Page 18

Two weeks later…

Historically, Perri had never considered herself a fragile female. Fainting at the drop of a hat. But she was seriously considering the benefits of joining their ranks. This must be what the inner circle of hell would be like, she could barely breathe. It was just so very hot, and so very stuffy. The clash of smothering perfumes so bad it was impossible to pick out individual notes any longer. Nothing but a stomach churning cloud of noxious awfulness.

You would think Perri would be grateful to be out of that hellish carriage. After twelve days her body had caught the swaying rhythm and it was continuing to haunt her. Between that and the swirling maelstrom of questions and what ifs that plague her overtired brain, she had barely slept. Constantly sitting on a knife’s edge of hope versus dread.

Would they be too late? Would Regal and Levi still be at the Palace? If so, where? When would she see her son? Would he sense her presence? Would he somehow recognise Perri?

Even though the mattress was well cushioned in the small room she’d been allocated, connected to Alia’s, if a tad overcrowded with ostentatious antiques, Perri had spent her first night at the Golden Palace staring at the ceiling, her stomach tied up in knots.

After twelve days on the road, they had arrived, perhaps by design, Brandth’s maybe, at the Palace just prior to midnight, the night before the first party was scheduled to celebrate the end of summer.

Perri had no doubt as first impressions went that she and Alia had caused quite a stir. Perri, in her pale grey dress and veil covering her features. And Alia, a scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth, a lightweight summer cloak covering her frame, the hood pulled up, obscuring her hair and features further. Dismounting from a huge pitch black horse that snapped at anyone that tried to get near it.

The news of their last minute arrival and strange appearance would be the talk of the servants. The details no doubt drifting to the ears of the aristos by breakfast time. But Perri hadn’t been worried. What was there to say? A bridal candidate had arrived late at night. Riding a massive black horse. But cloaked. She was tall, yes, the servants could confirm that much. And she was accompanied by a faceless companion dressed eerily like a ghost or wraith. But other than that, the gossip mongers would have very few actual details to impart.

Perri, with scarf in place, had been the one to answer the knock on Alia’s door that morning and accept the breakfast tray. Taking the lead in directing the servants to fill the small brass bathing tub in the alcove just off the main chamber, whilst Alia remained sleeping soundly, covered by a sheet Perri had thrown over her sister’s head.

Once all the servants had gone, she’d taken the tray to the bed, giving her sister a not so gentle shove before unpinning her scarf so they could partake of breakfast together.

At least of the two of them Alia was well rested. Thankfully she also had nerves of steel. By the time Alia was bathed, dressed - in the outfit handmade by Perri especially for her debut appearance - and Perri had arranged her hair to her satisfaction, the mantle of the Beast had settled over Alia’s features. She looked both commanding and somehow dangerous.

Ready to face any and all foes.

Which was all well and good, except Alia had yet to make an appearance at the first event scheduled today. The introduction morning tea.

Perri fought the urge to fan her scarf covered face. They’d agreed that Alia would make a solo entrance, but it already felt like this small ballroom was overflowing with bridal candidates greedily sucking in all the air. Everyone had to be here… except Alia.

Where was she? Had she gotten lost?

Gods, even more people were trickling in. There was no room for them. Go away. Biting her lip, straightening her back, hoping she wasn’t unconsciously still swaying. Perri gripped the edges of her chair so tightly her hands had turned bone white. All the while silently chanting her new mantra, don’t faint, don’t faint… whatever you do, don’t faint.

At least she had found a seat at the rear of the room. If she did faint… which she would not, she wouldn’t have far to fall and could perhaps do so discreetly. Hopefully everyone would assume a swathe of grey cloth had accidentally been dropped on the floor and proceed to ignore her.

Damnation, people were moving her way. No, no, there was no room, no air, were they blind, deaf and dumb?

“Heavens. Where’s a breath of fresh air when you need one?”

She knew that voice. Brandth! The entitled fop would definitely have no compunction in stealing all Perri’s air. Go away. Go away.

“Let’s open a window… Cruddy hell, when was this last opened? Ah, that’s got it. Hmmm, might have to get a glazier in to fix that glass though.”

A tidal wave of cool air poured over Perri, so refreshing, so welcome, she couldn’t help but whimper in relief. Crossing her fingers the sound was lost in all the groaning Brandth made as he manoeuvred himself around with the aid of his crutches, and took the not so surprisingly empty seat available beside Perri. The other companions and chaperones too nervous or wary to sit themselves next to a veiled figure who looked suspiciously like a drab grey ghost.

“Good morning, Healer Perri.”

“Lord De’Luca.”

Perri’s voice just above a whisper, desperately trying not to attract any more attention her way. But heads kept turning, gazes settling on her before swiftly moving on… and then slowly moving back. Honestly, had they never seen a woman wearing a veil covering her face before.

“Just what are they looking at anyway?”

She grumbled.

“I expect it’s something to do with all that unrelieved grey you’re wearing. Major fashion faux pas, I’m afraid. If you’d worn some sparkly earbobs to break up all the monotony, I doubt they’d give you a second glance.”

“Really?”

Perri couldn’t help but enquire dryly as she took in another deep lungful of decadent fresh air.

“You believe my lack of accessories is the reason I’m garnering so many not so covert looks?”

“Must be. You have the scarf thing down pat, clearly. But without rings, a necklace, or ear dangles, they don’t know whether to pigeonhole you as serf or lady. Must be driving them mad.”

Okay, she would admit it, the man could be mildly amusing occasionally.

“Just how many candidates did you invite? This room is crammed to bursting.”

“Only nine this season, including your sister. The rest are their family members. Mostly unmarried siblings, who might potentially meet a worthy match at the Palace. And of course, the young ladies’ parents. The mothers gathering information on the competition. Planning and plotting how to bring their child to the notice of the Prince. And the fathers; forming alliances, trade, political, seeking and exchanging favours.”

“It feels like rather a lot of people.”

Couldn’t a larger room have been chosen for this event?

“Don’t forget all the impoverished cousins or maiden aunts lingering at the edges of the room acting as chaperones and maids. Fixing hair. Fetching shawls. Running messages.”

“The Palace must be fit to bursting.”

“Yes and no. See, each candidate is only provided one set of rooms identical to the ones you and your sister were assigned. So, if the family entourages wish to stay here, where all the action is, then they must all pile into the two room suites assigned to each of the candidates.”

“Oh, no.”

Perri raised her fingers to press them to her scarf covered lips, she would not laugh at the image of all these families crowded into their tiny suites so over stuffed already with antiques there was little room to manoeuvre. And yet, she suddenly felt so much better. The fresh air. Brandth’s familiar presence. Yes, he was annoying, but kind of useful, with all his insider knowledge. She couldn’t relax exactly, there was still no sign of Alia, but some of the tension drained from Perri’s shoulders.

“Oh, here we go.”

Brandth rose to his feet as did anyone else who was seated. Perri a half second behind, her poor timing thankfully lost in the crowd. They were starting. Starting! And still Alia wasn’t here.

“Is it the Prince?”

She couldn’t see over all the people blocking her view of the elaborate entrance doors.

“The Dowager-Queen Cecelia.”

Brandth whispered out the corner of his mouth, bending at the waist, executing a bow. Perri immediately bobbed low, imitating a curtesy.

“You might want to practise that.”

“Shush.” Evil man.

There must have been a signal as the occupants of the room resumed their seats if they had them, though respectful silence continued to reign. Perri finally catching a glimpse of the King’s mother. Her hair purest white, done up in an elegant twist. Her dress, other than Perri’s, the most sombre colour present, a few shades lighter than navy blue. The long sleeved silk gown showcasing her willowy frame to perfection. The delicate array of crystals sewn across the neckline her only real decoration. Ensuring her long swanlike neck and sharp cheekbones were emphasised. Somehow the Dowager-Queen’s outfit was understated yet still managed to convey that she was the most powerful person in the room.

Her Ladyship’s entrance must have been a signal, as servants opened two sets of double doors, allowing the crowd to spill over into an adjoining room. Notably a lot of the males, the fathers and brothers, drifted that way. Seeming to know without being told that this room, now that the Dowager-Queen had arrived, was for the bridal candidates and their staunchest allies, in most cases their determined mothers.

Given the crowd had thinned considerably, Perri could watch unhindered as Lady Cecelia moved further into the room, her head nodding imperiously in the barest of acknowledgments to several people who caught her eye. Finally, she arrived at a chair, one that looked suspiciously throne shaped to Perri’s eyes. Though it was covered in dark navy velvet with a cushioned high back. The Dowager-Queen taking a seat, her two ladies in waiting positioning themselves upon seats on either side of her that were noticeably a lot less grand and closer to the ground.

Here was a woman very aware of her station in life, unwilling to let others forget what an exalted position she held at the Golden Palace for a second. Slowly, eyes the colour of flint travelled over those present. Lingering longest on the candidates. All the young ladies seated assuming dainty poses, demure smiles on their lips, chins lifted, fans fluttering gently in a lady-like manner.

A haughty eyebrow lifted as those flint coloured eyes travelled over the rest of those present, lingering upon Brandth for a moment. Perri unable to read whether Lady Cecelia was amused by his presence, curious, or perhaps just dealing with a bout of indigestion. Her gaze thankfully skipping over Perri as if she didn’t exist. That’s right, nothing and no one to see here. Except… where the hell was Alia?

* * *

It had been four years since Brandth had attended the end of summer festivities at the Palace. And he was quickly recalling all the irritations that had driven him away. The crowded overheated rooms. The non-stop political games. And that horrible heavy air of desperation that hung over every room where the candidates and their entourages chose to gather.

Then there was the potential brides, poor things, under so much pressure to perform perfectly. They tended to fall into two camps. Those whose eyes looked nothing but haunted, their smiles just that little bit forced. Then the second camp. Brazen determination glittering in their gazes. Coy, ready smiles clinging to their lips at all times. Posture perfect. Décolletage low, breathing deep, they were the champions, the favourites, ready for the race to begin.

Damnation. And how could he have forgotten the hovering mothers? Always discreetly fussing, prodding backs straighter, whispering directions like stage managers - smile, no, not with your teeth, like we practised. Heavens, relax, but put some more steel in that spine. Smile. Smile… Smile.

Whilst the fathers prowled around the periphery, like a group of bears aggravated they’d been woken too early following a long winter. Unable to stop calculating how much all this was costing them. Aware the prize would be worth it, but concerned that the Prince was notoriously picky and some said reluctant. Fear lingering in the backs of their eyes, perhaps they were aiming too high. Who here had wealth and a marriageable aged heir? At least that way they could recoup the cost of this whole ridiculous trip.

The siblings of the candidates loitering on the outer rim of every room, eyeing the relatives of the other candidates, trying to determine if there were any good matches present worth pursuing. Both bored and on tenterhooks. If their sister was chosen, she would one day be Queen. They would be related to the Queen. They could leverage off that and marry well. Be assured of regular invites to the Palace and attend all the best parties. Their lives would effectively be set.

With that in mind, their sister really should sit up straighter, and why was she smiling that? Showing all those teeth? Gods, they were doomed to marry a merchant’s get and live in a modest house along the coast. Oh, the social horror.

All these desperate unspoken hopes and dreams weighted down the air. And in the middle of it all, reigning like she was still Queen, Lady Cecelia Avue Vallas. A woman who attended every upper crust event, inevitably remarking that it could have done with a bit more pomp and ceremony. Saying that, get a few sherries into Cecelia and she could be the life and soul of the party, known to tell a risqué joke or two even. But that was a rare event these days. The passing years only bringing home to Cecelia that she wasn’t getting any younger, and that the line of succession was not yet secure… besides, she would like to hold a great-grandbaby or two on her lap before she left this mortal coil.

So much pressure bubbled away under the surface at this event, Brandth was surprised everyone’s heads didn’t explode. And complicating the matter, not a Prince in sight.

Hah, this season promised to be nothing but entertaining with a large dollop of intrigue mixed in. Thanks mainly to the enigmatic figure of grey clad doom seated immediately to Brandth’s right. Perri Gloomenthrall.

An intriguing woman, smart, dryly funny with a waspish edge that made him laugh. But the rest of the world didn’t know that. All they saw was a head to toe clad figure in grey, a wraith come to the Palace.

Raschion, Gods love his gossipy soul, had already shared with Brandth the rumours doing the rounds of the Palace surrounding Perri. She was a devoted widow, mourning her husband. A nun re-called from the convent to help her orphaned relative. Or, Brandth’s favourite, a ghost come to life, walking the Palace halls seeking vengeance and the downfall of all those who had betrayed her.

“So, who are we looking for?”

“Alia. She’s late.”

With the veil it was impossible for Brandth to gauge where Perri’s attention was fixed, but given the slight twist to her shoulders and lift of her chin, he could surmise she was on tenterhooks. Her focus locked upon the entrance doors. Truthfully on the lookout for Alia.

Interesting, so… whoever had drawn Perri and her sister here to the Palace was not a member of one of the bridal candidates’ entourages. Brandth tucked that knowledge away, feeling like a magpie gathering small treasures.

Perri had let very little information drop during their twelve day journey locked in the swaying lurching box from hell together. But he could tell from her body language and tone, as she blocked his many queries or fell into silent sewing fugues, that she was equal parts excited and dreading whomever she came here to… meet? Confront? Kill? Claim?

“As long she arrives before the Prince, all will be fine. And he’s always notoriously late to these things. Just sit back, relax, enjoy some cordial or a tiny sandwich.”

Brandth pointed out the servants moving amongst the guests with trays of miniature cups full of treacle thick cordial, and tiny lettuce sandwiches missing their crusts.

“I’m hardly in a position to drink or eat anything.”

“Ah, yes.”

Waving away an approaching servant.

“It’s just Alia and trouble go together like water and rain. Perhaps I should go look for her?”

“You would only garner attention if you left and returned with your sister in tow. Better she discreetly slip into the room on her own. Best chance of not drawing attention to her tardiness.”

Brandth’s head shooting around as Perri choked back a bark of soft, rusty laughter.

“Something funny?”

“Alia… discreet? A woman who’s six feet and four slinking unnoticed into a… highly tense social gathering of aristos? This is going to be bad… very bad. The Dowager-Queen will probably banish us before we’ve been here a full day.”

“Now, don’t fret. All that’s needed is a distraction, and look, there’s one now.”

The dramatic strum of a mandolin cut through the whispered conversations. Then a second, even louder, even more dramatic strum of the strings. Followed by a bard stepping into the small ballroom with a distinctly dramatic flourish. Pausing, as it just so happened, in a bright beam of sunlight. Midnight black hair tumbling in perfectly arranged curls just past his shoulders. Light green eyes surrounded by lush black lashes. Dimpled chin lifted slightly so the sun could play across knife edged cheekbones. His navy tunic and almost indecently fitted trousers highlighting his slim yet muscular frame.

Hearts, eyelashes, and fans fluttered as if a storm had whipped up from nowhere.

“Oh, no.”

Brandth almost didn’t hear Perri’s dismayed reaction over the appreciative gasp that rippled through the females present in the room. The bard strumming his instrument for a third and final time… his lips stretching into a knowing sensual smile. Fan fluttering picked up to create a typhoon level breeze.

The bard? Was that who Perri had been so desperate to see? Had they been lovers? The thought annoyed Brandth violently, only because clearly the man was such a… poseur. He was about to pepper Perri with questions but the bard launched into a song. Swinging his attention around and fixing it upon Lady Cecelia.

“Beauty steals my breath. Eyes like quicksilver that pin my heart to a display, joining all the other hearts there, like we are garden flits caught and imprisoned by beauty too beauticious to almost bear.”

Did Brandth hear that correctly? Beauty too beauticious to almost bear? Was that even a word? Next to him, Perri issued a soft dismayed groan as if she were in pain, all but lost amongst the feminine sighs of longing that slipped from almost every lady present, young and old. Egads.

“I dream every night of hair like a river of snow, encasing me in a kingdom of clouds. White too pure, too perfect for the mere earth. Only the heavens and my dreams could ever be so blessed.”

Cruddy hell. None of that drivel made the least bit of sense. But high colour was tinging Lady Cecelia’s cheeks and her lips were lifted in a rare, pleased smile. Clearly the bard was savvy enough to know whom to flatter if he was seeking patronage at the Palace.

Perri released a barely audible whimper. It seems she was the only woman present with some sense. Yes, the bard could play, but his lyrics were beyond dire, bordering on the heinous.

“Do you know of the bard?”

Leaning sideways, whispering into where he thought Perri’s ear might be. This close he noted the intricate weaving of her glossy thick red hair. With two thin braids woven along her temples, where she’d then incorporated the rest of her hair into a thick plait, the tip finishing down between her shoulder blades. It was a lush beautiful colour. His fingers itching to take out all the pins and undo it.

“Yes. He spent last summer at the Lair.”

“And you and he formed an attachment?”

For some reason Brandth was picturing beating the bard to death with his own mandolin. The image made him happy.

“Me and him?”

Horror and amusement tinged Perri’s tone, the red hot wave seizing Brandth’s gut receding.

“Please. The only love that man has is for himself. Pretentious prat. He made the mistake of targeting Alia. Decided he liked the idea of being Lord of the Lair. Thinking we would be his adoring subjects, insisting that he sing to us each evening, showering him with praise and applause.”

“What happened between him and your sister?”

“Rumour was that she’d killed him. I knew she’d only sent him on his way… but now I wish she’d gone with her first instincts. This won’t end well.”

“Maybe he won’t remember her.”

“The six feet and four woman who rejected him and advised that he should consider another career, since she found his songs to be, and I quote – torturous and diabolically bad?”

“Um, no, I can’t imagine a man such as that would forget… or forgive such a slight. Maybe there are other entertainers, perhaps by the time she gets here, he’ll have withdrawn.”

Even as Brandth spoke the bard finished the song with a flourish, bowing, the applause from the female half of the audience thunderous.

“More. More.”

Lady Cecelia could be heard insisting. The bard of course complying, launching into a song that mixed a multitude of metaphors. Seeming to have something to do with midnight rendezvous, forbidden love and eternal admiration. The ladies sighed, fanning themselves languorously, lapping it all up.

The bard moving around the room slowly, crooning, smiling, working the ladies, never lingering, but letting each feel as if perchance his song might be meant for them. He was on his second circuit of the small ballroom, delivering a line about whispers that were more potent than kisses, beating against his skin like rain and flit wings when he whirled about coming face to face with Alia. Who stood at the entrance to the small ballroom, making no attempt to slink, just standing there, boldly announcing with her proud stance to everyone that she was very, very late.

Silence descended with a thud. The bard forgetting to strum or sing.

“Oh, no.”

Perri’s whispered words too muffled and low to carry to anyone but Brandth’s ear.

Heaven be praised, Brandth was having the best time. The Gloomenthrall women were proving endlessly entertaining. Yes, there were several annoying mysteries he had yet to solve surrounding them. But in the interim, he was about to watch Alia Gloomenthrall deal with a bard that all but made Brandth’s ears bleed. Better yet, Brandth was sitting next to the delightful, never a dull moment, Perri. Who was probably right about now imagining her day couldn’t get any worse.

He almost felt sorry for her… almost. But if Perri thought Alia confronting the bard was going to cause problems, just wait until the Prince turned up, that was when things were going to prove very interesting indeed.

Sincerely, Brandth was having the best day… ever.