Page 22 of Antiletum (The Nocturne #1)

Power doesn’t equate to intelligence

Delaney

W hen I wake, I’m still sprawled across my window bench and in my evening gown, onyx layers plastered against my body with entirely too much moisture. From me. From the ridiculous air. We aren’t even near the sea. Not a cloud in the cerulean blue sky. There’s no reasonable excuse for this humidity.

The audacity.

A quick scan shows breakfast has been deposited on my table tucked in a corner, indicating that my husband has already left to defend me to Parliament.

A breath snags in my chest.

My dark owl is also nowhere to be found, leaving a tingle of disappointment in his absence. Too much hopefulness slinks through me, wondering if perhaps he’ll come back tonight. Maybe I could clear out a darkened space for him to perch and sleep in my rooms during the day.

I don’t feel so alone when he visits. Something about him helps to shrink the gaping maw of my grief, new and old. Especially since Tabitha left to start her own life as a married woman. I hope that I hear from her soon.

Disconsolate morning solitude seems like a good time to resume my failed attempts in removing my dress, success more likely now that I’m no longer inebriated.

I stand, joints popping and arms twisting in unnatural angles like a deformed ventriloquist doll.

I still can’t quite pull free the spidersilk ribbon of my corset.

I’m meandering all around my large room, feet lost in my plush rug, as if dancing about and changing where I stand will help free me from my dress.

Turns out, my drunkenness had little to do with me being unsuccessful in stripping last night.

A maid helped me into the cursed thing, and I have an astute suspicion that perhaps my husband knew I would struggle to get out of it.

Probably thought I’d eventually succumb and ask for his assistance.

Cheeks flare red, remembering that I did almost give in and seek him out.

But it had nothing to do with the dress.

It’s both painfully bitter and sinfully sweet, how fulfilled I was last night—much like with the owl—in Val’s presence, not trying to hide or hold back. It feels like betrayal in too many ways. Beyond my sister’s advice from beyond.

I fear Val’s winning me over. And I think I might want him to. Our conversation last night and the insight into both his personality and his ideals…

They’re admirable. Especially with the passion behind his beliefs and what he wants.

Unbearable mourning pulls at my heart, making me feel sick.

This only mounts my desperation higher to escape Val’s gift wrapped around my body like a glove. In a panic, I hunch forward, the ends of my hair brushing the floor while a remaining decorative feather flutters free .

“Come on, you insufferable!” Yank. “ Miserable!” Yank! “Fucking cunt!”

“Are you cursing at your dress?” an amused voice asks from the doorway.

With a dizzying turn, I find Selise, watching me with equal amounts pity and humor. The maelstrom of confusion and heartache roaring in my mind halts in her easy company.

“I can’t get this loose.” I tug at the spidersilk ribbon, so soft and smooth I barely feel it between my fingers. The shortness of my breath is embarrassing.

“Well, my Lady, I am happy to help!”

With a sigh of relief, my limbs loosen and drop to my sides. “You’re a wonderful person. Thank you.”

Selise chuckles, lines pulling at the dark skin around her mouth. The two miniscule diamond shards of her mirror nose piercings glint in the morning light. “Of course.” She makes a stop at the phonograph on a table, setting the stylus in place for a calming tune to warble from the large horn.

She works quickly at unknotting the ribbon. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I would have knocked, but your door was wide open.”

“It was?”

“Yes.”

“I must have forgotten to shut it back when I stumbled in last night.” My lips downturn. I swear that I did. Reluctantly putting that barrier between me and Val.

Miraculous fingers free my crushed rib cage that is certainly bruised. I can imagine my torso looks like a shoddily painted twilight sky. Nelda and her miracle concoctions are high on my list for the day to ease my corset-induced aches .

“I don’t even remember making it back to our apartments last night.” Selise laughs, glowing. “Mallin said he had to carry me.”

Holding the dress against my chest to not gape open, I grin, leaning against an end table, the large leaves of a potted plant brushing my elbow. “Did you ever get your toe-crushing dance?”

“I did. And it was the loveliest of waltzes I’ve ever partaken in.”

“Really?” I question, surprised. “It sounded like there’d be no such thing with Mallin.”

“Oh yes. Positively divine. He rarely dances. I savor it when he does. Even if it hurts. Nevermind that I was drunk enough I couldn’t even feel him stomping all over me.”

I laugh, loud and joyous and so utterly true it takes me by surprise. I’ve only laughed like this with a small amount of other people, one being Rainah. Not even Tabitha brought such out of me, or I her.

A sense of home, of belonging, is beginning to settle over me.

Far greater since arriving at The Citadel, ever since Tabitha left and I’ve allowed myself to stray away from what’s comfortable.

Soaking in the change I always longed for, no matter the circumstances.

As much as I can without being completely overwhelmed, at least.

Fear still insists on nipping at my stomach every time someone mentions my necromancy.

And sometimes I do get the odd sensation of sitting in a tank in a room full of people, my vision and hearing distorted.

Like a glass barrier sits between me and the world—just out of reach.

Fear and solitude was too deeply instilled within me to let it go so easily.

But the smiles I’m offered are generally genuine, and I often have to remind myself that my magic isn’t an oddity.

Not anymore. Val’s necromancy has been a regular and accepted resident within The Citadel for a decade.

A small part of me wishes he didn’t have to leave to go meet with Parliament this morning. If not for that, I would have woken in his room this morning. Maybe it is for the best that I had reason not to creep across the hall.

Another lightning bolt of terror lances through me, terrified of what might happen when my husband speaks to Parliament. Will they truly believe we aren’t to blame for what happened in the Strigi Forest? I probably should have asked him more questions about what he would say, about what to expect.

Chosen ignorance is foolish, and there is no bliss that comes with mine.

Selise doesn’t notice my sudden wave of panic. “Though sadly, today I am feeling the effects of all that sparkling wine”—she touches the back of her hand to her forehead—“beyond my husband mauling my feet.”

Skeptical, I take her in. Selise has her thick, tight curls pulled back from her face with elaborate wing combs.

Her dress of emerald green embroidered with a screech owl is perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle or pleat out of place.

Her skin is so radiant I feel like a wilted little weed in her presence.

Plucked from the ground. Discarded. Thrown into a muddy puddle and trampled on a bit.

“Despite my deep indulging and, well”—I gesture to myself pitifully—“my less than presentable state, I surprisingly don’t feel awful.” All that lingers from the wine is a bitter, stale taste on my tongue.

“Good. Because there’s something very important you must see to today, my Lady.” Selise’s tone and expression is suddenly somber, as if those plans are an unexpected funeral.

“There is?” I squeak.

That mournful expression dissolves into a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. But yes. There is. The modiste is on her way. ”

“Oh.” I’m only just remembering that Val informed me that a woman named Blair would be around to fit me for new clothing today. I got the impression from the way he spoke of her that they’re close.

How kind of Val to keep to his word in letting me choose my own trousseau. I wasn’t quite sure I believed him, not with his satisfaction over my outrage in selecting my clothing. An involuntary smile curls my lips.

For his demand of daily breakfasts, we’ve only had two. They’ve certainly been entertaining, at the very least.

“If you tell me I can’t join, then I fear our short lived friendship has come to an end,” Selise tells me seriously, taking it upon herself to look through my drawers until she finds a brush.

“Now, that would be a tragedy,” I quip back, plucking a lush strawberry off my breakfast tray and taking a bite.

“Exactly. Now go freshen up. They are sure to be here soon.”

As if on cue, an austere woman in a trailing gown of deep amethyst breezes in, a wooden cigarette holder clutched between her teeth and a massive beehive turban on her head. She inspects me head to toe, eyes narrowing.

Selise’s joy fades away, mine evaporating along with it. We might as well be school girls, silently scolded for acting out during an important lesson by this woman with the uncanny air of a giant butterfly. Though she doesn’t appear to be significantly older than us.

She huffs on her cigarette and inspects me like an unsavory dish. Curls of smoke flowing from her mouth take shape, collecting into the bodies of tiny pixies with matching miniature turbans.

They flit about my head picking up strands of hair and plucking at my eyelids.

One even shrinks and wiggles her way up my nostril.

I sneeze, the tiny thing disappearing in my rush of air.

The pixies return to their master, perch on her turban, and speak with tiny little girlish whispers in a language I can’t begin to understand.