Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,109

dresses. She remembered dancing with her father in the ballroom of some senator or another, balancing her feet atop his as they swirled around the room. For a moment, she was overcome. Memories of the life she’d lost. Thoughts of the person she might have been but never was.

She ran her fingertips over the row of masques Aalea had prepared for them. Each was a volto—full-faced and oval shaped. Pearl-white ceramic, trimmed in gold, each with three blood-red tears beneath the right eye. They were exquisitely crafted, velvet soft to the touch.

“This is all a bit much, aye?”

Mia turned to find Tric beside her, scowling at the other acolytes. Osrik and Marcellus were trying on various waistcoats and cravats, bowing to each other “After you, sir,” “No, no, after you, sir.” Carlotta had wriggled into a gown made of some astonishing fabric that shifted hues as she twirled on the spot. Hush had clad himself head to foot in pristine white; his doublet embroidered with gleaming silver.

“A bit much?” Mia repeated.

“We’re supposed to be disciples of the Mother. They’re acting like children.”

Mia found herself on edge too, truth be told. The first time Aalea had sent them to Godsgrave, she’d been locked in a cell and beaten half to death at the command of the Lord of Blades. They’d all traveled dozens of times to the City of Bridges and Bones since then, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this “gift” was too good to be true. Yet finally, she shrugged.

“It can’t hurt to have fun once in a while. Give it a try. You might enjoy it.”

“Bollocks,” he growled. “I’m not here to enjoy myself.”

“Rest easy, my dour centurion.” Mia plucked up one of the voltos, pushed it against Tric’s face. “If you do crack a smile, it’s not like anyone will see it.”

Tric sighed, looked up and down the racks of gents’ attire. Jackets and doublets, boots with gleaming buckles and waistcoats with glittering buttons.

“I’m not too polished at this sort of business,” he confessed. “Aalea has been trying, but in truth I’m not sure where to start.”

Mia found herself smiling. Offered her arm.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got me, Don Tric.”

He scrubbed up well, in the end. Though it was a challenge to find anything that sat comfortably on shoulders broad as his, Mia eventually found Tric a long frock coat in coal gray (dark colors, it seemed, were en vogue for gentry this season) gilded with gold. As he’d sat and squirmed, she plaited his saltlocks into something resembling order, and tied a white silk cravat around his throat. Inspecting her handiwork in the mirror, the boy gave a grudging nod. Ashlinn whistled loudly from a corner.

Mia herself chose a daring gown of crushed velvet in a deep wine-red, propping a tricorn of the same fabric atop her head. Kohl for her eyes. Burgundy paint for her lips. Aalea favored reds, and Mia was of a similar complexion, so she thought it might be worth a gamble. Pulling on a pair of long gloves and a wolf-fur stole, she peered into the looking glass and smiled.

Ash whistled again from her corner.

The acolytes drifted back into the garish sunslight, ferried across the canal. Stepping onto a broad pier and through the gates of Palazzo Marconi, Mia saw guests arriving by gondola, others by carriage, horses snorting and stamping in the chill. A bitter wind was blowing in off the water and her breath hung in the air. She pulled the wolf fur tighter, squinting at the pale red sun behind its veil of clouds and wishing she’d not worn an off-the-shoulder cut. Tric, walking arm in arm with Ashlinn, noticed Mia’s shivers, and slipped his free arm about her for warmth.

Mia regretted her choice of dress a little less.

The acolytes were all wearing their voltos, faces hidden behind smooth ceramic. As they milled about the entrance, Mia saw the other guests were similarly attired, her eyes growing wide at some of the masques on display. One gent wore a death’s head carved of black ivory, arkemical globes burning in its eye sockets. She saw a woman with a domino made of firebird feathers, which seemed to ripple with flame when the sunslight hit it right. The most stunning belonged to a lass barely in her teens, whose masque was a long sheaf of black silk, form fitted to her face. The silk billowed like a loose sail in the wind, yet once they’d stepped