Page 14 of Shadows of Perl

“I saw her maids preparing her dress before I left. She’ll be here.”

The usher cleared his throat.

Ellery turned to him. “If the door is too heavy, I can hold it for you.”

He reddened. “Please, sir, take your time.”

Her brother’s lips split in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said to Nore. She closed her eyes and realized her hand was trembling. She hadn’t felt this nervous since she attended the Summer Bloom Tea this past summer at Chateau Soleil in order to get face time with Headmistress Darragh Marionne.

“Say the word and we’ll leave,” he said.

Ellery was on her side no matter what. Yagrin had been on her side, too. The days he’d steal away to spend with Red at the farm made her feel like there was no Order at all. She bit the smile at her lips, thinking of the way he would press her to tell him everything he missed since they last saw each other. He listened intently to every single detail, enthralled, and none of it was about magic. They would wander the meadows barefoot for hours, then lie down, their limbs tangled around each other, watching the clouds in silence. Doing nothing in particular. She didn’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else.

She forced herself to step forward, inside the Fall Harvest Gala ballroom.

Nore clenched her teeth and looked for her mother. Garlands and swags in deep rusts, warm browns, and golden yellow rimmed windows, doors, and chairs around the ballroom. Textured fabrics swallowed the tables, spilling over their edges and puddling on the floor like blooming flowers. The scent of pumpkin spice and cinnamon assaulted her. The holidays used to make Nore nostalgic, reminding her of being with the ones she loved most. Now the smell sickened her.

She refocused. Her mother would be confronted that evening. She wiggled in her plain gray dress, and the blade, hidden in her corset, dipped in toushana, rubbed her ribs. A fire dagger, the Trader called it. Carried by Draguns. A weapon so deadly it could kill death itself. She wouldn’t need to use it. Possessing it alone would show her mother she meant business.

“Nore Ambrose, tenth of her blood, Cultivator candidate and heir of House Ambrose,” the usher announced. “Escorted by Ellery Ambrose.” He went on with Ellery’s titles, but she wasn’t listening. Her breath was a rock in her chest. She skimmed the ballroom, and when she spotted a tall dark-suited fellow with a coin at his throat, her heart leapt. Yagrin. He turned. It wasn’t him.

Dead. Yagrin was dead to her. She had to remember that.

Ellery covered her hand with his. Her nails dug into his arm. She hadn’t been anywhere as Nore since her mother announced publicly that she’d gone on sabbatical. She tightened her lips. When she got what she wanted from her mother, she’d never have to be in a place like this again.

“One second.” She left her brother’s side and cornered the usher by the door.

“Madam, I’m very sorry if you felt I was rush—”

“When my mother arrives, come find me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The minute she arrives.” Nore reset her focus straight ahead and rejoined her brother’s side.

The deeper they went into the room, the more heads turned their way. The stares clawed at her insides. When she was at the Tidwell, dancing with Yagrin, her persona let her be free. Here she had a family reputation and oppressive expectations. She might as well be hooked to strings from the ceiling. Her chest squeezed, but she blew out even breaths. All she had to do was endure this wretched place until her mother arrived.

A busty woman in a heather-gray dress with capped sleeves and a simple bone corset strode toward them, waving. Mrs. Hargrove. She was dressed in classic Ambrosian style, in which the plainer the outside was, the richer the inside was. The Hargrove surname was almost as old as hers.

Her brother groaned.

“The Hargroves aren’t the worst choice.”

“Traitor,” he teased.

“Alright, alright. I have an idea,” Nore whispered to him. “If either of us needs to be rescued, dust off your shoulder, and we’ll make whatever excuse we need to come to each other. Deal?”

“You’re brilliant,” he said just as Mrs. Hargrove smothered him in a hug, smooshing his face against her overly sprayed hair. His mouth puckered as if he’d swallowed something rotten, and Nore hid a snort behind her gloved hand.

“Dear, it’s Ellery,” Mrs. Hargrove shouted at a stocky gentleman in a plain gray suit. He was absorbed in a conversation with a statue of a man whose tuxedo trimmed in golden fleurs made Mr. Hargrove look like a servant by comparison. The man listened intently but kept an eye on his pocket watch. “Darling,” she shouted more insistently across the crowded ballroom. “Tell Ellery about the stones you found on your Egyptian excursion this summer.” She squeezed Nore’s arm. “We all know how your brother loves a good adventure.”

“He certainly does,” Nore said, watching the doors to the ballroom.

Mrs. Hargrove lugged her husband from his conversation without apology. “He’s dying to talk to you. Aren’t you, Darren?”

“Yes, yes, Ellery,” Mr. Hargrove said, tipping his hat. “How have you been?”

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