Wicked as She Wants (42 page)

“If you ask me, there’s something underhanded going on,” a dark-skinned girl in canary yellow said, nudging her skirts aside to walk side-by-side with the tall girl in red. “Nothing adds up. Someone should speak up and ask.”

“Why don’t you, then?”

The girl in yellow let loose a bright, high laugh as fake as the diamonds in her earbobs. “I’m suspicious, not suicidal.” She patted her companion’s hand and moved away, deeper into the crowd.

I looked from face to face, searching for someone
familiar. The masks could only hide so much, and I had danced among the Freesian court for years. But I saw very few faces I knew, and I lost track of the mental list of acquaintances who should have been there but weren’t. Mikhail had been telling the truth on the
Maybuck
; Ravenna had chased the old blood out and brought new faces to the Sugar Snow Ball. That meant that I was less likely to be recognized but also that I would have fewer allies. My only sworn follower was Mikhail, and there was no way to know when I would see him again. He had pledged himself and promised to help me, but with a parachute on my back and pirates on my tail, I hadn’t bothered to ask how.

The walkway under my slippers was formed of the same smooth, carefully cut and fitted stone as the clearing where the Sugar Snow Ball took place. It had been crafted thousands of years ago—no one knew by whom or how they had made the stone both exquisitely danceable and yet never slippery. For my first ball, I had worn satin slippers, and at the end of the night, they had been entirely worn through, my blisters poking out through holes, but still I had not stopped dancing.

We entered another clearing ringed by ancient trees. Several elegant privies waited in a line, and farther on, a vast tent hung from the branches above. Inside, couches and vanities and lanterns were placed for maximum beauty and comfort. I went straight for an empty vanity to check my appearance by the light of a white paper lantern. Of course, I couldn’t remove my mask, so I was limited to patting down stray hairs and adjusting the shoulder of my dress over one of Casper’s inky smears.

A subtle glance confirmed that even if I was wearing an unusual dress and an overly mysterious mask, no one was
paying me any mind. The women chattered and primped and reapplied their bloodred paint as silent servants circulated with trays of bloodwine and pink champagne. I explored the rest of the tent, which floated a few feet off the ground over the stone. In one corner, a small shrine was set up. Red candles and cut roses surrounded a painting of Ravenna with my brother, Alex, sitting at her feet like a dog. But in front of the painting, someone had placed a newspaper clipping with a sketch of Olgha and me. The headline read, “Will the Missing Blud Princesses Ever Be Found?” There was no date, but the newsprint was yellowed with age and curling around the edges.

“Bless them,” a woman murmured, and a hand deposited a vial of tears and disappeared before I could determine its owner.

I turned to watch the room. Hundreds of Bludwomen of all ages and types chattered together. All were rich, of course. A few had the traditional Freesian look, with milk-white skin and dark hair and light eyes. Even more had Ravenna’s gypsy type, and some had my icy hair and blue eyes. There were even a few dark-skinned girls and one redhead, the very image of Aztarte and full of herself over it. Among these women, there were people who believed in me. Who hoped and prayed for me every day. People who would risk their necks by honoring me with roses and candles and scraps of paper they’d carried for years.

I was close enough to feel the brush of their skirts and smell the oil in their hair, and they didn’t even recognize me. But they loved me, and for now, that was enough.

A chime sounded, and the group moved out the other side of the tent and continued along the walkway. The talk
was still bright but more quiet now, excited but respectful. When our path angled in again, I all but ran to Casper’s side and took his arm.

“All well?” I murmured.

He nodded, but his eyes were guarded, his expression anxious. Being around me held its own dangers, but we had found our equilibrium. Being in a large crowd of his sudden peers for the first time, crowded with puffed-up males trying to find their place in Ravenna’s court, would have been uncomfortable even for a born Bludman. But his unsullied costume and face paint told me he at least hadn’t found himself in any fights, and that was a fine start.

We were in pairs now, a long line traversing the white stone through the high, silent forest. It felt like a cathedral, like something bigger than hands and hearts, something old and ancient that watched from afar. That was the way of the Sugar Snow Ball: you came only in pairs, although you were free to dance with anyone you chose. I had been accompanied by a string of boring, stuffy, inbred lords strategically selected by my parents, but I had infuriated each of them by night’s end and had therefore never had a repeat date, much less a steady beau. I could dance gracefully enough to bring the snow, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut or allow some young upstart to think himself superior for even a moment. Casper was my first agreeable partner, and I could only hope we would live to have an encore.

The forest was so thick around us that it was like walking down a dark hallway. Past the lanterns, the shadows between the trees became an impenetrable wall of sinister green gloom, with subtle rustlings and the eerie growl
of wood rubbing on wood. The small creatures would all be in hiding, cowering from such a display of predatory power. But larger blud creatures had occasionally been seen lurking beyond the dance floor, their eyes flashing yellow or green from the darkness as they paid homage to our ancient ritual.

The path ended at a simple staircase climbing upward in the same white stone, and the whispering quieted. I loosed Casper’s arm to hold up my dress and kept my eyes on the steps and the grand skirt of the lady before me. When I ran out of stairs at the top of the hill, I looked down on a scene both familiar and yet utterly new.

The Sugar Snow Ball was held in an ancient clearing in the bottom of a bowl-shaped impression, almost as if a mountain had been hollowed out just for that purpose. The forest rose infinitely tall around the wide circle of flat white stone, a ballroom nearly as large as the palace itself. The staircase up the hill had been simple, but the one that led to the dancing floor was grand and twisting. I had watched, bored but too well bred to fidget, as the couples paraded down that staircase every year. The ladies put on the brightest smiles. The gentlemen kept their backs straight, their chins high. Casper’s gloved hand gave mine a squeeze, and then we were separated again, step after step in time down the curling, twining staircase, twisting in and out like another dance. At the bottom, the staircases came together by an old carved statue of Aztarte that rose from the earth, glistening as if made of moonstone. Casper and I met, taking the last steps in tandem, and I let go of my skirts and took his arm again, anxious for the connection and glad to feel his strength at my side.

He didn’t know the way of things, so I guided him subtly to the back of the crowd, ensuring that there was no way Alex could see me. The wealthiest and highest-ranking couples would be at the front, with the next ring of hopefuls jockeying for position behind them. Most of the people in back would be elders, troublemakers, or foreign semiroyals who knew they would have more fun if they avoided local politics. Here, there was no jostling, just bemused smiles and patience and an occasional nip of something strongly alcoholic.

The orchestra hidden under the twining staircases began with the same sudden frenzy as the bludmares pulling our carriage, with the galloping crescendo of “Aztarte Smiles on Bloodshed,” our national song. Hands went to hearts, and all eyes focused on a long, straight staircase on the other side of the clearing. A halo of bright lights glittered, and a couple appeared at the top of the staircase, outlined by the jagged silhouette of the Ice Palace. They paused momentarily for effect. My mother had always been the one to set our pace, always knowing exactly how long to stand, head held high, at the top of that staircase.

This time, the lights shone full on Ravenna.

37

She was ageless, the same as that first time I’d encountered her at the Sugar Snow festival. The same bronze skin, eagle’s nose, and sweeping black hair. The same savage grace, as if her spine curved back just a little, like a cobra waiting to strike. Even from the farthest point of the clearing, I could see the magnificence of her costume and the gossamer diamond twinkling of her mask.

But what struck me most was that she had worn black. Black was considered a color of the oppressed. In the big cities of Sangland, many Bludmen were forced to wear black so that all would know what they were. As if my people wished to hide! But I had never heard of anyone wearing black to the Sugar Snow Ball. After all, it was the opposite color of snow.

Just behind her, my brother, Alex, stepped forward to take her arm. He was stiff, proud, alert, his costume done in black and white to coordinate perfectly with hers. He was just the slightest bit taller than she, his eyes shining the bold red that was usual for him and highly strange elsewhere. They descended the staircase, slowly to accommodate Ravenna’s proud skirts, and goose bumps rippled over my arms. There was something deeply disturbing
about the ritual, and if the whispers around us were any indication, the people felt it, too.

It felt like forever until they reached the floor. As Alex’s boots clacked on the stone, a fierce wind began to batter the trees. I looked up to find the green boughs swaying mournfully, straining toward the cold white moon in the center, full and round and perfect and still, untouchable and nearly as bright as the daytime sun. The breeze brought a chill and the welcome and exhilarating scent of snow. I breathed in deeply and looked into Casper’s eyes. I wanted to know if he could smell it, too. His face shone with amazement, and his arm snaked possessively around my waist, pulling me close.

Across the clearing, Alex trailed Ravenna as she walked along a line of crystalline red stone inlaid in the white. Her hips swayed, the over-wide skirts of her dress seeming to float along gently. The crowd waited, breathless and anxious for a show. The ball always began with a proclamation, and what was said and by whom was always rather telling.

The orchestra ended the song exactly as they stopped before the circular blud altar in the very center of the clearing. It was smooth and beautifully carved of pure white stone, with a trough down the center that funneled into a hole that supposedly led deep into the earth and to Aztarte herself. Ravenna moved to the fore, her dress blocking the altar entirely. Alex stood to one side, making it clear who ruled here.

My enemy smiled, bloodred lips parting over sharp teeth. Her mask hugged her face like lace spun of moonlight, highlighting her dark brows, black kohl, blacker eyes, and eerie smile.

The wind whipped past her, the feathers of her cape stirring with the iridescent inky shimmer of a raven’s wing.

“People of Freesia,” she called, her dusky-sweet voice carrying and echoing within the curve of the clearing.

A murmur went through the crowd. Historically, the crowd was to bow, yet . . . no one did. She ignored them.

“I welcome you to the Sugar Snow Ball. May your feet be light, your hearts be open, and the blood of your enemies be ever warm.”

The words were mostly correct, but a tremor of unease ran through the crowd. The speech should have come from a Feodor, from someone carrying the blud of Freesia. Ravenna wasn’t one of our people, much less a creature bonded by blud and birth to the land. She couldn’t even make the traditional offering, just after the Sugar Snow, letting her blud flow into the altar and down into the ground to Aztarte’s bones. She must have had plans to use Alex in her place.

When Ravenna bowed to the assembly, Alex bowed, too, which gave me an excuse to return the gesture without betraying my country. The crowd waited, holding our collective breath, as Ravenna raised her arms high and then brought them down dramatically. The orchestra began, and with a grand sweep, Ravenna was waltzing with my brother in the traditional first dance. I struggled to see past a sea of people taller than I. Was Alex hungry and feral, or was he drugged, or had the mad gypsy actually succeeded in calming him to something near normal? The air fairly stank of magic, but I had never had the knack and couldn’t tell what exactly Ravenna was using it to accomplish.

The first dance lasted forever, but it always did. At least this time, I was anonymous, squashed between dresses in a crowd. It was harder when you were the one standing
before the blood altar, being ogled and judged and measured by the assembled crowd. A heavy skirt nudged me, and I stepped sideways, annoyed to be in what was clearly the smallest dress. As if he could feel my annoyance, Casper squeezed my hand. Bolstered, I squeezed back.

Finally, the first dance was over, and the assembled couples quickly spread out to enjoy the next song. I pulled Casper away from the blud altar, where Ravenna and Alex danced, a dark smudge among the bright jewels of the moonlit crowd.