Oh. Oh, this was too good. Oh, this was perfect.
Marynka’s heart beat faster as they exchanged conspiratorial grins, holding the most delicious of secrets between them.
See? she wanted to shout at Beata. And you said the prince who loves dressing up for the Karnawał would never approach a girl dressed as a monster. Prince Józef was clearly a young man of taste.
He tugged at his high collar, pulling it away from his neck. Marynka thought again of his flushed features, and it occurred to her why he might’ve chosen to stand here to rest, beneath the window in the ceiling open to the night sky, to the cold.
“There’s only one trouble with this kind of costume.” Her hands prickled with heat, with magic. The air around them shimmered slightly, warming. Still holding her mask in place with one hand, she tugged the shaggy hood of her fur cloak back. Wild red-brown hair spilled over her shoulders. The strands glowed like blood, like fire. “In all these heavy robes, you get so very hot.”
The prince patted sweat from his brow again. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“I wanted to step outside,” said Marynka, looking toward the arching glass doors and the empty snow-dusted terrace lying in shadow beyond. The perfect place for a private rendezvous. “Just to catch my breath and cool down, but my traitorous friends have all deserted me, and I was too nervous to go out into the dark alone.”
The prince considered her a moment. His gaze skipped past her, scanning the crowd quickly. Then he smiled and offered her his arm. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”