Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(8)
My face heats. Toad-brained brat. “His Highness—”
But few pause their talk for me, and I’m drowned out.
Growling, I loosen my arm from Camilla’s and push my way forward until I stand below the dais and its scornful prince. I’ve always struggled to be seen and heard on my terms. The court never stopped expecting me to be demure since I moved from the slums to the Seer’s tower. As if my place in the court is charity, like it never completely belongs to me, when I belong here more than they do.
I only know how to be brazen. I refuse to earn respect any other way. So I begin again, louder. “His Highness”—chatter ceases—“will find his true love before his journey’s end, as I foretold. He wants to blame me for his own dawdling. Perhaps his journey would go quicker if he stopped questioning my wisdom.”
“Perhaps if you were a more accurate Seer, I wouldn’t question it,” Cyrus presses on amid the titters; our public scuffles are an all-too-familiar sight. “Can you even say where my so-called journey ends?”
“Not up your own ass, so maybe you should pull your head out.”
Laughter bubbles through the crowd—Camilla practically guffaws—as color splotches Cyrus’s face.
“Witches and princes, like cats and dogs,” someone snickers.
King Emilius drums his fingers on his armrest—a simple gesture without anger. “The point I believe both my son and my Seer are making is: we are not all blessed with an easy search when it comes to love. I consider myself lucky to have found it with my dear Merchella, in the time she was here with us. Stars guide her soul. It is good to remind ourselves of how true love will save us from the dark.” His mouth closes in a solemn crease.
The room is subdued, and the prince and I glance in opposite directions. I can’t imagine Cyrus taking his father’s place before the year is over, armed to the teeth with charm yet commanding only a grain of the same reverence.
As the quiet yawns into a chasm, Camilla huffs and moves toward the dais. “Time to save Prince Charming,” she mutters. She makes a flapping motion at her brother and shoos him away. Camilla Lidine is a wholly different kind of storm compared to Cyrus—one who understands and embraces the thunder of her steps.
Once Cyrus is shunted to the side, she spreads her arms wide to address the audience. “Let’s get to the fun part, lovely people of Auveny. The ball. The Masked Menagerie.” Approving hums. “Splendid name, isn’t it? I came up with it. Now, what, you might ask, are the strange creatures on display in this menagerie?” With a roll of her shoulders, a pair of wings seems to unfurl behind her—a shawl painted with a swan’s likeness. “Us, of course.”
The crowd oohs.
“Wear your best and most daring outfits, and the most brilliant mask you can conjure. Let’s fill the palace with creatures from lands unseen. Impress me—but more importantly, impress my brother. If you catch his eye, who knows…?” The crowd rumbles. “A kiss on the hand? On the cheek? Could you charm a ring out of him?” Squeals erupt. Cyrus breaks character briefly in an audible groan. “Very exciting, isn’t it? Any questions?”
Every hand shoots up. Camilla is fueled by attention; she’ll draw out this circus for as long as possible. Cyrus seems resigned to his current fate, his eyes just shy of glazed, his smile frozen stiff.
I’m also weary of the noise, and unlike Cyrus, I don’t have to stay here. I slip toward the doors as easily as I’d come in, the crowd slobbering and eager to fill the space I left; etiquette is barely keeping the floors free of drool.
Once outside in the yard, I shield my eyes from the glare of the high sun and the marble walls of the palace, white as the day they were built. From afar, the palace looks like a gleaming crown atop the tile-roofed buildings that make up the Sun Capital’s tiered districts.
At the gates, I find the face I didn’t see in the crowd.
“Dante!” I call. “You missed the fun.”
Upon first glance, one wouldn’t expect someone as scruffy as Dante Esparsa to be the prince’s best friend. He’s dressed more casually than those around him, in his baggy shirt and the peacock-plumed hat Cyrus gifted him. Amethysts twinkle from his ears and a sash of the same jewel shade cinches his waist; like me, he doesn’t care for the capital’s pastel fashions, opting for richer hues that better complement the clay-brown of his skin. A satchel bulging with papers is slung over his shoulder—work, probably; he’s been translating texts for the palace’s library when he’s not busy attending classes at the university.
His roots aren’t truly so humble; as the adopted son of a former Balican leader, Dante would have a title if the Republic of Balica had notions of nobility, but he prefers to avoid courtly nonsense anyway. “If I wanted to be patronized all day, I’d have stayed at my nana’s,” he once said. He’s lived between Balica and Auveny since his early teens, initially planning to become an ambassador, until politics gave him a headache. It’s a shame: he’s the type of person who could get along with anyone if he wanted to, but it turns out he usually doesn’t want to.
He befriended me years ago when I was looking for a tutor, even though I don’t make nice company. But maybe that’s why we work: sometimes, you just want someone to complain with.
Dante jogs toward me, tucking his hat under his arm as we meet in the middle of the courtyard. “Consider this: if the announcement’s over, then I’m right on time.”