Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(75)
“That’s right.” He grins from ear to ear. “You’re our hummingbird. It fits, doesn’t it?”
“Tell me, Kingfisher, would the gods do something different with it—with the world—if given another chance?”
“I don’t know,” he answers with a lift of his eyebrow. “Give us that chance to find out.”
I turn and move toward the house, wondering how the gods will behave after they evolve into the most powerful beings in the universe once again.
A silky yellow gown has been draped across the snowy coverlet on my bed. I touch the exquisite fabric with the backs of my fingers. Apparently Clifton intends us to dress formally tonight. I check the time on my wrist communicator and find I need to hurry if I want to shower beforehand. In the bathroom, I strip off my training outfit and step into the shower. Water flows over me. The abrasions on my arms shrink and disappear—healing unnaturally fast. The bruises on my thighs lose their bluish hue. The speed of my recovery elicits a shiver from me, despite the heat of the water.
I lift the silk robe from the hook by the shower door and step out of the water. It turns off. Shrugging into the robe, I towel-dry my hair and move to the vanity.
A menagerie of hair ornaments decorates the shelves above the marble surface. I seat myself before the vanity’s holographic program, and my image appears along with a menu of hairstyle options. I choose a style reminiscent of glamorous Diamond-Fated actresses from a bygone era.
A hole slides open in the surface of the marble countertop. An orb levitates out of it, circles me once, and then hovers behind my head and begins to style my hair. First it sucks up the tresses, swirling them in waves to dry them. When it lets go, my hair falls around my shoulders in cascading ringlets. The orb circles again. A hole opens in its metal veneer, and a wide-toothed comb emerges on a thin arm. The comb smooths my hair as it moves around me. When it’s finished, the comb retracts, and the hole disappears. The orb shuffles around me once more, lasering off my split ends. After it finishes, it returns to its compartment inside the vanity. Following the automated instructions from the holographic program in front of me, I use golden-hummingbird combs to hold my curls back on one side.
The vanity comes fully stocked with makeup, too. I use the holographic display to select a more sensual rendering of makeup than I’m used to wearing, to cover the slight burn that still lingers on my cheek. When I’m finished, I leave the bathroom and reenter the bedroom. I dress in the salacious undergarments and yellow frock that Clifton has provided. They’re somewhat more complicated than my combat armor. Lifting the fabric, I discover it feels almost as light as air. The gown itself has a plunging V neckline, and a train sweeps the floor. I slip on canary-colored high heels.
A male attendant around my age comes to collect me for dinner. He offers me his arm, and I take it, allowing him to guide me from my room. His bicep trembles a little. I pretend I don’t notice his fear of me. Neither of us attempts to make conversation. After a considerable walk, we come to a massive rectangular inner courtyard framed by stone columns and a wraparound, arching portico. A stream wends through a grassy lawn. Recessed stone steps descend to a courtyard and a growing crowd of gowned and suited guests gather on the black-slate dance floor beneath fanciful hovering lanterns.
The lamps cast a warm, golden glow over the candlelit tables beside the dance floor. The fake sky has grown dark. Stars abound in a cosmic rendering of night that rivals anything I’ve seen in the real sky. The temperature is just warm enough to forgo a wrap. I thank the attendant, and he disappears from my side. I stroll a bit under a myriad of intricate buttresses. The dark tiles of the eaves bear rose emblems. Pausing, I reach out and lean my palm against a stone column, scanning the growing crowd of elegant guests in the courtyard below.
My heart thumps faster when I spot Reykin nursing a cocktail by the outdoor bar. He’s standing beside Ransom. Attired in dark suit jackets, the two gentlemen’s snugly tailored coats have silken sheens from shoulders to waist, but the fabric changes to black leather from waist to hem. They resemble the aristocrats that they are. The lanterns’ glow cast Reykin’s hair with a midnight gleam, like moonlight.
If Reykin is bothered by this surprise dinner party, I can’t tell. He smiles and chats with his brother with a familiarity that I wish I’d shared with my own. Ransom, on the other hand, isn’t as comfortable. He’s less used to this type of affair than I am. He has a shell-shocked look as he scans the crowd. He holds his drink like a shield. It feels impossible to interact with strangers right now. I’ve never been one for small talk, and it’s always been frowned upon in a secondborn. My job has been to listen, not talk. If I talk, it’s usually for training purposes, or demonstrations, or to explain myself to an authority figure. I’ve been a mind-controlled prisoner for months. Why am I being subjected to a dinner party, now, in the middle of the world collapsing?
I feel Clifton approach—sense his energy. “There you are,” he says, so close behind me that his warm breath tickles the curve of my ear.
I’m surprised to find that I’m angry with him. Furious, really. We have so much to plan and strategize. There’s no time to waste with a frivolous party. None.
“What is all this?” I ask, not bothering to look at him. In truth, I’m attempting to get my anger in check.
“This is a surprise party, to welcome you to our community, Roselle. Do you like it?” There’s a sensual softness in his voice. It’s a tone he’s been using with me ever since we became engaged.