Chapter 9: The Starlit Gala
The Grand Hall of the Sylvarindel Palace was a thing that could make you forget how to breathe if you let it — which I did, for approximately three dazzling seconds — before remembering I had a very specific and actionable reason to be here: do not get married to whatever pompous peacock my father had picked.
The hall itself looked like someone had tried to wallpaper the sky. Chandeliers hung like frozen constellations, crystals dripping down in tiers so elaborate that a lesser palace would collapse from envy. The ceiling was decorated in swirling constellations that rearranged themselves as the music grew louder; stars winked, then leaned forward to gossip. The floor beneath my shoes was a sheet of polished marble that reflected every glow and glitter as if the building were determined to be seen from space.
Music ran through the room — and not the modest kind you let drift from a corner. Violins, violas, a cello, and a harp — the whole orchestra — performed a sort of polite mayhem. Bows moved with impossible grace; the cellist's hands were nowhere to be seen, and yet the deep notes swelled like distant seas. It felt like standing inside a lullaby that got rowdy when it drank too much wine.
But people enjoyed it and complimented the good music.
Waiters — or rather, attendants—one could tell because their uniforms were trimmed with embroidery that could probably pay off a minor feud—floated down the aisles on the faint halo of levitation spells. Platters of pastries circled like obedient satellites, each serving glass gleaming and every tart hovering an inch above its plate so that a polite breeze could present the confection to a guest without the awkwardness of reaching. Goblets rose and glided to mouths, porcelain plates drifted at conversational height, and ribbons of steam from piping-hot tarts performed their own gentle choreography.
Everyone was… overdressed. At least, to me they were, because why the hell were the women wearing twelve layers of fabric and hats that had small ecosystems tucked into them, with capes that rustled like wind through paper mills?
And don't even get me started on the jewelry. The necklaces hummed faint compliments when one smiled, cuffs clicked like tiny applause when you bowed, and rings glowed politely when someone said something they believed was clever.
The nobles of Aelthryn were in rare form. There were robes bedazzled with gems that pulsed with lazy light, sleeves so voluminous they had their own zip codes, and collars that could be mistaken for defensive architecture. Men wore sashes and brooches that declared their houses. The air smelled of perfume — too much perfume — and the kind of candles that made gowns look like they were breathing.
And then the makeup. I almost screamed in shock when a noblewoman spoke to me. Her face was unnaturally white and her lips... ruby red. It was horrendous.
I should be used to their dressing by now. I should be used to it, but... oh my God, how does one get used to seeing a person who does makeup like they're a ghost?
And then we have my father — the King of Aelthryndivoryssalindria. He made an entrance like he always did, making everyone know that his height might be short, but his dress and personality were... bold.
His crown, set at an angle that threatened to slide off if he laughed too hard, gleamed beneath the chandeliers as he moved through the room with that odd mixture of stage-bred confidence and small-man hurry.
He'd chosen gold — of course he had — head to toe, silk embroidered with seeds of light that twinkled whenever he waved a hand. His robe bobbed with his gait; he laughed, and the laugh was bright but brittle around the edges.
But beneath the performance, his eyes kept flicking like a general checking troop lines; there was an anxious rhythm there that made his grin tremble on the brink of something else. He laughed, and you could hear it and believe he was enjoying himself — but if you watched the line of his mouth, the laugh had an aftertaste of worry.
Perhaps he was worried I was going to reject the potential suitor he had prepared for me.
I was dressed the way I preferred to be: deceptively simple. No corset. No suffocating trains. I'd chosen a gown of seaweed-green silk that moved with me instead of against me — a free-flowing dress with long, easy sleeves and a skirt that whispered instead of declared. I wore a single thin chain at my throat with a small sapphire pendant; it glowed faintly whenever someone tried very hard to be flattering. Minimal jewelry, practical shoes, hair pulled back loosely so it could be tossed if the mood struck me.
I held a glass of wine more for its shape than for its contents. The wine itself tasted like the kind of promise that begins well and goes on longer than you want; it was the kind courtiers favored at official functions. I pressed the stem to my lips as I leaned on the balcony rail, trying to make myself small among the glittering peaks of conversation. From here, the hall was a river of color and opulence and awkwardly choreographed bows. Below, people danced to music that rose and fell like waves; above, a balcony or two held clusters of elders whispering strategies and gossip like war plans.
I'd stationed myself at the edge of that balcony with deliberate nonchalance. My father had been doing the rounds — shaking hands, embracing dukes, adjusting the ornamentation on someone's sleeve with the solemnity of a man who'd rather be reorganizing trade tariffs. He kept glancing around, and I knew he was searching for me. Too bad he wouldn't see me yet.
The thing about hiding at a gala is that you are invisible for exactly as long as no one thinks to look in your direction. I'd thought of every possible base-by-base strategy: sit at the far end, blend in with a monument, smear a little soot on my face — metaphorically — but the truth is, the best camouflage at a party full of glimmering nonsense is simply not to appear important. So, I arranged my posture so I looked like a woman enjoying the architecture rather than a princess on the run.
Below, a ribbon of dancers wove itself through the center of the hall; their gowns trailed like waterfalls. Above, chandeliers winked conspiratorially. Music rose into a new movement — the violins sang high and thin, the cello hefted the bass like a patient ox. The harp twinkled, and every now and then the room shivered as a flute slipped a mischievous note between measures.
I took another sip of wine and concentrated on the domino of pastry plates drifting by, practicing the art of not being noticed. It's a difficult discipline; insults to one's future husband are best deployed in private.
I did not expect anyone to be up here with me. I thought I was alone. But then I heard his voice. It was a deep tenor — rich and smooth. It was the kind of voice that, in a cruel cosmic way, matched the lie I'd told my father: silk, warm, deep as a well. And it wasn't cheap silk — it was expensive silk. I'm not joking.
"Just for curiosity's sake," the voice said, low enough that only the stones and I could hear it, "who are you hiding from?"