Then, quick as a viper, Channary backhanded Levana across the face, sending her stumbling into one of the bedposts. Levana cried out, the shock causing her to lose control of her glamour.
“Ah, there’s my ugly duckling,” Channary cooed. Stepping closer, she grabbed Levana’s chin, squeezing tight before Levana could raise her hand to soothe her already-flaming cheek. “I suggest you remember this the next time you think to contradict one of my orders. As you have so kindly reminded me, I am going to be queen, and I will not tolerate my commands being questioned, especially by my pathetic little sister. You will be speaking for me at the funeral.”
Turning away, Levana blinked back the tears that had sprung up and scrambled to reinstate her illusion. To hide her disfigurements. To pretend that she was beautiful too.
Spotting movement in the corner of her eye, she saw a maid frozen in the doorway. Channary hadn’t closed it upon entering, and Levana was quite certain the maid had seen everything.
Smartly, the servant lowered her gaze and curtsied.
Releasing Levana’s chin, Channary stepped back. “Put on your mourning dress, little sister,” she said, once again wearing her pretty smile. “We have a very big day ahead of us.”
* * *
The great hall was filled with grays. Gray hair, gray makeup, gray gloves, gray gowns, gray stockings. Charcoal jackets and heather sleeves, snowdrop shoes and stormy top hats. Despite the drab color palette, though, the funeral guests looked anything but mournful. For in those grays were gowns made of floating ribbons and sculpted jewelry and frosted flowers that grew like tiny gardens from bountiful poufed hair.
Levana could imagine that the Artemisian seamstresses had been kept very, very busy since the assassination.
Her own dress was adequate. A floor-length gown made of gray-on-gray damask velvet and a high lace neckline that, she guessed, looked lovely with the cropped black hair of her glamour. It was nothing as showy as Channary’s tutu, but at least she maintained a bit of dignity.
On a dais at the front of the room, a holograph was showing the deceased king and queen as they had once looked in their summery youth. Her mother in her wedding gown—barely older then than Levana was now. Her father seated upon his throne, broad shouldered and square jawed. They were artist-rendered portraits, of course—recordings of the royal family were strictly prohibited—but the artist had captured their glamours almost perfectly. Her father’s steely gaze, the graceful way her mother fluttered her fingers when she waved.
Levana stood beside Channary on the dais, accepting kisses on her hands and the condolences of Artemisia’s families as they filtered past. Levana’s stomach was in knots, knowing that Channary planned on shirking her duties as eldest and forcing her to give the speech. Though she had been practicing for years, Levana still had the irrational fear every time she addressed an audience that she would lose control of her glamour and they would see her as she truly was.
The rumors were bad enough. Whispers that the young princess was not at all beautiful, had in fact been grotesquely disfigured by some tragic accident in her childhood. That it was a mercy no one would ever have to look on her. That they were all lucky she was as skilled at her glamour as she was, so they wouldn’t have to tolerate such ugliness in their precious court.
She bowed her head, thanking a woman for her lie about how very honorable her parents had been, when her attention caught on a man still a few persons back in the line.
Her heart tripped over itself. Her movements became automatic—nod, hold out your hand, mumble thank you—while all the world receded into a blur of grays.
Sir Evret Hayle had become a royal guard in her father’s personal entourage when Levana was just eight years old, and she had loved him ever since, despite knowing that he was nearly ten years her senior. His skin was ebony dark, his eyes full of intelligence and cunning when he was on duty, and mirth when he was relaxed. She had once caught flecks of gray and emerald in his irises, and ever since was mesmerized by his eyes, hoping to be close enough one day to witness those flecks again. His hair was a mess of tightly coiled locks, long enough to seem unruly, short enough to be refined. Levana didn’t think she’d ever seen him outside of his guard uniform, which very precisely indicated every muscle in his arms and shoulders—until today. He was wearing simple gray pants and a tunic-style shirt that was almost too relaxed for a royal funeral.
He wore them like a prince.
For seven years she had known him to be the most handsome man in the entire Lunar court. In the city of Artemisia. On all of Luna. She had known it even before she was old enough to understand why her heart pounded so strongly when he was near.
And now he was coming closer. Only four people dividing them. Three. Two.
Hand beginning to tremble, Levana stood a little straighter and adjusted her glamour so that her eyes were a little brighter and the jewel in her skin glittered like an actual tear. She made herself a bit taller too—closer to Evret’s height, though still small enough to seem vulnerable and in need of protection.
It had been many months since she had reason to stand so near to him, and here he was, coming to her, with sympathy in his eyes. There were those flecks of gray and emerald, not a figment of her imagination after all. He was not playing the role of guard, for once, but of a mourning Lunar citizen. He was taking her hand and raising it to his mouth, though the kiss landed in the air above her knuckles. Her pulse was an ocean in her ears.
“Your Highness,” he said, and hearing his voice was almost as rare a treasure as seeing the flecks in his eyes. “I am so sorry for your loss. The sorrow belongs to us all, but I know you bear the weight more than anyone.”
She tried to store his words away in the back of her mind, for retrieval and analysis at a moment when he was not holding her hand or peering into her soul. I know you bear the weight more than anyone.
Although he appeared honest, Levana didn’t think he was overly fond of the king and queen. Perhaps his grief was because he’d not been on duty when the murders happened, so he couldn’t have done anything to stop them. Levana sensed that he was exceptionally proud of his place on the royal guard.
For her part, though, she was grateful that Evret hadn’t been there. That some other guards had been killed instead.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “Your kindness makes this day easier to bear, Sir Hayle.”
They were the same words she had said to countless other guests that day. Wishing she were clever enough to come up with something truly meaningful, she added, “I trust you know that you were a great favorite of my father’s.”
She had no idea whether it was true, but seeing Evret’s eyes soften made it as true as she cared for it to be.
“I will continue to faithfully serve your family as long as I am able.”
The proper words exchanged, he released her hand. Her skin tingled as she let it fall back to her side.