The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(31)

Adelina Amouteru



Another night at the Fortunata Court. Another night of glistening robes and sensual dances.

Raffaele helps me prepare until I am breathtaking in silks and jewels, and then leads me out of the secret halls and toward the main lounging chamber. The chamber is lavishly decorated tonight, dotted with velvet divans, plates of jasmine sitting on low, round tables, arching curtains of silks hanging across tall windows. Vases of night lilies stand in each corner of the room, their dark purple petals open, their rich, musky scent filling the air. Consorts dressed in their finest gather in clusters. Some already have clients with them, while others giggle among themselves.

In the center of the chamber is a low, raised circular platform, ringed with thick scarlet cushions for guests to sit on. They are already half filled with people.

“I’ll leave you here,” Raffaele says as we stop behind the silk veil leading into the main chamber. “You know the routine.”

“Are you performing tonight?” I ask.

Raffaele gives me a small smile. Then he kisses me on both cheeks. “Look for me.” Then he leaves without another word.

The instant I step past the veil and into the chamber, I make my way toward where other consorts-in-training are already lounging on the cushions near the back. As I go, several clients catch sight of me, their eyes lingering before they glide on to available consorts. One man in particular, clad from head to toe in dark, glittering velvet, his face hidden entirely behind a black mask, watches me for a long moment, only half interested in his conversation with his companions. I keep my gaze determinedly forward. It always takes me a moment before I let down my guard at these events.

The other consorts-in-training exchange eye contact with me, but none of us speak. I choose a cushion at one end, then look on as more masked clients and consorts swirl in the room, until it fills to capacity.

Finally, servants extinguish several of the lanterns lining the walls. The room dims, and the conversation hushes. Other servants light the lanterns that circle the raised platform. I straighten, wondering what Raffaele will look like. After a few minutes, the court’s madam sweeps through the crowd and stops before the platform’s edge. She is tall and regal, still beautiful in her golden years, with lines of gray in her hair. She spreads her arms wide. I’ll have to ask Raffaele next time if she’s a patron to the Daggers. She must be.

“Welcome to the Fortunata Court, my guests,” she says. Her voice is rich and warm, and everyone in the audience leans forward, drawn in. “It is a cool, calm night, a lovely time for us to gather. And I know why you all have come.” She pauses to smile. “You want to see our court’s shining jewel perform.”

A round of low applause answers her.

“I won’t delay it any longer, then,” she continues. “Abandon yourselves to an evening of desire, my guests, and dream of us tonight.”

With that, the rest of the wall’s lanterns go out, leaving only the platform illuminated. Deep drumbeats echo, one after another. They send a tremor through me, stirring my alignment to passion, and I feel my energy churn. A young consort glides through the darkness of the crowd. When he reaches the platform and steps into the light of the lanterns, I stifle a gasp.

Raffaele is dressed in pale silks that make him stand out, his chest is bared, and a glittering gold line is painted down the middle of his torso. He stops in the center of the raised platform, eyes lowered, and then kneels in a fluid gesture, his arms folded before him, wide sleeves trailing. His robes pool in a circle around him. He stays there for a moment as the drumbeats thicken, and then he rises back to his feet and walks in a slow, hypnotic circle. I have never seen a composed, delicate dance like this, paired with a song that is nothing but drums—I may never see such a thing again. I glance at the clients filling the room. They are stunned into silence. Gradually, as the tempo increases, two other consorts join Raffaele on the platform, a girl and a boy, and together they glide in circles around one another, eyes both shy and piercing, movements flowing like water. The other two consorts are beautiful, but they pale next to Raffaele. There is no question whom the audience’s eyes follow. I watch, mesmerized. Then Raffaele’s moment of deep sadness comes back to me, and the performance chills me to the bone.

Someone new sits behind me. I don’t think much of it at first—the room is crowded with patrons, at any rate, all focused on the platform. It is only when the person speaks that my heart stops.

“I won’t hurt you, Adelina. Just listen.”

The voice is very close to my ear, close enough that I can feel the speaker’s breath, soft on my skin. He’s so quiet, I barely hear him over the drums. But I do. I’ve heard this voice only once in my entire life, but I would recognize it anywhere.

Teren.

The energy in my heart spikes, and I have a sudden urge to scream in the middle of the performance. He found me. From the corner of my eye, I can see that he’s not dressed in his Inquisitor armor and robes, but in black velvet, his face hidden behind a mask just like everyone else here. He is the man I saw earlier, the one whose gaze lingered on me. How did he find me? I’ve been too careless. Did he spot me wandering around the court? Did he recognize me from the balconies? Is he alone? Are there other Inquisitors in the crowd? My heart beats frantically. Are they waiting to strike?

“You have no reason to trust me, I know,” he murmurs as the performance continues. “But I did not track you down to arrest you. I’ve come to make a deal with you. This can work out strongly in your favor, if you want it.”