Page 88 of Bride of the Black Dragon
“I know,” I say quickly. “I don’t want you to get hurt helping me. Just… come when you can. Let me know what’s happening.”
Tanzy nods and rises, brushing dust off her skirts.
“I’ll do that, my Lady—I swear I will.” She pauses by the door. “And my Lady, if you can find a way to break free, take it. Don’t wait—don’t trust anyone—just go. And don’t look back.”
Then she’s gone, my cell door closing with a hollow boom behind her.
And I’m alone again with nothing but shadows and silence… and the slow, pulsing fear that I’m running out of time.
47
ELAINA
The morning of Dorian’s coronation dawns gray and heavy, as though even the sky mourns what’s to come.
They wake me before sunrise. Two maids I’ve never seen before—stiff-backed and silent—enter my cell carrying a gown draped over their arms and jewelry glittering in a silver casket.
“The Queen requests that the Princess be properly attired for the coronation,” one says, her tone flat, her eyes carefully averted.
I’m surprised—I can’t imagine why I’m being invited since I’ve been branded as a traitor to the Kingdom and a King-killer. And now they want me “properly attired.”
Properly attired. As though I’m still welcome at Court. As though I’m not the disgraced woman locked in a cell, blamed for a crime I didn’t commit, I think bitterly.
Still, I let them dress me. What choice do I have? And what other chance will I have to get out of this cell?
The gown they bring is crimson—so deep and rich it almost looks black in the dim torchlight. The bodice clings tightly to my ribs, the neckline scandalously low. The sleeves fall away at my shoulders, leaving my arms bare except for thin golden chains that loop around my biceps and wrists. My hair, unwashed for days, is brushed until it shines, then twisted into a high knot. A heavy circlet of gold and garnet is placed atop my head. Truly, I am dressed like the Princess I once was—what can be the meaning of this?
When I catch my reflection in the small mirror they hold up, I hardly recognize myself. My cheeks are pale and my eyes shadowed—but the gown makes me look like a queen from one of the old tragic ballads.
Beautiful, doomed, and dressed for execution.
I try to push the awful thought away. Despite my fancy dress, they don’t allow me slippers. The stone floor is cold beneath my bare feet as the guards come to escort me out of my cell. They march two in front of me and two behind, boxing me in. Their swords are drawn and their expressions hard. I know what they must think of me—not that I care, or so I tell myself.
“Where are we going?” I whisper, though I already know.
“To the Great Hall,” the head guard says curtly. “You will attend His Majesty’s coronation.”
His Majesty. The words make bile rise in my throat. And what ever happened to the trial, I was supposed to undergo? I wonder if Dorian has decided to cancel that—doubtless he doesn’t want me shouting out the truth in the middle of Court again.
The halls are draped in black silk and crimson banners—the colors of mourning and blood. Hundreds of candles flicker in golden sconces, casting long, trembling shadows across the carved marble walls. Every surface gleams, scrubbed spotless for the occasion, but beneath the polish lies the same rot as always. The Citadel has a black heart—I know that now. I don’t know why I didn’t see it from the very first.
The guards march me through the massive double doors into the Great Hall, and the noise hits me like a wave.
A sea of Nobles fills the space—waves of velvet gowns, jeweled collars, powdered wigs, and perfumed fans rise and fall as they all whisper together. The air reeks of cloying rose oil and sweat. Everyone is wearing black but me. All of them turn to stare as I enter in my red dress, their whispers darting like arrows.
“There she is…”
“The poisoner…”
“Look at her, dressed like a queen—how dare she come dressed all in red?”
“I know—not a speck of mourning black on her. Disgusting.”
“The filthy murderess!”
They think I killed the King—of course they do. That’s what Dorian’s been telling them and all this time I’ve been locked away with no way to defend myself or clear my name.
At the far end of the hall, the throne platform has been draped in mourning silk. The Queen sits stiffly on the lower seat, her face carved from stone. Behind her, Dorian stands on the dais, resplendent in black and gold. A crown of dragonfire rubies gleams in his pale hair.
