Page 13 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

I glanced at the mirror and then away. “Gracious me,” I said flatly, “I’m so beautiful. Can I go find Yvaine now?”

Gemma’s mouth quirked. “First of all, no, because you’re one of the guests of honor and need to show your face for longer than two minutes, and so does she. And second of all, what you did just then most certainly does not count. When I say tell me how beautiful you are, I meanreallytell me, and believe it. I will accept nothing less.” She waved her arm at the mirror. “Even you cannot argue withthis.”

I stared at the floor until Gemma said blithely, “We can stand here all night, you know. It will just be a bit awkward when everyone comes to find us and has to crowd in here for our speech. I suppose you and Ryder and Alastrina and I will have to climb up onto these benches, all pressed together, and—”

“Oh,fine,” I snapped, and then, reluctantly, looked up at the mirror.

I knew, of course, that Gemma was right. Even looking at myself with cold irritation, I had to admit that the result of her handiwork was impressive and that even underneath all the finery, I was pleasant to look at.

The gown we’d chosen was a compromise. It was from my wardrobe, yes, but from the section I hardly touched and Gemma preferred, comprised of gifts, mostly—from Father, from admirers, from Gemma herself. Not even I could bear to discard such pretty garments. This one was a muted gray blue, plain at first glance, but when you looked harder, you saw that the fabric was fine, rich, iridescent in the light. The neckline dipped too low for my liking, but the waythe fabric fell against my upper chestwasflattering, offset by the ribboned high collar that tied at my throat.Alluring yet demure, Gemma had declared upon seeing me in it for the first time, a satisfied sparkle in her eye. There were matching velvet slippers and loose sleeves that gathered at my wrists with rows of delicate gold buttons, each shaped like a swallow in flight. Earlier that afternoon, as we had prepared in the Green House—an airy cottage that sat on the edge of town, a gift to our family from Yvaine—Gemma had plopped me down in front of her stylist, Kerrish, and I couldn’t decipher what she’d done to my hair. It shone like satin, and she’d woven pieces of it together in a confusing mass of crisscrosses and tiny braids. My skin glowed; I looked rested, radiant, even happy, my scowl notwithstanding.

“Aren’t these the most darling earrings?” Gemma asked quietly, touching the pearls of pale coral that hung from my ears. “They complement the gown so well.”

I couldn’t answer her. My cheeks were on fire. I hated that she was doing this to me.

And yet only when I’d submitted to my sister’s ministrations did I ever feel as pretty as this.

“I’m beautiful,” I said thickly.

Gemma’s reflection beamed at me. “That’s better. And yes, my dear Farrin, you are.”

The sound of Father’s roaring laughter came to us then, barreling through the ballroom. My stomach dropped. I’d taken my eyes off of him for too long.

I darted over to the curtain to see what the fuss was about, but Father was merely standing beside a feast table, talking with a small crowd of courtiers—Anointed lords and ladies in gowns of Bask blue and sashes of Ashbourne green. Someone had just made a joke; Father was raising a glass in appreciation.

I retreated behind the curtain, feeling faint with relief.

Gemma frowned at me. “You really are worried about Father.”

I hesitated, a confession balanced on the tip of my tongue, but then decided against saying anything. Gemma didn’t need to know about Father’s mysterious guests or the true wrath he’d thrown at me. Someone in our family needed to face the night with no distractions.

“Farrin?” Gemma looked serious, the glow of the party fading from her face. “What’s happened?”

“Not a thing,” I said quickly. “I don’t worry lightly, but I do worry a lot, and nine times out of ten, it’s for no reason other than whatever nonsense I’ve conjured in my head.”

Gemma didn’t look convinced, but suddenly the curtain swished open, and there was Illaria Farrow, Gemma’s dear friend and a low-magic perfumier—one of the most talented in the country, surpassing even her parents. Her warm brown skin glowed from exertion, her shining dark hair hung in coils down her back, and she wore a gown of rich emerald-green satin in support of my family. Her only concession to the Basks was a tiny jewel of dark blue on her left middle finger.

“I just asked the concertmaster to play ‘Fair Sword, Fair Lady,’” Illaria said breathlessly, “so if you don’t come dance with me right this minute, I’ll be positively beside myself.”

Then she stopped and looked between us. “What is it? Is it the Basks? Did they do something boorish already? Did they insult you?” She bristled, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not yet drunk enough to punch anyone on your behalf, but I think I could be in roughly ten minutes.”

I seized the opportunity and gently pushed Gemma toward her. “Go on, dance. There’s no reason for both of us to worry about nothing.”

Gemma hesitated, but then the orchestra began playing a new song, a rousing reel that made the crowd send up a cheer.

“If nothing’s wrong, then let’sgo,” Illaria insisted, grabbingGemma’s hand, and with one last concerned look back at me, Gemma was gone.

I stepped into the shadows, ignoring the mirror behind me, and let myself wallow in the relative quiet for a few seconds before bracing myself and pushing back into the candlelit ballroom. Gemma was right; we were guests of honor and needed to be visible. And if I hid in the anteroom all night, I would neither see Yvaine nor be able to watch over my father.

For what felt like hours I floated about the room, trying not to stay too long in any one place for fear that someone might start talking to me. They would see me and my dress—its blue fabric a respectful nod to the Basks, an acknowledgment of peace—and that would have to be enough until our speech at eleven o’clock forced me to present myself formally to these hundreds of horrible people.

I wondered how many of them had been in this very room the night Alastrina Bask had deceived Father into thinking our mother had returned at last. I wondered how many of them had laughed to see the mighty Gideon Ashbourne made a fool. These terrible thoughts did nothing for my nerves.

I found Father halfway across the ballroom in a fine suit of dark gray and a green vest with delicate ivory embroidery. I began shadowing him as closely as I could without arousing suspicion. He loitered by the feast tables for a time, deep in conversation with Willem Boyde, Ava Gettering, and Janeth Kass—three senior officers in the Upper Army. An elemental, an alchemist, and a beholder; one who could manipulate a natural element, one who could transform one element into another, and one who could see through magical disguises. All of them were Anointed—their magic gifted to their ancestors by the gods—and all had been guests of my father this past summer. I didn’t think they would risk any mischief on such a night, in such a crowd.

I dearly hoped I was right.

Father and his company drifted away. I crept after them between the feast tables, nibbling here and there at a pepper-stuffed mushroom, a spicy potato croquette, a date piled high with goat cheese and ham and drizzled with honey. All of it tasted like paper to me. I kept my eyes trained on Father’s golden-brown head; Kerrish had wrangled his hair into neat oiled waves. We wove through a maze of antechambers and sitting rooms that abutted the main ballroom, every room choked with feasters, talkers, drinkers, and gamblers, every table laden with dripping wax candles. At some point in the midst of all those roaring, genial shadows, the officers drifted away, and my father was alone. He grabbed a glazed pastry from a servant’s offered tray, popped it in his mouth. He was moving more quickly now.

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