I smile, trying out an expression the same way Dendera made me try on different gowns. The pretense cracks and my stomach tightens with the ever-lingering knot of worry that this is a mistake. That I’m wrong for what I have planned, that I need to not be reckless or impulsive or do things I know are dangerous.
But I hold that smile on my face until it aches.
I stand, smooth the pleated skirt, and follow Dendera and Nessa out of my room.
Conall and Garrigan drop in behind us, along with Henn, who takes Dendera’s hand. I sneak a grin at her, but she’s too absorbed in Henn to see.
My entourage and I weave our way through the palace, looping around to enter the ballroom through the door closest to the rear. I know what awaits us beyond it—a dais, along with Cordellan soldiers, Noam, Theron, the Autumnians, and my people, all excited for the ceremony.
I should be excited too. But a sudden surge of music makes everyone around me stiffen, as if no one is sure they’re hearing what they think they’re hearing. I tell myself to move through the door linking this hall to the ballroom, but I can’t.
This music. It’s airy and delicate, bouncing off the walls around me in a swell of unassuming perfection. If I could put notes to the sound of flakes falling, of water crystallizing into ice, of snow gusting on the wind, this would be it.
This is what Winter sounds like.
Dendera squeezes my arm, a dreamlike smile on her face. “The instruments are lyres, a discovery salvaged from the palace. It appears Angra did not destroy all of our treasures.”
Yet, comes my instinctual reaction, shattering the trance of the music. But no—he’s dead. Finn and Greer brought back no news of him. And even if he comes back somehow, I’ll have allies united to stand against him. He can’t hurt us anymore.
A door opens on our left, letting a flurry of musty, frigid air waft up from the stone basement below. Sir emerges, trailed by Greer and Finn, all with at least one crate in their arms. The goods I designated for Cordell and Autumn.
Sir narrows a look at me. “My queen, are you certain you wish to go through with this?”
I teeter on the brink of changing my mind, but I need to do this. “Yes.”
He shifts the crates he holds, his uncertainty reeling on his face. “I trust you, my queen. We all trust you to make the best decisions for our future, but I—”
I put my hand on his arm. “Please, William. Let me do this. Let me just try.”
That silences him, and he holds my gaze in the stillness like he’s searching for something in my eyes. But he says nothing more, and Nessa takes my hand to lead me toward the end of this dark, ivory hall. I’m dragged back to all those times in Abril where she held on to me for strength or out of some dire need to make sure I was here.
My fingers tighten around hers, and Dendera opens the door.
The celebration unfolds around us, cupped inside a half-destroyed ballroom. The south side of the ceiling is completely gone, only a fraction of the wall remaining, which lets in snowflakes and the gray evening sky. A marble staircase against the far wall leads to the wing that houses my room and a few dozen more. The other walls tower three stories in the air, lined with the same ivory moldings and silver accents as the rest of the palace. Cracks run like jagged snakes through the walls; bits of mortar crumble from the broken ceiling in bursts of shattered rain.
But as I step inside, I couldn’t have guessed that the ballroom had ever been anything but whole.
Everyone is here. Every resident of Jannuari, the Autumnian visitors, a few Cordellan soldiers, all mingling under the lyre music and snow-cloud sky. And every Winterian has managed to find at least some small piece of white clothing to wear in honor of our kingdom—a shirt or a scarf or a gown with white patterned over gray. Hundreds of white-haired heads in white outfits, twisting and moving like so many flakes of snow. Winter’s blizzard.
The dais sits to the right of the hall I just exited, adorned by tufts of white silk and bundles of Winterian plants, evergreen sprigs and milky snowdrops. The fresh scent of pine and the honey-sweet floral aroma mix with the crispness of the air drifting through the ceiling, creating an atmosphere that saturates my every nerve with thoughts of Winter.
The atmosphere cracks a little when I see who waits on that dais: Noam, Theron, and two Autumnian royals.
I’ve managed to avoid Theron since our meeting earlier, keeping to my room or the basement. Now, I meet his eyes, and I see there a question laced with concern wrapped in need.
My attention leaps from him to his father, both of them straight-backed in their green-and-gold Cordellan uniforms. Entirely normal, as if we didn’t find the magic chasm’s entrance at all.
Focus. Breathe.
Unlike Noam, the Autumnians have had the decency to remain in their own kingdom since Winter’s rebirth to give us time to collect ourselves—which means I haven’t met them yet. King Caspar Abu Shazi Akbari, whose line holds the connection to Autumn’s female-blooded conduit, stands beside his queen, Nikoletta Umm Shazi Akbari, Noam’s sister, whose marriage produced the female heir Autumn needed after two generations without a daughter.
Caspar watches me so intently that I’m worried about tipping over backward. He has the shoulder-length black hair, warm umber skin, and deep, black eyes of Autumn. His tunic of glistening gold over ruby-red pants seems too simple for a king, but the thin strand of interlocking gold leaves in his hair proclaims his station.
Nikoletta, by contrast, beams at me. Gentle waves of dark blond hair ripple over her shoulders, far lighter than the black-as-night hair of her Autumnian subjects. On her head sits a crown of rubies that hosts an array of dangling beads. Red fabric pours out of the back of the crown, blending into her bloodred gown, which is overlaid with golden flowers and more rubies.