“Your Grace!” a young man in a navy ascot called as she latched the pendant back around her neck. It felt like a familiar weight, and secretly, she was glad that Robb had told her to keep it. It felt like safety.
The young man in question bowed. His hair was long and braided with threads of gold, making her deeply aware of her own shaved head. He had familiar arrowhead-shaped markings under his eyes. “Would you care to dance, Your Grace?”
She narrowed her eyes. “And you are . . . ?”
“Vermion Carnelian—”
“Ah.” She glanced back to Robb, but he was gone.
“First in line to the Carnelian succession—”
“Viera’s brother, yeah?”
He looked stricken by the question. “I—we don’t—she’s a guard, Your Grace. I’m first in line—”
“Good for you,” she replied, patting him on the shoulder, and made her way over to a banquet table on the other end of the ballroom. A few Ironbloods mingled around the food, tasting the fruits and soft pastries. She ate a beignet. The rich pastry melted in her mouth and she sighed. She missed Talle. The way she hummed love ballads as she cooked. Ana stuffed another into her mouth to keep the sadness at bay.
There were so many people, it reminded her of the packed markets on Nevaeh, brushing elbow to elbow. Except everyone here looked like dainty pastries and wore dresses with crinoline that went on for days.
A group of girls twittered with laughter, cutting their eyes over to her. She looked down the length of herself—and realized the pastry had sprinkled powdered sugar down her front. Mortified, she quickly turned away, brushing off the sugar, and hurried to the other end of the table to get away from the girls. She could gut them from stomach to spleen right there, didn’t they know?
But that is not proper comportment for an Empress, she thought, mocking Machivalle’s tutoring.
The gala was marvelous, framed by statues of the Goddess, purple tapestries fluttering against the marble walls. They told of all the stories in the Cantos. The kingdom of shadows and the girl of light. The vanquishing of the Darkness. The marriage to the sun.
There were even more gossiping Ironbloods at the other end of the table, sadly. All whispering behind their hands, their eyes raking across her scars.
This party was definitely going down as one of the worst ever.
A young woman stepped up beside her and speared a piece of pineapple with an expert flourish. She twirled it around in her fingers. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Good evening,” Ana replied nervously, eyeing the freckled girl.
“Lord Machivalle told me you’d probably need some company here,” said the Ironblood, pushing a curl of strawberry hair behind her ear. Ana didn’t need to see her insignia to know she was a Wysteria. The Dossier had raided one of their vineyards once.
“You know Machivalle?”
“He tutors me as well. He sends his regrets for not coming to your lessons today.”
“Is he sick?”
“Oh, no,” she replied, watching the pineapple piece she twirled on its toothpick.
“Then Rasovant dismissed him,” Ana guessed, and when the young woman pursed her lips, she knew she’d guessed right. “Because of course he did.”
“Machivalle told me to give you this.” She took a small folded piece of paper out of her dress pocket and slipped it into Ana’s hand. “He said it was ‘an answer to your question’—he’s vague like that sometimes.”
But Ana knew exactly what question it was an answer to, and her heart quickened. She quickly pocketed it. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Lady Wysteria smiled and turned a thoughtful gaze to the ballroom center. “It’s seems quite wrong that your guests are having more fun than you, Your Grace.”
Ana waved her hand dismissively at the waltzing Ironbloods. “I don’t dance—and you can call me Ana.”
“Wynn, then, and come on.” She took Ana by the hand—definitely not how you handled royalty—and pulled her closer to the dancing crowd. “You’re an Armorov! Armorovs were born to dance.”
Ana stumbled after her. “Well, maybe I was born to fight.”
“You’ll be surprised how much they’re alike.”
They stopped near the edge of the ballroom, where beautiful couples whirled around in steps Ana had no interest in learning, but she was enraptured all the same.
As though she knew the rhythm, the motion, like some far-off melody.
“I’ll be the lead and you follow,” said Wynn, bringing Ana’s arms up into position. “It’s as easy as a breeze. Now . . . left-foot-two. Right-foot-two . . .” Wynn slowly led her out onto the dance floor.
Left foot, right foot, swirling in and swirling out. Their dresses brushed together, the sound of soft sighs.
It was a lie that she didn’t dance.
She danced often on the Dossier, to songs for cramped galleys and bold ales, bright and happy—and home. Songs Wick loved to play on the fiddle while Riggs sang along. She always dreamed of grabbing Di by the arm and pulling him to dance beside the captain and Talle. Spinning in his Metal arms, loving how he was not graceful, and not talented, but dancing with her all the same.
The dream struck her. Laughter, Di, his moonlit eyes, how it felt to smile—things she didn’t want to think about. Things that made her heart ache. It was something she would never get to do now.
She’d lost her chance somewhere on the far side of Palavar.
In a blink, her feet caught onto some distant memory, tugging like guiding string in the dark, and she was spinning with Wynn across the ballroom, hands set at ten and two, elbows pointed, backs straight, sweeping across the marble floor like an old routine she’d never quite forgotten the steps to.
“Your fighting techniques are quite superb,” Wynn laughed, spinning Ana again, and the orchestra changed key.
The song grew sharp, and everyone turned from their partners, including Wynn, and twirled to someone new. Ana watched her go before someone else caught her, too, folding his fingers between hers with the certainty of matching puzzle pieces.
She glanced back at Wynn, who had fallen into the arms of that golden-haired man from earlier—Vermion Carnelian. Couples spun, shifting, and Wynn was gone.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” her new partner purred in a soft, sweet baritone.
She glanced up at him. Redheaded and dark-eyed, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders that filled a slightly-too-small lavender evening coat. He smiled at her—lopsided, imperfect. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place from where.
“Good evening,” she replied hesitantly.
The music grew faster, sweeter, their feet sliding to the song of the violin, the sweep of the cello. Above them, the lanterns swirled, following them across the ballroom, as if they were tethered to invisible strings.
Her nearness to this stranger made her skin buzz—like electricity. So close, the individual strands of his hair looked woven with sunlight, his skin pale—but not like Jax’s, more like a boy who had never seen the sun. His hands were cold, but when he looked at her, it was like finally seeing sunshine after a long night, like dawn breaking over the edge of a planet, the sharp rays of gold slicing high into the ever-night of the universe.
It made her miss sailing—miss the Dossier, and her captain, and her crew. It made her miss the recycled, musty smell of the ship, and Jax’s witty retorts, and Di.
Oh, she missed Di with more love than her heart could hold.
And she wanted her heart to stop aching for at least a moment.
A second.
A breath.
He leaned in, closing the small gap, as the orchestra changed its tune again, ordering couples to pair with someone new, but neither of them did.
“Do I know you?” she asked. “Have we met? I—I know you.”
“And I know you,” he replied, and then winced, as if hearing something she couldn’t, and his face hardened. He went on in a quieter voice, “Ana, you are in danger. I will explain everything, but we need to leave—”
The electric tingle across her skin turned into a cold, icy crawl. “How do you know I’m in danger? Who are you?”
“Please trust me, Ana—”
She realized why he looked familiar. The Metal Jax took from the Tsarina. Red hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin. This was that Metal.
He must have seen the horror on her face, because he said, “Ana, I can explain—”
She twisted her hand out of his. Above them, the lanterns burst apart, drifting out of their cyclone.
“You’re Rasovant’s Metal,” she hissed.
“No, wait—”
She spun away from the redheaded boy to her next partner. Anyone—it didn’t matter who. How did he get off the Dossier? she thought. How is he here?
She clasped her new partner’s hand.
Black suit, silver cummerbund, cold knuckle rings—
“Seems I’m in luck tonight, cousin,” said Erik Valerio, and she looked up into eyes as cold and sharp as an Erosian sky. “Was that other boy frightening you? You seemed quite smitten by him for a while. Did he step on your toes?”
She tried to pull away, but he gripped her hand tighter. “I’m done dancing—”
“Just one more, Your Grace. I want to get to know my long-lost cousin.”
She glanced back to the redheaded boy, but he was no longer in the waltz.
“I’m sorry, am I not entertaining enough?” Erik Valerio added bitterly.
She snapped her attention back to him. “I’m sorry, are you talking?”
His smile turned sharp. “You should listen.” He squeezed her hands, the rings pinching into her skin.
She gritted her teeth against the pain. “Let me go.”
“You can wear all the pretty dresses you want, and shave your head, and wear a crown, but it doesn’t change what you are. An orphan girl no one wants. Even your pirate friends didn’t want you. They’re probably glad to be rid of you.”
“You don’t know anything,” she ground out.
“Or are you scared that I’m right? You destroy everything you touch, Your Grace.” His breath was against her ear now as they danced intimately closer, his rings grinding her knuckles together. “You should have died with the rest of them.”
“Shut up.” She tried to pull away. He held on tightly. They spun faster to the music, the rest of the ballroom a blur.
“Then maybe your Metal, what was his name? Di? Maybe he would still be alive.”
“I said shut up!” she snapped, and dug her nails into the backs of his hands.
He gave a cry and let go. “What’s wrong, Your Grace?” he asked, as if she was the problem—until she noticed the silence.
The orchestra had stopped its waltz, and the Ironbloods all turned to her.
“Ananke?” The Grand Duchess stood from her throne, looking worried. “Are you all right?”
She could feel the way they looked at her, and her scars burned from it. She tried to speak, but no words came out.
You should have died, Erik Valerio’s voice whispered in her head. She couldn’t get rid of it. It resounded like a phantom pain. Maybe he would still be alive.
“Ananke?” the Grand Duchess asked again.
That isn’t my name, she wanted to scream, but her chest was tightening, and she couldn’t get a deep enough breath. Why was everyone looking at her? Hadn’t they seen scars before? An outlaw? An orphan?
She curled her hands into fists, letting her fingernails dig into her palms, grounding herself in the pain—
Until she caught sight of the redheaded young man again—that Metal—hidden in the crowd. He watched her, his face the only one not judging, not appalled. But worried, as if he had failed in some monumental way. Not she, not she.
And over his shoulder, lens tightening, hovered—
E0S?
No, it was a bot that looked like E0S. There were thousands. It wasn’t E0S. E0S was with the Dossier, and she would never see it again.
But what if—what if—
The crowd shifted, and the redheaded young man was gone.
You should have died, Erik Valerio’s voice repeated in her head.
“Your Grace?” Erik asked, making his voice sound worried. He put a hand on her shoulder “Do you need to sit?”
She slapped him away. “Next time you touch me, I will break your fingers.”
And Erik grinned.
Drawing her dress up, she excused herself from the ballroom as a rush of disbelieving murmurs followed in her wake.
Uncouth, wild, they said.
The Royal Captain fell into her shadow so quietly, she almost didn’t realize. Ana followed the lanterns back to her room in the South Tower.
“Your Grace,” Viera said, for the first time her even tone spiked with worry, “are you all right? Did something happen with Lord Valerio?”
Ana fled into her room and slammed the door before her guard could come inside and finally there was silence. She breathed in the stillness, rubbing her knuckles where Erik Valerio had ground them together, blinking to keep the tears in her eyes.
Erik Valerio was wrong. She knew in her heart he was wrong, but still his words hounded her. He’s wrong, she repeated as she sank to the ground. Her gown crinkled—
Machivalle’s note!
The answer he couldn’t tell her.
She took it out of her dress pocket, and with her fingers still shaking, she unfolded the piece of paper.
His name, the note read, was D09.