State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(93)
Somewhere out there her real parents might be living their lives. She might have siblings, cousins, grandparents. They might even have been at the presentation, she realized. Or at the bridge… The young woman with the baby; that could be a sister, a niece or nephew. Suddenly every Rhannish face she’d seen looked a little like hers, a parade of them behind her eyes, face after face with her lips, her eyes, her chin. She’d always thought she looked like Harun, but she was no more his than Mael probably was.
And what a dark thing that was. To have to fight him, knowing she deserved it no more than he did. Less, because he at least still thought he was a Ventaxis. Stars, with the way things were going maybe he was really Mael Ventaxis.
She lay there, unmoving, long into the afternoon, until the sun dipped, bathing the room in a soft gold light.
She heard Luvian’s return, heard the shuffle to his steps that told her he was maybe a little drunk. She heard him go into his room, heard drawers opening, heard the splashing of water as he washed. He whistled softly, his pitch perfect.
Still she didn’t move, lying on the bed as though she was a corpse, as dead as the girl whose place she’d taken.
“Sorrow?” Luvian knocked on the door and opened it without waiting. “Sorrow, is your head—”
He cursed when he saw her, rushing to her side, pressing his hand to her forehead.
“Sorrow? Graces, you’re hot. Shall I send for Irris?”
“No.” Her voice was still hoarse. “I’m fine.”
She made to sit up, and Luvian sat on her bed, watching her with naked concern.
“Sorrow, I don’t think—”
“I said I’m fine. What time is it?”
“Seven chimes.”
“I’d better get ready.”
“For the ball?” Luvian asked. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Look, you stay here; I’ll send someone to fetch Irris, and she can sit with you until you feel better.”
“It’s a headache.” She could hear the flat tone to her voice, saw the worry in his eyes. “Give me half an hour.”
“I’ll stay with you, I don’t mind.”
“Half an hour,” she said again.
Luvian paused, as though he might argue, and then nodded, rising silently and leaving her. He closed her door, and she heard him moving about, but he wasn’t whistling any more.
Sorrow swung her legs off the bed and crossed to the wardrobe, every step as heavy as though she was moving through honey. She took out the dress Irris had assigned and changed into it, letting her old outfit fall to the floor like a skin she’d shed.
The dress was sleeveless, gossamer-thin gold silk, the fabric pretending at sheerness. The neckline was a slash that ran from shoulder to shoulder, the slim, fluted skirt grazing the floor. She was more covered than she had been on either of the previous nights, yet the colour of the dress, so close to her skin tone, and the way it clung to her form before flaring over her hips, made her seem, at first glance, so much more exposed. It was beautiful – a weapon of a dress; Ines’s work was exceptional – and Sorrow had been looking forward to wearing it, knowing it would draw the eye. A gown fit for a future chancellor.
Not a pretender.
If she’d had anything else to wear, she would have buried the dress at the bottom of her trunk and wished never to see it again.
She walked to the mirror, ignoring her body from the neck down, and pulled her hair back into a severe chignon. She lined her eyes, drawing the wings into savage points, coated her lashes in black paint and daubed her mouth with scarlet lipstick, once again creating a mask to hide behind. When it was in place, she opened her bedroom door.
“Ready,” she said.
Luvian’s eyes were wide, almost frightened, as he took in the woman who stood before him. For a moment it was as though he hadn’t recognized her.
Sorrow knew how he felt.
Outside, Inside
The ballroom had been transformed into a lush, green, impossible affair. The stone walls and the stained-glass windows Sorrow admired had all vanished behind a curtain of fragrant ferns and leaves. Above their heads a tangled network of vines masked the ceiling and wound around and through the buttresses, playing home to brightly coloured birds that darted like tiny comets between the foliage. The flagstone floor had been covered by soft, springy moss, and many of the guests were taking advantage of it, moving barefoot through the room, shoes dangling from fingers, or left somewhere for later.
Over a hundred oil lamps hung suspended from the roof, lighting the room, though much of the outskirts were in shadow, and Sorrow could see people moving there, silhouetted against the living walls. And as she and Luvian moved into the space, she saw tiny green lights glowing in between the leaves. Starflies, she realized. Rasmus had once told her he kept some in a ventilated jar by his bed at night as a child, catching them at sunset and releasing them the following morning, falling asleep to their dancing.
The entire hall was a natural grotto; even the tables and chairs had been replaced by large tree trunks and stumps, some with screens of grass partially around them, allowing for privacy. Beneath the delicate sound of a Rhannish pipe and violin playing softly, Sorrow imagined she could hear the burbling of water, a pool or a waterfall right there inside the room.
It was stunning; even in her numb, lost state Sorrow could see that. But though she knew it, objectively, to be wondrous, she felt nothing. No joy or marvelling at this unexpected, magical transformation. Not even the sight of the starflies that she’d long coveted was enough to pierce the shell that had formed around her after Charon’s confession.