Page 41 of Antiletum
A sense of home, of belonging, is beginning to settle over me. Far greater since arriving at The Citadel, ever since Tabitha left and I’ve allowed myself to stray away from what’s comfortable. Soaking in the change I always longed for, no matter the circumstances. As much as I can without being completely overwhelmed, at least.
Fear still insists on nipping at my stomach every time someone mentions my necromancy. And sometimes I do get the odd sensation of sitting in a tank in a room full of people, my vision and hearing distorted. Like a glass barrier sits between me and the world—just out of reach. Fear and solitude was too deeply instilled within me to let it go so easily. But the smiles I’m offered are generally genuine, and I often have to remind myself that my magic isn’t an oddity. Not anymore. Val’s necromancy has been a regular and accepted resident within The Citadel for a decade.
A small part of me wishes he didn’t have to leave to go meet with Parliament this morning. If not for that, I would have woken in hisroom this morning. Maybe itisfor the best that I had reason not to creep across the hall.
Another lightning bolt of terror lances through me, terrified of what might happen when my husband speaks to Parliament. Will they truly believe we aren’t to blame for what happened in theStrigiForest? I probably should have asked him more questions about what he would say, about what to expect.
Chosen ignorance is foolish, and there is no bliss that comes with mine.
Selise doesn’t notice my sudden wave of panic. “Though sadly, today I am feeling the effects of all that sparkling wine”—she touches the back of her hand to her forehead—“beyond my husband mauling my feet.”
Skeptical, I take her in. Selise has her thick, tight curls pulled back from her face with elaborate wing combs. Her dress of emerald green embroidered with a screech owl is perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle or pleat out of place. Her skin is so radiant I feel like a wilted little weed in her presence. Plucked from the ground. Discarded. Thrown into a muddy puddle and trampled on a bit.
“Despite my deep indulging and, well”—I gesture to myself pitifully—“my less than presentable state, I surprisingly don’t feel awful.” All that lingers from the wine is a bitter, stale taste on my tongue.
“Good. Because there’s something very important you must see to today, my Lady.” Selise’s tone and expression is suddenly somber, as if those plans are an unexpected funeral.
“There is?” I squeak.
That mournful expression dissolves into a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. But yes. There is. The modiste is on her way.”
“Oh.” I’m only just remembering that Val informed me that a woman named Blair would be around to fit me for new clothing today. I got the impression from the way he spoke of her that they’re close.
How kind of Val to keep to his word in letting me choose my own trousseau. I wasn’t quite sure I believed him, not with his satisfaction over my outrage in selecting my clothing. An involuntary smile curls my lips.
For his demand of daily breakfasts, we’ve only had two. They’ve certainly been entertaining, at the very least.
“If you tell me I can’t join, then I fear our short lived friendship has come to an end,” Selise tells me seriously, taking it upon herself to look through my drawers until she finds a brush.
“Now, that would be a tragedy,” I quip back, plucking a lush strawberry off my breakfast tray and taking a bite.
“Exactly. Now go freshen up. They are sure to be here soon.”
As if on cue, an austere woman in a trailing gown of deep amethyst breezes in, a wooden cigarette holder clutched between her teeth and a massive beehive turban on her head. She inspects me head to toe, eyes narrowing.
Selise’s joy fades away, mine evaporating along with it. We might as well be school girls, silently scolded for acting out during an important lesson by this woman with the uncanny air of a giant butterfly. Though she doesn’t appear to be significantly older than us.
She huffs on her cigarette and inspects me like an unsavory dish. Curls of smoke flowing from her mouth take shape, collecting into the bodies of tiny pixies with matching miniature turbans.
They flit about my head picking up strands of hair and plucking at my eyelids. One even shrinks and wiggles her way up my nostril. I sneeze, the tiny thing disappearing in my rush of air. The pixies returnto their master, perch on her turban, and speak with tiny little girlish whispers in a language I can’t begin to understand.
Shock settles over me when the bloated silence is broken. “Verygood.” The words roll off her tongue with a melodic accent. Obvious praise pitches despite the continued pinch at her lips, the displeased pull at her eyes. What a baffling contradiction. “You feel likepower. We like it.”
I’m assuming the collectiveweare the mysterious woman and her gaggle of smoke pixies, dispersing now that their purpose has been fulfilled, one blowing me a kiss. She dissipates to nothing with a wave of her tiny hand.
Selise’s tension eases noticeably, my own leaching away along with hers. A stream of people bearing trunks and wardrobes flow into my room.
“I am Madame Blair Vescarre. But such formalities are not needed from you, my Lady. You may simply call me Blair.” She dips her head in a show of respect, shocking me further.
It doesn’t seem right that I’m technically of higher rank. The energy coming off of Blair makes me thinksheshould be speaking for our faction, not me—or even Val.
“You know,” I start, my brows pulled in, “I’ve never fully understood what the role of Lady actually entails. Since taking up the mantle myself, I still haven’t quite figured it out. I haven’t… done anything.”
“And you rarely ever will.”
“Then what’s the point of the position at all?”
Blair and Selise share a small smile. The knowing glance gives much away between the two women. Though Selise clearly holds her in high respect, they’re also close. I’m beginning to form a picture of the circle my husband keeps. Mallin and Selise. Alaric. Blair.
