Page 44 of To Touch A Silent Fury

My hand broke from the women beside me, and the Thread’s words swirled in my memory like a threat:Hold hands with your partner, stepping forwards and back.

I wished now I had taken off my gloves before our dance. I needed to know what he was feeling. Would there be a gloating satisfaction?

I breathed in and out, missing the beat as I offered my hands. He clasped them, so gently it felt like a mockery. Once more I forced myself to meet his gaze. His face was a mask, blank of all the emotion I could have felt.

He swept me around, and I spun in his hands, him holding them above my head as we stepped in formation. His mouth was only an inch away and the heat of his breath fell on my face.

“Leave tonight,” he said, quickly, his mouth barely moving as he clasped my hands. “I will not tell you again.”

“And what of my Fate?”

“Forget it,” he replied.

Forget my Fate? Forget the one thing that could raise me from a freakish monstrosity that the Brotherhood didn’t even want, to a valued member of a court? The only thing sadder than a girl all alone on Eavenfold was a Broken one with no power to speak of. The Brotherhood didn’t like me as it was, but without a Fate, I would be shunned.

I could return to my parents, return to that hut in the dusty hills. They would take me back, I was certain. But to what end? I would only be a burden. Another mouth to feed with no chance of employment nor prospects.

“Impossible,” I said, and we lowered our hands and broke apart once more.

His eyes flashed as he mumbled something under his breath. Cursing me, probably.

Did he think this was just about power? I didn’t care about whether I could feel emotion again. I cared about having choices, having some semblance of agency in a world that had already decided to hate me. This marriage I never wanted was my only route to anything resembling a life. There was no alternative. If I didn’t fulfil it, I would be cast out from society entirely. At least with a husband, I could try to find a facet of a life around him. I could have friends, books, and a world to explore. I wouldn’t lose the hope of that on a callous threat.

Our dance ended, and I fell into a curtsy and turned from him without a backwards glance. Rage wasn’t an emotion I was prone to. I felt it sometimes on others, the clawing redness of itall, and didn’t envy it. It was consuming, and yet powerless. But I felt the edges of rage now. I didn’t deserve any of this.

A man I barely glanced at tried to speak to me, but I pretended not to hear his address as I strode directly to Thread Ersimmon, struggling to keep my steps light and my pace normal.

He turned to me before I reached him, and I saw his face cloud with worry. “Are you well?”

I breathed in and out slowly before I checked around me for possible listeners. There were too many, half a dozen in earshot on a low reading. I just shook my head at him.

“You’re shaking.” He frowned. “Have you eaten?”

Again, I shook my head.

He turned and generously filled a plate with all manner of decadent foods. I recognised venison stew, a heap of cockles and oysters, and a thick soup laden with melted cheese before my stomach rolled with tension, and I closed my eyes for a moment, focusing on my breathing.

“Here.”

I opened my eyes and took the plate from him. He touched my shoulder in what looked to be a brief reassuring motion, but I knew what he was doing.

I felt his emotions like a wave. Concern first, but caution and worry, too. Somehow, it helped. It grounded me away from my anger and fear, and reminded me where we were, what we were doing.

“I know these things can be overwhelming the first time, with all the new players,” he said, and I felt his understanding under the surface. He knew there was something afoot.

“Yes, I think the dancing has gone to my head,” I replied, taking a few more deep breaths.

He nodded at me as he dropped his touch. “It is to be expected. Eat that, and then I’ll speak to the Master of Ceremonies about announcing you properly.”

“The Master of Ceremonies?”

He nodded in the direction of a man wearing what could only be described as an alarming shade of yellow. The bright shirt sat beneath a silver breastplate, as if he had just stepped away from a duel, and much more muted trousers. “Lord Ravillin, from a minor house north of Manniston in the foothills of the Flourine Mountains. He won last span,” he supplied, to steady my confused look. “He’s the officiant for this one and overseer of the bounty, just as this year's winner will be the officiant for the next one. I’ll get his permission to introduce you.”

I swallowed, and glanced over at the Dragon Prince. He was dancing again, his attention now on another lady. I wondered if he had threatened her, too, or if he saved that cruel treatment for me. Then I nodded back to the Thread, my resolve hardening. “Let’s tell them what they are truly playing for.”

His eyes creased at the edges as he gave me a small smile. “Well done.”

I ferried my plate to a small table as the Thread explained to some lord that I was overwhelmed by my first proper ball. The man asked if he could save a dance, and Thread Ersimmon distracted him with some waffle about the presence of lemon in desserts until he gave up.