Page 116 of A Chill in the Flame
Ophir’s hand flew to her ears as she realized something. She could understand nothing. Tyr still had her device. She could make a new one now if she worked quickly, but she was on display in a rather public way. The table had no cloth to cover their legs or make the banquet any more discreet if she held her hands in her lap. She fidgeted uncomfortably, debating whether she should risk exposure to create a new translation cuff for her ear.
An elbow gently prodded her bicep.
“Are you okay?” Dwyn whispered.
Ophir nodded. Yes, her nerves should have been about the execution, not about her translator.
Zita looked at her and offered the controlled smile of nobility. “Are you ready, Princess Ophir?”
Ophir dipped her chin again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever truly feel ready, but it was no more nerve-wracking than giving a public speech or being brought before the queen in the dead of night in a new country where she knew neither the language nor the customs.
All things were scary the first time.
The seat beside Zita remained empty, and Ophir’s mind briefly returned to her conversation with Harland and Samael. They’d asked who else she’d met in the royal family. Was this seat left intentionally empty for that person? Someone she hadn’t met, and would probably never meet? Something egged on the distrustful edge of her consciousness, but there was no point in questioning things now.
Zita stood and walked to the middle of the platform. The crowd quieted respectfully as she made herself known. Once more, Ophir encountered an itching sense of familiaritywhen examining the queen. Her gown was vibrantly orange on top, nearly as bright as the fruit that was so prevalent in the pastries Ophir had nibbled and set to the side throughout her week in Tarkhany. The dip-dyed nature of her gown gave way to a beautiful gradient of gray, ending in black, as if her dress were the sunset itself. Had the queen dressed like the garden’s bird on purpose? Or, maybe that’s what she was seeing—an enchanting déjà vu of the sun over the desert as it gave way to the blackness of night.
Zita turned to the table, offering Ophir a quick smile before she picked up her goblet.
“Citizens of Tarkhany!” she called out to the crowd. Any remaining conversation silenced entirely as everyone regarded their queen. “For centuries, our relationship to Farehold has been a tenuous one. I’m pleased to announce with peace and unity in my heart that when Princess Ophir came to our doorstep seeking aid and shelter, Midnah answered her call!”
The crowd cheered heartily, raising their waterskins, fruits, and breakfast foods. Ophir’s heart skipped up as nerves coursed through her. She reminded herself to breathe, as if it were no longer an involuntary action. Each breath was an intentional inhale and exhale, lest she faint. She became too aware of her tongue, suddenly conscious that there was no comfortable resetting place for it in her mouth. She fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. The air hurt. Her dress itched. The light was strange. She was no longer certain she wanted to do this. She wanted to leave. She wanted to go.
“Firi?” Dwyn whispered again, voice low.
Ophir grabbed for her hand again under the table, and Dwyn gave it a comforting squeeze. Her face creased as her worry deepened.
“Firi, what do you need? What can I do?”
Ophir swallowed, shaking her hand free to reach for a napkin. She began to dab at her forehead, her sweat evidenceof her panic more than any indication of the early morning temperature.
“Her enemy crossed the desert to escape her wrath!” Zita continued.
The crowd booed the man in shackles, not needing to hear his crime to believe their queen.
“And now we’ll offer Aubade the justice it deserves. Here! To the royal family of Farehold!” Zita raised her goblet high, smiling proudly as everyone in the audience and at the table lifted their cups in solidarity. “To justice!” she toasted.
“To justice!” they repeated.
Ophir reached for her glass, bringing it to her lips just as Dwyn made a face beside her. Her companion barely concealed a gag. “It’s rather bitter. I’m surprised royal wine would be so low quality.”
Ophir’s ears rang as a powerful, familiar scent of roses filled her nose.
Roses.
Bile rose in her throat. The world began to swim.
She understood exactly what she was smelling. It had haunted her like a demon’s possession. It had permeated her memories, soaking her clothes, invading her very fibers for days and weeks and months following that night. The thick, gagging perfume of too-sweet flowers that had wafted through her nightmares engulfed her senses. The rose-drenched smell from Berinth’s party.
The champagne. The blood. The drug.Caris.
Her goblet tumbled from her hand as her face shot up, panicked.
“No!” Ophir cried out over the platform. She clawed toward Harland, who was making a sour, disgusted face similar to Dwyn’s. It was too late; Ophir couldn’t breathe. Zita spun on her, an unfamiliar rage burning through the woman’s face. “No! Don’t drink it!” Ophir stood, jumping back from the platform. She shouted at Zita, at Dwyn, at everyone.
Murmurs, gasps, and horror rippled through the audience.
Dwyn grabbed for her, fingernails dragging bloodied lines across her pale forearm as the fae’s lids fluttered, eyes rolling back.
