The Ivory Rite

Chapter 10

The next few days pass in a rush. Any Elite permitted to enter the castle early are curious to meet me, but Margret allows no more than small introductions. They look at me like I'm one of the caged animals at the Mart, until they're unceremoniously ushered on to a different social engagement.

I refuse to leave my room without the glass horse tucked safely in my pocket. It calms me to brush my fingers over it, as I smile and nod to the ladies and allow the men to kiss my hand.

Raina and Eva get me ready each morning and help me to strip of my disguise each night, both practices lengthy. I find myself wondering how many hours of my life will end up being devoted to this tedious process, coming to the conclusion that it's best not to think about it.

I notice workers carrying in the traditional sculptures on the third day of preparation. Elaborate ice art is set all around the castle for every Formal, the biggest collection housed in the grand ballroom where the official gathering takes place. I move across my bedroom over to the tiny window, pressing my nose against the pane. Raina follows me, trying to put finishing touches on my hair.

"I love the ice sculptures," I sigh. "Aren't they beautiful?"

"Oh yes, I think they're lovely," she agrees. "I've always been fond of Aingeal, the angel in the garden." She reaches for my hair again.

"It's unbelievable how detailed they are. I wonder how long they take to create." I start to fidget. "Aren't we finished yet?" I ask, leaning away from her. She bites her lip to hide a smile.

"Yes, I think so," she relents, stepping away to inspect the final product. "Take another look, just to be sure." I stifle an impatient sigh, having already moved for the door. I don't want to upset her or seem unappreciative of her work, so although begrudgingly, I backtrack a few steps and pause in front of my elaborate, silver-plated mirror. It stretches from the floor all the way to the high ceiling, reflecting a good amount of my room back to me. I can see Eva as she watches from the corner, looking pleased.

I have on a head piece today, teardrop jewels of crystal and blue nestled in my wig all along the crown of my head. The dress is another light shade of blue, the satin clinging to my body in a way that makes me feel more self-conscious than usual. The skirt is full, rolling out in waves, supported underneath with layer after layer of tulle.

"You look perfect." Raina claps her hands together with a satisfied nod. "Go on, then." My reflection shoots her a grateful look, less for the compliment and more for the dismissal.

Making my way into the hallway, I turn toward the Watchman stationed at my door. He looks over, dropping to a knee and bringing a fist to his chest in greeting.

"Hello, Liefteanant Asthore," I say, hating the disappointment in my voice.

I haven't seen Adair in three days.

More importantly, I have no idea why this bothers me.

"Your Highness," Asthore responds, all business. "Do you wish to move about the grounds?" I frown at him.

"Yes, Colin," I say, addressing him by his first name. "I wish to move about the grounds." I roll my eyes. He tries to hide a smile as I turn away, taking off down the hallway.

"As you wish, your Highness." He follows me without further question.

† † †

Later that night, after enduring an incredibly boring meal with Margret and several members of Tricouncil, I'm dying for some casual comfort and conversation. All I want is Petra's rosy optimism, telling me that everything will soon be back to normal, but when I get to the kitchen it's unrecognizable. Humming with activity, the room is packed with no less than twenty servants I don't recognize. As soon as I step across the threshold, all movement ceases and every set of eyes is fixed on me. Petra looks up, amused at the reaction.

"Hello," I say, smiling at them. A few of their mouths drop open in shock. They start falling to their knees, one by one, some struggling to find a place on a floor crowded with bags of produce and ingredients.

"Please, remain standing. I don't mean to interrupt your work," I insist, now trying to maintain a neutral expression. This was a bad idea. Margret would not approve of me speaking to the servants in such a casual manner. Even so, I don't see the point in having them fear me.

I can't help but wonder if kindness has ever occurred to Margret as a strategy of rule? I doubt it—even I can see how such a thing could lead to danger. Regardless, I think there has to be a better way, some in-between method of both giving and commanding respect.

I'm startled when I feel a gentle tug on my dress. I look down into the wide brown eyes of a girl about five, her flour-caked hands leaving streaks all over the satin skirt of my gown. Her mother rushes forward, panicked.

"No, wait," I say, holding up a hand to stop her and kneeling down next to the little girl.

"Please, please don't hurt her. She doesn't know any better," her mother cries softly, tears in her eyes. My head snaps up in shock, my eyes studying the planes of her weary face.

My God, what must these people experience at the hands of the elite? She thinks I would harm a little girl?

"What's your name?" I turn away from the mother, smiling at the child.

"Crema," she whispers. "I like your dress." She is unaware of any danger she may have placed herself in, and for this I'm thankful. It means she has not yet experienced any reason to be afraid of anyone beyond her class.

"Thank you. It's quite nice, isn't it?" She continues to stroke the fabric, and her mother tries to scold her from a few feet away.

"Crema, you'll ruin it!" The young woman still looks uncomfortable, as though I'm trying to lull her into a false sense of security by treating her daughter with kindness.

"It's no trouble," I assure her, looking back at Crema. I'm face level with her now, her long brown eyelashes fluttering as she pets my dress.

"It's so soft." She looks right into my eyes. "I wish my dress was soft like this." My heart breaks for her as I notice the burlap-like material covering her small body.

"You want to know a secret?" I lower my voice so the others in the room will have a hard time hearing. Her face lights up as she nods with enthusiasm. "I like your dress. I used to have a dress like that."

"Really?" She narrows her eyes, disbelieving.

"Really. It was a long time ago."

I look around for Petra. She's watching with wet eyes.

"Hand me that small blade, Petra." She bustles over, handing it to me over the child's head. The mother looks as though she may faint, but stays where she is. 

My glass horse sits in my right pocket, my left pocket empty. I reach into it, pulling the excess fabric inside out and carefully cutting the piece from the dress, fashioning it into a long strip. Handing the knife back to Petra, I tie the strip into a bow and attach it to the end of Crema's dark braid. She strokes the satin, looking back at me in amazement.

"I can keep it?" she asks, her little voice barely audible.

"Yes, you can keep it. But fasten it under your cap when you leave the kitchen. We wouldn't want anyone getting jealous of your beautiful bow." I wink at her.

"Thank you, your Highness," her mother whispers as she rushes forward to grab the girl. I can feel twenty sets of curious eyes on me as I turn my back, exiting the room.

"That was amazing," Sophie says, following me out into the hallway, the door shutting firmly behind her.

"It was unwise," I respond. Looking over at her, I can't help but smile. "But I don't care." She squeezes my hand as she rushes by.

"I should go check on the guests," she says over her shoulder, by way of explanation.

"Sophie?" I call. She turns back.

"Yes, your Highness?"

"Make sure Margret doesn't see that little girl with a piece of my dress."