House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(2)
A sudden thunder rolls through the house.
It’s not from the coming storm and there was no warning flash of light. It sounds like falling rocks and the walls and floor are shaking. Tea has spilled over my desk. My heart jumps in my chest like a landed fish. Earthquake. MallenIve has the worst luck of any city and if I stay here any longer I’m bound to be swallowed up and destroyed. “What was that?”
“It’s a mine, my lady.” Riona looks almost as if she is about to laugh. “One of the old scriv-tunnels must have collapsed.” She’s already wiping up the spilled tea and has set to pouring me another, completely unflustered.
“And where exactly are these tunnels collapsing?” I ask faintly.
She shrugs. “Under the city, I suppose. You shouldn’t worry, my lady, it doesn’t happen often. One time, a hole opened up right in the middle of a street, my brother says, but that was years back. So you mustn’t fuss yourself. Anyone born here is used to them.”
Plagues, collapsing streets, and high society parties.
I think I am ill-suited to this city.
A crack and flash herald another rumble, this one coming from the sky and quickly followed by the first spatter of rain. At least the house isn’t shaking any more. “I’ll need Cornelia to come up here, as soon as I’m done with tea.”
Riona nods and withdraws, and I am left alone with my porcelain and my fan. I pick it up again, not in the mood for the cloying heavy-milked drink.
After the punctual storm, I will have to bathe away the day’s sweat, be dressed up in another revolting MallenIve gown, put on my prettiest, most wide-eyed and imbecilic face, and go out to pour my share into the urn of social spite that oils the gears of MallenIve’s most powerful Houses. Usually I have to do it alone. My husband is not exactly welcome among the wealthy elite. They cannot wrap their minds around the concept that in Pelimburg, the vampires can be born into free Houses. In MallenIve, they are still nothing more than dogs, bought and sold on a whim.
“At least tonight will be a little different,” I say to the fan. My hand stills, and I turn my wrist so that the fan seems to be staring at me. It is white and blankly incredulous. It nods, and I talk to myself in a low cruel voice, as close as I can get to my dead brother’s. “You chose this,” the fan says, bobbing with each word. “I have no patience for whining little girls. And that, Felicita, is all you’ve ever been.” All you ever are, and ever will be, it doesn’t have to say.
My stomach cramps, and a dry needling pain flickers in the corner of my eyes. “Shut up, Owen,” I say quietly, and I drop the fan onto the polished vanity counter, among the scattered bottles of perfumes and precious oils.
Another distant growl of thunder signals the change in the day. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to push away the ache that will come soon, the closer the evening draws. I have no idea what to expect from tonight’s invitation. It is from Guyin Harun, who has committed the singular sin of not marrying a suitable House woman and breeding suitable House heirs. His situation is similar to my own, and so fate has seen fit to push us together. In a way I would prefer to be on the safer ground of being shunned by the other High Houses of MallenIve. I have learned to deal with their particular patronizing brand of false sympathy. Rather that than have to face the mirror and see for myself what exactly Jannik and I are: a mismatched and untouchable pair of nothings.
*
The invitation flutters in my gloved hand as the carriage draws to a halt outside the white-faced house. I’ve managed to smooth away my earlier disquiet, pat it under layers of powder and paint, and lace it up into stays and boning and silks. Naturally, I have said nothing to Jannik. We have little enough to talk about at the best of times. The only things we have in common are deep and ugly, and too newly scabbed over. My betrayal of my family led to the deaths of so many, not least of them the lover Jannik and I shared.
That same lover used us and twisted us to his own ends and I should hate him. Only I can’t.
How much worse it must be for Jannik, who, I think, loved him. We never mention the name Dash, we do not talk about what led us here to MallenIve.
Instead, we prattle of slight inconsequential things, like invitations to parties. “Rumour has it that the Guyin hasn’t been seen in years. Never leaves his home, never invites anyone in.” I tuck the card back into my purse, and force myself to act cheerful. Even if it is just more political machination, it’s still the first time both my husband and I have been invited anywhere together. All I can hope is that this particular evening doesn’t ruin my social standing in MallenIve. I’ve managed to claw a little bit of status back, and we need that if we are to survive here. “I sense a long night ahead of us. Gris alone knows if the man has even a modicum of social graces. Last time anyone saw him, he set his dogs on them.”
“Felicita, it’s one evening. I think you’ll live.” Jannik remains as expressionless as the waiting building. The last few months have made him less awkward, he seems to have grown into his beakish nose, and his dark hair hangs past his collar. While he will never be beautiful, there is something in the paleness of his skin and the deep blue emptiness of his eyes that constantly draws my attention back to him, though he never seems to notice my stares. Tonight we are forced to spend our time together. His mother made the arrangement for us and even at this great distance, my husband will not go against her wishes. Not again. Marrying me was a big enough rebellion for him.