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.”
