Arcas turned away from the High Regent and stared at Oestera, and then Lunelle. His eyes widened as they met hers, the deep blues throwing amber glitter as the candlelight reflected in them.
Whatever haze dizzying Lunelle cleared quickly, something about the intensity of his stare more sobering than the food. There was a darkness within them, like a midnight sea.
It was Yallara who answered as words failed to materialize from his tight lips.
“He’d be honored, Your Majesty.”
Arcas finally tore his gaze away, releasing her back to her plate, as the herbal swirl of the tea took its revenge and sent her pitching forward and squeezing her eyes against the current.
Whatever sobriety she’d found in the prince’s gaze vanished. Lunelle inhaled slowly, desperate to regain control of her senses. Her fingertips grazed the velvet of her dress in an attempt to ground herself.
“Well. Your mother certainly wastes no time,” Mirquios whispered, leaning close once more. Her head snapped to the side and a panicked laugh escaped from her chest as his eyes and mouth switched places.
Oestera cleared her throat and leaned forward as Yallara patted Lunelle’s knee.
“Get a hold of yourselves,” the queen whispered harshly.
Lunelle wondered if Mirquios, too, saw three heads springing from her mother’s stately shoulders, or if she was alone in her hallucination as she sank lower into her seat, finding the gilded edge of her plate to be endlessly fascinating.
“Oh!” Yallara gasped beside her, ripping Lunelle from her debate over whether the gold was closest to that of a perfectly sweet honey or of her sister’s fiery irises.
“What is it?” Arcas asked, leaning forward in response to his sister’s distress. Yallara shook her head, mumbling her dismissal and insisting it was nothing as she signaled to the servant behind her. She grasped for her plate, handing it to the servant quickly, but Arcas held up a hand, curling his fingers in a command to bring it to him.
The servant moved slowly toward the end of the table, Yallara’s cerulean complexion deepening into a brilliant fuchsia. The plate landed before the prince with a deafening thud.
Arcas’s face matched his sister’s as he took in whatever it was.
“Who did it?” he asked, his words fraught with an ill-disguised terror. His eyes scanned the faces of the servants.
“You,” he said, pointing a dagger-sharp finger toward the far edge of the room.
Lunelle followed the accusing gesture, landing on a young man inalmostthe right shade of uniform, but not quite. The buttons fastening his vest were silver, not bronze.
His face drained of color as the prince rose from his seat.
Everyone moved in motions that were too quick for her impaired vision to track. The Venusians were gone before she could blink—the sound of metal on metal sent a chill down her spine as she felt the chair behind her ripped away.
Lunelle stumbled forward, a hand gripping her arm tightly and shoving her forward as Yallara screeched her brother’s name. Her body raced toward the exit of the room, her silk skirts catching under Mirquios’s shoes as he pushed her along. Lunelle reached for the Plutonian princess, her face pale and lips hanging open in horror as she watched whatever was unfolding behind them. Lunelle wrapped a hand around her delicate arm, yanking her into her side.
Mirquios pulled the women forward, but even in the chaos, even as her mind swam beneath wave after wave of crushing confusion, she could not avoid the plate resting at Arcas’s now-empty place.
Instead of the lavish dessert she’d been served, Yallara’s plate boasted a scarlet mass of tangled vein and muscle, resting in a pool of burgundy blood against the porcelain plate. A small dagger pierced the heart, but she could not make out any detail as Mirquios rushed them away.
Bodies collided as they spilled into the hall, courtiers rushing away as Plutonian guards cut through them and raced toward calamity in the dining room.
“My mother,” Lunelle rasped as she stopped to turn, but Oestera was already beside them, waving them forward.
“Get back to our chambers, do not stop,” Oestera barked, searching the hall for someone. Her eyes landed on the Venusian High Regent’s as they ushered their courtiers toward their wing. “Kahlia!” Oestera called, cutting through the crowd. Lunelle lurched forward to follow, but Mirquios held her back.
“We should get you to safety! Both of you,” he yelled over the clamor, his grip tightening on Lunelle’s arm.
“Yallara!” Arcas darted from the dining room, his onyx hair falling over his eyes as he pushed past the crowd, weaving between Martian and Earthen dignitaries. “Yallara,” he called again. As he drew nearer, Lunelle could see the wet sheen on his black tunic.
She knew if she reached out to touch him, her fingers would come away with red stains.
“Brother,” Yallara whispered, pulling away from Lunelle’s grasp.
Arcas held his hands up as she went to embrace him, running his hands through his hair to smooth the black curls that clung to his forehead.
