Page 5

Bronwyn

A lovely young couple danced across the poster, their fingers nearly grazing as they stood en pointe, facing one another. Bronwyn added the last touches of green to the foliage accenting the title of the upcoming ballet. The hint of a smile touched her lips—the first in days—as she took in the nearly finished work.

The door opened, causing her to stiffen and whirl around on her stool. When she recognized the woman who entered the opera house work room, she sighed, her shoulders dropping.

“Oh, look at it!” Wynnifred practically bounced as she crossed the room, managing to fill the space with her presence alone. “I knew you’d do fabulously. And that tutu! It really looks like a flower, doesn’t it?”

Bronwyn smiled as the opera house owner cooed over her work. For so long, she’d hid her art away from the world. For years, her pieces had gathered dust in their home, and when Father did sell them, he didn’t share the name of the artist. Somehow, Wynnifred had learned of her love—probably from Ceridwen—and asked Bronwyn to paint for her. It was Bronwyn’s one escape within the capital. The back rooms of the opera house were the one place she could be fully herself and at peace. Well, as much at peace as she could be, given the dragons threatening the monarchy and, by extension, her.

“I took some liberties with accents on the title and the male lead’s outfit, since it isn’t quite finished.”

Wynnifred Prosser, or Wynni as her friends called her, flicked open the lacy fan she always carried. “It’s better than half the ideas my costumers have. Perhaps I should hire you for that, too.”

Wynni ran the popular Grand Opera, which attracted talent and audience members from all over Castamar. When Bronwyn and Ceridwen had first come to the capital during winter, she’d changed her entire schedule to allow Ceridwen to play on the main stage. Without her help, they never would have caught King Rhion’s attention or developed their plan to overthrow him; he might still reign, and Drystan might have travelled to the Goddess’s hallowed halls instead.

The older woman sat heavily on the pink chaise lounge nearby. An odd color for furniture, but one she clearly enjoyed considering how much of it populated the backstage rooms of the opera house. Her dress was several shades darker, almost garnet. It accented the wig of voluminous blond curls she almost always wore.

“I still can’t believe how the wedding turned out.” She fanned herself. “I nearly fainted when that chandelier fell. And you were so close!”

Bronwyn’s heart dropped. “It was awful,” she said. Poor Ceridwen. She set aside her brush, the desire to paint extinguished. The wedding day her sister had longed for, spoiled at the end by such an act. “At least no one died.” Though several had suffered injuries, two of them quite severe.

Wynni gave a dramatic shiver.

“You haven’t heard anything about who may be behind it?” Bronwyn asked. Malik had asked Wynni to listen for any gossip that might help them, or so Wynni said. Bronwyn had yet to see him since that night.

The fan snapped closed. “Not a thing. I’ve had some of my trusted staff keeping an ear out as well, listening in on the nobles’ private boxes and such.”

It was hard not to sigh. They’d found nothing of use. The dragons were skilled at covering their tracks. Drystan had known some of them before his self-imposed exile to Teneboure, but anyone known to him had already fled, died, or been arrested. Finding the rest was harder than selecting one snowflake from a blizzard.

Bronwyn had once asked Drystan why they were called dragons. It seemed silly given the monsters that users of dark magic could become looked more like mangy wolves than the winged and scaled beasts of legend. Drystan wasn’t sure exactly. Dragons were thought to be noble creatures. Powerful. Perhaps that was how King Rhion saw himself, despite the monster he truly was. Drystan also reasoned it might have been a little too telling to call them wolves , since people who witnessed them and lived were likely to make the connection. Dragons evoked fear, mystery, power—exactly the message the former king wanted to send. His remaining followers, too, it seemed.

“Chin up.” Wynni made a motion with her fan. “The nobility love to gossip. Goddess knows I’m more than familiar with that. Someone will slip up and reveal themselves eventually.”

“You’re right, of course.” Bronwyn pasted on a fake smile, one she’d used too often recently.

Wynni had been raised amongst the nobility, though her family did not have the power to wield magic as some did. From an early age, she’d had a great love of theater and music, two things her family found below their noble standing, especially for their heir apparent. As soon as she was able, she’d struck out on her own to follow her heart in more ways than one, changing her gender and shucking her family name to pursue the arts. She’d confided it was the scandal of the season—actually, two seasons—among the nobility, but she had used their gossip to make a name for herself. What was meant to harm her, she’d turned to good.

“Speaking of gossip.” A sly grin crossed her painted lips. “I saw you at the wedding with a certain handsome prince.”

Bronwyn’s cheeks flamed. “Obligation only, I assure you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

She sighed. “It’s too bad. You two look lovely together. I thought our dear Malik had finally found a woman worthy of him.”

Laughter bubbled out before Bronwyn could stop it. “He has no trouble finding women. Surely, you know that. They were practically sitting in his lap during the wedding.”

“He cares for you, you know.” All humor had fled from her features; even her voice was solemn.

“Wynni…”

She huffed. “I know. I know. We’ve had this conversation before. But you can’t take everything that one does for what it looks like on its surface.”

Bronwyn’s nose twitched. “Can’t I? Every lady who received his smile certainly did. There was no lack of attention from the men, either. If he cared for me, he’d have said something by now. He’s had the opportunity. Several of them. I haven’t even seen him since the wedding.”

“He came here asking about you the next day.”

That revelation had her rocking back on the stool.

Wynni’s gaze turned thoughtful. “And the next.”

Bronwyn’s throat went dry. “No one mentioned…”

She shrugged. “He only asked if you were in, which you were not. I assumed he found you, since he didn’t return after that. In fact”—Wynni tapped her fan against her chin—“he hasn’t attended one of my performances in weeks. I may have to demote him from favorite patron. I might have promoted my former assistant, as she has given me the most brilliant story ideas, but note I said former .” She tsked, shaking her head. “Off and left me. Gone to visit some dear friends out of the country and doesn’t know when she’ll be back.”

When they’d arrived in winter, Wynni had a most interesting assistant. Between her teal hair and way she looked at people—as if she could see into their very souls—Chesa had been unique. A perfect fit for the Grand Opera, really.

“It is a shame she left,” Bronwyn said. She’d almost liked the woman despite her quirks. She was a curiosity, someone who didn’t conform to society, and Bronwyn found a kinship in that.

“I know. Leave me,” Wynni sighed. “Can you imagine? A foolish decision. Hopefully, she’ll miss me so much she’ll return with all haste. This newest opera is her idea, you know. Couldn’t even stay for its opening. I’m going to need more of her ideas for future seasons. We have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

The teasing notes in her voice had Bronwyn’s lips quirking up despite the sudden ache in her heart. Wynni, always thinking about her business. Speaking of… “I’ll come back tomorrow to finish this up.” She waved at the poster. “I’ll do a simpler one, too, for distribution.”

“You really should let me pay you.”

Bronwyn shook her head. “I’m happy just to have my work appreciated.” Drystan had gifted her family more money than they needed before he’d returned to the capital to claim his throne. And now, as an extension of the royal family, she didn’t have to worry about coin to support herself or those she loved. It felt wrong to take anything from Wynni, who could use it to further her business.

Wynni gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, sign your name larger this time. I’m determined for people to see the work and know it’s yours. Which reminds me. I might have done a little something I hope you’ll forgive.” Her face glowed with mischievous excitement.

Bronwyn’s stomach sank. She grabbed hold of the stool beneath her for fear she might fall right off it. “You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did.” Wynni beamed. “Those pieces you did were too gorgeous to sit in storage, unseen and unappreciated. Now all of Castamar can enjoy them as part of the new collection opening at the Talia Gallery. Isn’t that grand?” She cackled, clearly pleased with herself.

Bronwyn, however, felt like she might vomit on her shoes. Her artwork, displayed like masterpieces for all to see? It was supposed to be her dream, so why did it feel so horrifying?

“Oh, gracious, darling, don’t look so worried. I have no doubt they’ll sell. You can thank me when you’re famous.”

“Sell?” Bronwyn nearly choked on the word.

“Oh, yes.” Wynni waved her fan. “They may keep a few for their permanent collection, but this exhibit is meant to feature the artists and help them gain notoriety among the elites. Why, everyone who is anyone in society will be there.”

A fragile laugh slipped from Bronwyn’s lips. Everyone. Great. What if people hated them? What if not one painting sold? They hadn’t been meant for commercial success—just simple set pieces that she’d expected Wynni to use and discard after the spring show.

“Now, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll make sure you get the money from any sales. I won’t even take a cut. And I’ll let you know if there are any inquiries about more of your work.”

“I … I don’t need the money.” It was the first thing she could think of.

“Nonsense.” Wynni whacked her on the shoulder with her fan, and Bronwyn flinched back at the sudden reprimand. “It’s good for a woman to have some money of her own. And I like to see a woman, an artist no less, become successful at her trade.” She leaned in and winked. “Consider it payback for not letting me pay you. And who knows, maybe you’ll find some gentleman admirers, too? I can think of at least one who will probably be there.”