The Continent (The Continent #1)
Keira Drake
CHAPTER 1
THIS MUST BE THE MOST MAGNIFICENT PARTY IN the history of the Spire.
I’ve never felt quite like this before; my mind is awhirl, my senses dazzled, and there’s a bounding joy spiraling up within me. I wonder where it’s coming from, this feeling of inexhaustible delight?
Maybe it’s the music, rising up from the gleaming instruments of the quartet on the dais, filling the air with the cheerful sounds of the strings. Maybe it’s the food and drink, the tables overflowing with dainty hors d’oeuvres, sparkling juices, and wine. Maybe it’s the men and women on the dance floor, swirling by in a blur of black and gold finery, laughing and glittering and whispering merrily to one another. Or maybe it’s just knowing that all this—this amazing affair, this wonderful gala—it’s all for me. For my sixteenth birthday.
The room is filled nearly to capacity with well-wishers—people from all four corners of the Spire. I count two dozen of my friends from school, but the rest of the partygoers appear to be business associates of my father’s, or society women whom my mother invites for tea at the start of every week. Now that I take a moment to look around, it seems clear that the greater portion of the Spire’s nobility—as well as a sprinkling of government officials—are in attendance; even the Chancellor and his wife are here at my father’s invitation.
“Vaela,” calls my mother, as she approaches in a swish of cranberry chiffon, “it’s time.”
She takes my hand and pulls me across the dance floor, smiling and nodding to the revelers as we duck through to the other side of the hall. When we’re clear of the guests, she turns and gives me a long look, her eyes flickering over my face in quick assessment. Then she smiles.
“You look happy, darling. Are you pleased with the party? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“It’s wonderful,” I say. “I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good time.”
She gives my hand a little squeeze. “I can’t wait to see your face when you open your gifts! You’ll be absolutely astounded when you see what your father has done. There he is now—Thomas!”
My father stands on the dais with his back to us, arranging three crimson-wrapped packages on a small table. He turns when he hears my mother’s voice, and grins. Then he gestures for us to join him.
I follow my mother up a small stairway and we meet him at the back of the stage. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, then nods toward the packages on the table. “Are you ready to open your gifts?”
I look out on the party, at the scores of people dancing and drinking and chatting together, and wish for the millionth time that I could enjoy my gifts privately. But I give him a smile. “Of course.”
“Oh, Vaela,” my mother says. “When you open the last one—that small one there at the edge of the table—you’ll be the envy of everyone in the room. But I won’t say another word—I don’t want to spoil the surprise!”
I think she may be more excited than I am, but I must admit, my curiosity is piqued. “All right then, I’m ready.”
The musicians play the closing notes of a lively waltz and my father signals for them to wait. Then he steps up to a small stand on the podium and taps the microphone a few times.
“Good evening,” he says. “May I have your attention for just a few minutes?” The guests fall quiet as they turn their attention toward him. Ever comfortable speaking to a room full of people, he smiles broadly and continues. “Friends and colleagues, citizens and patriots, I thank you most graciously for being here this evening. It’s not every day that we have the opportunity to celebrate a milestone like this one—a sixteenth birthday, a coming of age, a step into life as a true citizen of the Spire.” The guests applaud, and my father turns to me. “Vaela, your mother and I could not be more proud of the young woman you have become. I hope these three gifts will demonstrate our admiration, our respect, and most of all, our love.”
He extends an arm and I step forward, my hands trembling a bit as I realize that all eyes in the room are now on me. My father reaches for a tiny rectangular box and places it in my hands. “Go ahead,” he says.
As I turn the box over and gently tear open the paper, the guests begin calling out guesses as to what might be inside.
“A bicycle!” says Evangeline Day, my closest and dearest friend, and the crowd laughs. Evangeline claps her hands demurely, but I see the giggle in her eyes.
A heavyset woman at the edge of the dance floor—a friend of my mother’s, I believe—says, “A great stuffed bear!” The guests titter appreciatively and the woman flushes pink.
I smile and lift the lid from the box. Inside, suspended from a delicate golden chain, is the most spectacular ruby pendant I’ve ever seen: it’s cut like an emerald, but mirrors the color of a deep red rose. The facets catch the light, glittering beneath the warm glow of the chandeliers. I look up at my father. “It’s beautiful.”
“See what’s written on the back,” my mother whispers.
I turn the pendant over to find a single word inscribed in tiny print: insazi. It’s an old word, from a language now mostly lost to the Spire, but a word still known and with many meanings: family, love, forever. My eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much, both of you.”