Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,108

there was now only smooth, pale skin.

“The weaver knows her work,” Mia smiled.

Carlotta glanced at Mia, back out the window.

“… I suppose.”

“O, come, you look a picture, Lotti,” Ash protested. “Marielle is a master.”

At an elbow from his sister, Osrik piped up. “O, aye. A picture, no doubt.”

“It’s strange,” Carlotta murmured. “The things we miss.”

The girl touched the cheek where her slavemark used to be. Fingers tracing that now flawless skin. She said no more, and Mia was reluctant to push. But she could see memories swimming in the girl’s eyes as she stared at the passing city. Shadows that stained Carlotta’s irises a deeper blue.

Where had a slavegirl learned venomcraft?

What had driven her to join the Church?

Why was she here?

Mia knew Carlotta was competition for Spiderkiller’s prize above all else. That Mister Kindly had spoken true, and pity would be a weakness to be used against her. That she shouldn’t care.

But still, somehow she did.

Their gondola finally took berth at a small pier at the front of a grand five-story palazzo—the kind of home only the marrowborn might own.

“What the ’byss is all this about?” Mia whispered.

Ashlinn and Osrik both shrugged—seemed their da didn’t tell them everything after all. Mia checked her gravebone blade for the fourth time before stepping onto the jetty. The winds off the canal were icy, the pier slippery beneath her feet.

The acolytes were ushered into the palazzo’s foyer. The walls were red, hung with beautiful portraiture in the lush Liisian style.2 Vases full of flowers strung the air with a soft perfume, and a roaring fire burned at the graven hearth.

At the top of a grand and winding staircase stood Shahiid Aalea. Though she’d fancied it a silly turn of phrase only found in books, the sight of the woman actually took Mia’s breath away. The Shahiid was decked in a long, flowing gown, red as heart’s blood, embroidered with black lace and pearls. A drakebone corset pulled her waistline torturously tight, and an off-the-shoulder cut exposed smooth, cream-white skin. In her hand, she held a domino mask on a slender ivory wand.

Lotti’s eyes were wide, misgivings about her face momentarily forgotten.

“I would kill my own mother to get into a dress like that…”

“I would kill you and your mother to get into a dress like that,” Ash whispered.

“You want to dance, Järnheim?” Lotti deadpanned. “Liisian silk brocade with a melphi-cut corset and matching gloves? I will bury you.”

Mia and Ash’s laughter was cut short as Aalea spoke, her voice soft as smoke.

“Acolytes,” she smiled. “Welcome, and thank you for coming. Three months have passed since your induction into the Red Church. We understand that lessons grow long and the hours weigh heavy, and so every once in a while, I convince the Ministry to allow you to … let your hair down, as it were.”

Aalea smiled at the novices the way the suns smiled at the sky.

“Great Tithe approaches, and as such, it is customary to give gifts to loved ones. Across the canal is the palazzo of Praetor Giuseppe Marconi, a wealthy young marrowborn don who throws some of the most delightful parties I’ve ever attended. This eve, the praetor hosts his traditional Great Tithe gala; a ball to which only the cream of Godsgrave society is invited. And invitations have been arranged … for you.”

Aalea produced a handful of parchment slips seemingly from midair, slowly fanned her neck.

“Of course, you’ll each have to concoct a convincing subterfuge as to why you’ve been invited to such an exclusive soiree. But I’m certain I’ve versed you well enough for that. The ball is a masquerade, after all, so the face you wear can be any you choose.”

The Shahiid indicated a set of double doors with a wave of her hand.

“You will find suitable clothing within. Enjoy yourselves, my dears. Laugh. Love. Remember what it is to live, and forget, if only for a moment, what it is to serve.”

Aalea handed out the gilded invitations, and ushered the acolytes through the double doors. Within, Mia found row upon row of the most beautiful gowns and coats she’d ever seen. The finest cut. The richest cloth. Ashlinn practically dove at a rack of silken corsetry; even Jessamine lost her customary scowl.

Mia wandered wide-eyed through a forest of fur and velvet, damask and lace. It’d been years since she’d seen clothing like this up close. Longer since she’d worn anything like it. As a little girl, she’d attended the grandest balls and galas, worn the finest