Finale (Caraval #3)(4)
She would have sworn the chaise he lounged on had been a bright, lurid green, but it had blurred to pale sea glass. She wanted to ask if something was wrong, but again, that would have given the impression of caring.
“Aren’t you going to ask me your question tonight?”
His gaze snapped back to her. “You know, someday I might stop asking and decide not to give you the prize.”
“That would be lovely.” She sighed, and several butterflies took flight from her skirt. “I’d finally get a good night’s sleep.”
His deep voice dipped lower. “You would miss me if I stopped visiting.”
“Then you think too highly of yourself.”
He stopped toying with his sugar cubes and looked away, once again preoccupied by the musician on the stage. His tune had ventured into the wrong key, turning his song discordant and unlovely. Around the room the ghostly dancers responded by stumbling over one another’s feet. Then a raucous crash made them freeze.
The piano player folded atop his instrument, like a marionette whose strings had been severed.
Tella’s heart beat wildly. Legend was always frustratingly in con trol of her dreams. But she didn’t sense this was his doing. The magic in the air didn’t smell like his. Magic always held a sweet scent, but this was far too sweet, almost rotted.
When she turned back around, Legend was no longer sitting, but standing right in front of her. “Tella,” he said, his voice harsher than usual, “you need to wake yourself—”
His last words turned to smoke and then he turned to ash as the rest of the dream went up in poisonous green flames.
When Tella awoke, the taste of fire coated her tongue and a dead butterfly rested in her palm.
4
Donatella
The next night, Legend did not visit her dreams.
5
Donatella
The intoxicating scents of honeycomb castles, cinnamon bark pies, carmelite clusters, and peach shine floated through Tella’s cracked window when she woke, filling the tiny apartment bedroom with sugar and dreams. But all she could taste was her nightmare. It coated her tongue in fire and ash, just as it had the day before.
Something was wrong with Legend. Tella hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. When the last dream they shared had gone up in flames, she’d thought it could be another one of his games. But last night when she’d searched for him in her dreams, all she’d found was smoke and cinders.
Tella sat up, threw off her thin sheets, and dressed quickly. It was against the rules to do anything that gave the impression of caring, but if she just went to the palace to spy, without actually talking to him, he would never know. And if he really was in trouble, she didn’t much care about breaking the rules.
“Tella, what are you getting dressed up so quickly for?”
She jumped, heart leaping into her throat at the sight of her mother stepping into her room. But it was only Scarlett. Save for the silver streak in Scarlett’s dark brown hair, she looked almost exactly like their mother, Paloma. Same tallish height, same large hazel eyes, and same olive skin, just a tiny shade darker than Tella’s.
Tella glanced over Scarlett’s shoulder into the next room. Sure enough, their mother was still trapped in an enchanted slumber, still as a doll atop the sun-bleached quilt of their dull brass bed.
Paloma didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t open her eyes. She was less ashen than when she’d arrived. Her skin now had a glow, but her lips remained a disturbing shade of fairy-tale red.
Every day Tella spent at least an hour watching her carefully, hoping for a flutter of her eyelashes, or a movement that involved more than just her chest rising up and down as she breathed. Of course, as soon as Paloma woke, Jacks—the Fated Prince of Hearts—had warned that the rest of the immortal Fates, whom Legend had freed from a Deck of Destiny, would wake as well.
There were thirty-two Fates. Eight Fated places, eight Fated objects, and sixteen Fated immortals. Like most of the Meridian Empire, Tella had once believed the ancient beings were just myths, but as she had learned in her dealings with Jacks, they were more like wicked gods. And sometimes she selfishly didn’t care if they woke up as long as her mother woke up as well.
Paloma had been trapped in the cards with the Fates for seven years, and Tella hadn’t fought so hard to free her just to watch her sleep.
“Tella, are you all right?” Scarlett asked. “And what are you all dressed up for?” she repeated.
“This was just the first gown I grabbed.”
It also happened to be her newest one. She’d seen it in a shop window down the street and spent practically her entire weekly allowance. The dress was her favorite shade of periwinkle, with a heart-shaped neckline, a wide yellow sash, and a calf-length skirt made of hundreds of feathers. And maybe the feathers reminded Tella of a dream carousel Legend had created for her two months ago. But she told herself she’d bought the dress because it made her look as if she’d floated down from the clouds.
Tella gave Scarlett her most innocent smile. “I’m just going out to the Sun Festival for a bit.”
Scarlett’s mouth wrinkled, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but she was clearly distressed. Her enchanted gown had turned a wretched shade of purple—Scarlett’s least favorite color—and the dated style was even older than most of the furniture in their cramped suite. But, to her credit, Scarlett’s voice was kind as she said, “Today is your day to watch Paloma.”