Thread of Darkness

Ch. 10: does this amuse you, your majesty?

Camille stared.

It was like looking in a mirror, she thought; the Scythe — and it had to be the Scythe — had adopted the way Camille tilted her head. The way she touched her throat. How she smoothed down her skirts when she thought nobody was looking. Not, Camille reflected, that there was much material to smooth down.

Heat crept up her neck.

She'd heard rumours of the Scythe's abilities before, of course. "She cuts to the very core of you," a servant had once whispered. "She can see the darkest parts of you. The pieces of your soul that you shy away from."

Camille swallowed.

Whispers rippled through the garden, along with a few snickers. The golden lights in the trees shone brighter. The Scythe shifted and her glittery body paint caught the light, rippling like ghostly flame along her skin.

Ryne unfolded his napkin. "I am unsure," he said, "whether I should be flattered or insulted that you're so eager to see my fiancée unclothed."

His voice was calm. Unaffected. Eris took a sip of wine.

"It is a jape," Eris said. "Nothing more."

"You intended for this to be amusing?" Ryne asked.

Eris's mouth kicked up. "It is amusing."

"And yet," Ryne said, "nobody is laughing."

Camille looked at him sharply. But Ryne was polishing his spoon, staring down at it as if he was bored. She scanned the audience for Brigid or John — for anyone that could help — but it was devoid of friendly faces. A lump rose in her throat.

Right.

Just her and Ryne, then.

Eris waved a hand, his silver rings throwing off cold sparks. "Lyra, my dear, it seems that your performance does not suit His Majesty's taste." His mouth curled. "Perhaps a change in costume?"

The other Camille curtsied. "Of course, My Lord."

Her skin rippled.

The air turned sulfurous, tasting of thunderstorms and rotting eggs. Camille couldn't help but lean forward in her seat. She had read about Salvatorians transforming, but it was rare to see it happen; the scholar in her couldn't look away. It was like a reflection on the water, she thought; like watching a stone cast into a still pool.

The Scythe's hair turned from blonde to red. Her body grew shorter, curvier, the fine bones giving way to soft breasts. Then the transformation was complete, and the new figure scratched at her cheek with ink-stained hands.

Camille recoiled.

Another Penny smiled up at her.

"Well?" the Scythe asked. "Does this amuse you, Your Majesty?"

Her voice was girlish and breathy. Penny's voice, Camille thought, a knot forming in her stomach. Further down the table, Penny was leaning forward, studying herself with something akin to horrified fascination.

Grayson half-rose from the table.

His jaw was a hard line. Even from this distance, Camille could see that his fists shook slightly; he was staring at Eris as if he'd like to saw off his arms with a rusty spoon and then toss him into the moat.

Tristan gripped his arm. "Gray. Not here."

Grayson shook him off.

"Grayson," Tristan murmured. "Don't. You'll only make things worse for her."

He had a point, Camille thought, glancing around the garden; many of the courtiers were watching eagerly, waiting for Grayson to throw a punch. They were eager for the mealtime entertainment to begin. And that was exactly what Eris wanted, wasn't it?