Midnight in Everwood(61)

Chapter Thirty-One


The next ball to be held in the palace was to take place later that night. Pirlipata had informed Marietta it was to be a themed black and gold ball as she ran through her barre exercises. After, she shed her ballet shoes and retired to the bathing room, sinking into the pool. If all marched along according to their design, the first cog of their escape plan would be manoeuvred into place. I want you to know, I— The lost words ghosted around Marietta’s mind until a darker skein of thoughts unravelled. The nutcracker. Its uncanny resemblance to Captain Legat. The king was growing suspicious; now was the time to take greater care than ever. A headache nestled at the back of her head, creeping in with a noxious dread.

Closing her eyes, she sank down beneath the frothing water, the peppermint-tinted waterfall cascading onto her shoulders. With a deep breath, she dived underwater to swim a length. Water rippled past her outstretched fingers in shades of mint and seafoam and pale teal. When her headache skulked away, she slid the tattered notebook the captain had handed her from a nearby towel and settled down to read it. It had taken considerable resolve not to peek through its pages but she had desired to keep it private, and in the suite, privacy was a rarity. It was a little secret between her and Captain Legat, the knowledge of which thrilled her. She smiled at the neat swirl of handwriting in which he had penned a series of his innermost thoughts. Some were scarcely more than a single line: Look to the stars. Others were complete stories, spinning the origins of Everwood into something resembling a volume of Grimms’ tales. One alluded to King Gelum’s bloody usurping of the throne. Another seemed to refer to an upcoming event, where it would snow scarlet ribbons and ice will melt to the people’s will.

Marietta tightened her hold on the book, careful not to let the steam curl its fragile pages, the heart laid rent upon it. The captain’s feelings on the king ran deep and treasonous and, now, not only was she aware of his role in the rebellion, she held condemning evidence in her hands. Held Legat’s trust in her hands. She had not realised that behind the disciplined soldier’s face lay the soul of a poet, his thoughts buried treasure. Rather than speaking his mind, he had shown Marietta his most private thoughts which were writhing and raging, beautiful and melancholic. Upon reaching the final page, drowning in his words, unable to stop hearing his voice, smooth and deep caramel, her heart quickened its beat as she discovered a short note addressed to her. Marietta, it began, the curve of his quill soft over her name, I wished to share my little ramblings with you as you have graced me with your art. Not entertainment, nor a mere hobby, but art. It seemed the captain understood her more than she knew.

When she padded back to the main room in a fluffy robe, another woman was present in the suite, listening to Dellara, who was standing atop a small podium, listing detailed instructions. ‘And I shall require pockets, deep ones, none of those flimsy shallow ones for decorative purposes. Tailor me something that could accommodate a dagger.’

‘Is it wise to speak in such a manner?’ Marietta asked Pirlipata in an aside.

Pirlipata’s lips quirked. ‘Ivana is well used to Dellara; she does not take her words to heart.’

Ivana was a severe woman twice the age of Marietta with thick eyebrows, sloped cheekbones and coal-black eyes. A lacing of frost was painted over her olive face, veiling her, the pattern continuing over her one-piece, paired with the highest-heeled shoes Marietta had ever seen. Her measuring tape around Dellara, she squinted at the measurements before moving on, memorising the stream of numbers. ‘All done. Next.’ She cracked the tape like a whip and it extended.

Pirlipata nudged Marietta and she stepped forward. The dressmaker eyed her. ‘You’re new,’ she commented, her manner brisk as a starched collar.

Marietta stepped up onto the podium. ‘I am.’

‘Very well. Any preferences or needs to allow for?’

‘Her dancing must be accommodated.’ Pirlipata came to stand beside Marietta.

‘You dance? I am greatly fond of watching dancers,’ Ivana said, looping her tape around Marietta’s waist. ‘What kind of dancing do you perform? Salembe? Crackatian?’ She paused her measuring to twist her wrist out in an embellished flick.

‘No, I dance ballet, a particular type of classical dance from my world.’

Ivana, who was stretching her tape down Marietta’s leg, paused to consider her. ‘Then you do not originate from any world I have heard mention of before. How very curious.’

‘I shall require the dress to be free about my legs as I lift them very high,’ Marietta said, feeling a peculiar hollowness at the reminder of how removed she was from her home, her world.

‘Yes, yes, no problem.’ Ivana snapped her tape away and beckoned to Pirlipata. ‘Your turn, Princess.’

Marietta stepped down and meandered over to Dellara. She glanced at the farthest armoire. She had buried the nutcracker in its depths. She had mentioned it to the other women the previous night. They had advised caution but disregarded it as a serious threat, claiming the king was often prone to jealousy. But it weighed Marietta’s soul down with fear and she kept thinking of it.

The dressmaker packed the tools of her trade away in an efficient manner and left without a word.

‘I slipped her my note,’ Pirlipata said at once. ‘She took it, I was watching.’

‘Good,’ Dellara said. ‘I suppose a conscience grows heavier the longer you drag it around.’