Page 20 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

I stepped into the gown, Niamh guiding it over my waist before she set about cinching the bodice. I gasped as she tightened the laces, clasping my hand to my breast as her giggles filled the air. “Beautiful,” she said finally, panting slightly from the effort.

I turned toward the mirror, my jaw slackening. I hardly recognized the girl who stared back at me. For years I had worn only my gray, shapeless, scratchy uniform. But the gown, well, it appeared that it had worked its own kind of magic. It hung delicately off of my hips, creating a smooth, hourglass silhouette. It even accentuated the few curves I had above my waist.

“It’s too much,” I whispered, sliding my hands down the steep neckline.

“I see the courtiers wearing this style all the time,” she insisted. “You look positively appetizing.”

She squealed as I jabbed her in the side. “You’re on your own for hair. I’m afraid I have no idea what to do with that texture.” She pointed to her ringlets, the opposite of my bone-straight tresses.

I grinned as she settled into a chaise longue, pouring herself another goblet of wine. Watching myself carefully in the mirror, I pulled back a section of my hair at the crown and braided it before twisting the braid into a bun, leaving a few strands loose to frame my face in a fashion I’d seen on some of the plainer courtiers. Staring blankly at the array of cosmetics that sat at the vanity, I uncovered a small pot of waxy red balm that smelled of dirt. “Ugh,” I exclaimed. “What is this?”

Niamh snorted. “Beetroot, probably. It goes on your lips.”

I nodded, patting it onto my lips. My lashes fluttered as I brushed a shimmering powder over my eyelids and cheekbones, the delicate bristles of the brush caressing my skin.

“Oh Finn,” said Niamh, our gazes colliding in the looking glass. “Attending the solstice ball with the King himself. I can hardly believe it.”

I reached for her and squeezed her hand. “Neither can I.”

“Well, make sure you do,” she ordered in her mother’s voice. “You’re one of his lot now, I suppose.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll always be one of our lot. Never forget that.”

She held my hand as I stepped into embroidered chopines, praying that I wouldn’t trip in them. “Stay,” I insisted, as she moved to leave with me. “Someone has to finish that food.” She nodded eagerly, pulling me into a tight hug. “Good luck,” she whispered in my ear before retreating into the chamber. A guard who had been stationed outside my door gestured for me to follow him.

The King was the first person I saw when we arrived in the great hall. He wore a black doublet embellished with silver embroidery along the arms and over the chest, its cuffs the same shade of crimson as my gown. His hair had been left loose, secured with only a simple silver diadem that glittered in the candlelight. Around his neck, he wore a pendant in the shape of a waning moon. Catching sight of me, he grinned.

“Finn, you are exquisite,” he said, bowing at the waist.

I dropped into a low curtsy. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

My heart pounded in my chest as we neared the gilded doors that led to the ballroom. He offered me his arm, which I gratefully accepted. As the doors creaked open, my ears were flooded with music and boisterous conversation. The king’s subjects bowed to him as we entered, a wave of finery and faces flushed with food and drink. They were adorned in all manner of extravagance, with brilliantly colored fabrics embroidered with gold and silver thread, and glittering gemstones woven into their hair. Still, King Mordric outshone everyone around him.

My skin warmed as hundreds of eyes bored into the back of my head. I marveled at the golden platters adorning the banquet tables, piled high with roasted meats, cheeses, and bulbous, bloodred fruits I didn’t recognize. Another was covered in a sheet of ice and packed with an array of red crustaceans with menacing pincers, pots of gold-flaked caviar, and round, iridescent shells. As we drew closer, I realized there were still creatures tucked inside, waiting to be plucked out and eaten.

Beneath the massive windows that looked onto the palace grounds, a trio of acrobats in scant clothing twisted into unusual shapes before the crowd. Beside them, guests cheered as a waiter poured sparkling wine over a precarious tower of glittering crystal goblets.

As I watched, a frenzied courtier appeared at our side, two pages on his heels. He was a waif of a man, with dark skin and long braids that swung violently as he flitted from place to place. He snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared at our side with two flutes of sparkling wine. I took mine with thanks, gripping it tightly by the stem. The golden bubbles fizzed and burst at the rim of the glass in rapid succession.

“Your Majesty,” the courtier squeaked, bowing and straightening so quickly that he practically bounced.

“Martin,” King Mordric said jovially. “You should be proud of yourself.”

“Still plenty of time for things to go wrong,” he sighed, fiddling with the end of one of his braids.

The King beamed. “You worry too much, as befits a Master of Ceremonies in charge of this rabble.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

King Mordric nudged me forward. “Meet Miss Finwal Erramun, a future adviser of mine. Finn, this is Lord Martin Khalif.”

“Lovely to meet you,” said the man, his gaze entirely focused on a waiter who was precariously balancing a tray of used glasses in one hand while refilling a drunken guest’s overflowing cup with another.

“I can feel the nerves wafting off of you,” said the King, grinning. “Back to your duties, then.”

The Master of Ceremonies practically flew to the waiter’s side, chastising him in hushed tones. “Martin is a perfectionist,” the King explained. “Which is what makes him so good at what he does.”

“It certainly is paying off,” I said, looking around the room. “This is incredible.”