Page 77 of A Game of Veils

Chapter Twenty-Four

Aurelia

Iapproach the hall of entertainments braced for catastrophe.

Just moments after I step over the threshold, bells ringing in the tenth hour of the morning peal beyond the palace walls. The last of Marclinus’s prospective brides hurry in behind me.

Most of the court nobles have already gathered in the vast room in anticipation of the new spectacle. They stand in clusters murmuring to each other and studying us rather than partaking in any of the offered entertainments.

Rochelle comes over to join me, her mouth pressed tight. I nod to her in acknowledgment.

I might not know how to send her back to the man she loves, but we’ll face this next challenge together.

Perhaps if we’re the last two remaining in the end, the emperor will accept some kind of victory that doesn’t need to be fatal. I could step in with whatever minor authority I might earn as the champion and official betrothed to ask for a show of mercy against my final opponent.

Right now, the imperial heir stands near one of the windows, talking with his father. I think Emperor Tarquin looks vaguely exasperated, which I’m not sure bodes well for the rest of us.

Marclinus laughs and makes an animated gesture. The emperor responds with a motion as if to say, Go on, then.

As Tarquin settles into one of the high-backed wingchairs, Marclinus saunters into an open stretch of floor where he can address his entire audience. His wide grin does nothing to ease my nerves.

“My friends, my ladies,” he says in a buoyant voice, “today we will all appreciate the greatest beauty the gods can create, so often hidden away. It will be a trial of surrender and welcome. The lovely women vying for my hand will demonstrate that they fully and freely accept my gaze and my attentions by remaining bared before me until nightfall.”

I stare at him for several thuds of my heart, his words not quite sinking in. Remaining bared? He can’t possibly mean?—

At our obvious uncertainty, Marclinus chuckles and sweeps his hand through the air. “You may disrobe now. Leave not a scrap on. Your maids have been summoned to assist you as needed. No modesty between us today—no attempts to evade my view or my touch. It is only a small sampling of what you will enjoy if we are wed, after all.” He flicks his gaze toward the rest of the nobles. “The rest of you will keep your hands to yourself, naturally.”

Even the most boisterous members of the court appear to be stunned into silence. Melisse arrives at my side with downcast eyes and a faintly apologetic expression. “If Your Highness would like some help…?”

I can hardly refuse, can I? Defiance would earn me a trip straight to my grave.

My lungs have constricted, but I reach for the folds of my skirt. Melisse hefts the fabric higher so I can peel off the gown with a minimum of disturbance to my hair.

Before I’ve even grasped my chemise, a renewed ripple of murmurs passes through our audience. A couple of my fellow competitors pause in their own undressing to peer at me—even Rochelle hesitates, blinking at my uncovered arms.

I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hide the marks there from everyone forever. I just hadn’t expected their exposure to be quite so abrupt and beyond my control.

Marclinus is eyeing me too, his eyebrows rising. His representative saw my scars and I would assume noted them in his report, but Mother had me powder them even more than my face to diminish the purple hue. The imperial heir might not have expected them to be so obvious… or, knowing him, he might not have bothered to read the report to begin with.

It’s his father who speaks first, though I’m sure he would have insisted on being thoroughly informed. Emperor Tarquin has pushed to his feet, frowning. “What is the matter with your arms, Princess Aurelia?”

His tone is dry but ominous. He’s asking me to give the explanation he’s already aware of to his court—and no doubt evaluating how I handle the awkwardness.

I skim my fingers over both forearms to show there’s no discomfort, not even a change in texture to the smooth purple blotches that stand out against my tan skin from just above my wrists to my elbows. “It’s only a discoloration, nothing more. Lingering scars from a minor accident years ago.”

Marclinus cocks his head. “What sort of accident produces scars like that?”

I smile disarmingly. “I’ve told you about my gift. When I was still learning how to use it, I made a mistake with a healing potion I was brewing. It erupted from the cauldron and splattered my arms above my gloves. The properties of the potion meant our medics couldn’t completely erase the marks. But they haven’t caused me any pain since the first day, and I got a lesson in always wearing long gloves when attempting a new concoction.”

I speak calmly and warmly, as if it’s a harmless story only worthy of amusement now, but my gut stays balled tight. There’s no telling how Tarquin or his son might react, whether I’ll be deemed soiled goods and cast aside for the superficial flaw, no matter how forewarned they were.

It has no bearing on my ability to support my husband’s rule or bear him healthy children, but I know better than to expect a purely logical reaction from these men by now.

To my relief, Marclinus laughs. “You nearly have gloves painted right on you. I do like a woman who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.”

The leering slant of his next grin suggests a more provocative meaning to his words, but I’ll take his acceptance either way.

While we continue undressing, the imperial heir ambles from one of us to the next as if inspecting his goods. Fausta strips down with a determined expression, revealing all of her petite but perfectly proportioned frame. As Rochelle proceeds with obvious discomfort, I realize just how clever she is at dressing even though she tends toward plainer styles.

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