Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,218

“Welcome, Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy. Sorry about that. Must have been a glitch.”

“Quite all right,” Chatine murmured, trying her best to return the smile. But it was difficult to do with her heart in her throat.

As they shuffled forward, through the archway, Chatine struggled to catch her breath. “What the fric?” she whispered once they were far enough away from the officers.

“Sorry!” came Cerise’s far-too-chipper reply. “I mixed up the profiles and nearly sent Marcellus’s to your scan and yours to Marcellus’s. Anyway, I had to abort in the middle. It wasn’t pretty. But the good news is, you’re in.”

“Barely,” Chatine muttered.

They approached a set of stone stairs that led from the courtyard down to the Imperial Lawn below. For a moment, as Chatine took in the breathtaking view, all remnants of her former anxiety seemed to vanish.

The Sols had set in the TéléSky above, but the Palais gardens glowed with a thousand tiny, twinkling lights that were hung in the trees and ornate shrubbery. Every flower imaginable glimmered in the magical half-light, and a series of illuminated fountains chugged water high into the air in a coordinated dance. And, at the far end of the Imperial Lawn, up a majestic sweeping staircase, stood the Grand Palais itself. The ocean-blue walls of the vast building looked almost purple in this light, and every one of its hundreds of windows reflected back the twinkling glow from the gardens.

A poke at her arm jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked down to see Marcellus was nudging her with his elbow. She nudged him back, assuming it was some kind of attempt to reassure her. But Marcellus just laughed.

“I’m offering you my arm,” he explained.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “What would I want with your arm?”

He grabbed her gloved hand and looped it around the crook of his elbow. “It’s proper etiquette for a wife to take the arm of her husband.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “Madame Pontmercy.”

Chatine fought back a snort. “Proper etiquette?” She lowered her voice to a whisper and jutted her chin at the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, where she’d seen him hide his rayonette. “I think we’re far beyond that now.”

His expression darkened, as though he were just now remembering what the weapon was for. “Fine. Then it’s to help you down the stairs.”

Chatine rolled her eyes and removed her hand. “I’ve scaled walls in the Frets. I don’t need help walking down stairs.”

But as she descended the first step, the ridiculously tall shoes Cerise had made her wear wobbled beneath her and she began to fall. Marcellus reached out to catch her just in time and, with an infuriating smirk, returned her hand to his arm. “And now we understand the etiquette.”

Chatine grumbled in response, but this time kept her grip locked on his elbow as she carefully maneuvered down the steps and into the heart of the festivities. How was she ever supposed to successfully do anything covert in this ridiculous getup? She was used to blending into shadows. The only thing she would blend into in this dress was the gâteau.

“Don’t worry,” Marcellus whispered as they waded into the crowd. “If you fall again, just blame the wine.”

Even though the Patriarche and the general wouldn’t be making their grand entrance for at least another thirty minutes, the banquet was already in full swing. Music wafted through the warm night breeze, and hundreds of Third Estaters—invited in from the gray, damp world outside—were now dancing, chattering, and milling excitedly around vast tables laden with food and wine. Chatine spotted silver dishes bearing whole roasted chickens, platters of sizzling fish, towers of brightly colored fruit, and vast boards of every kind of cheese imaginable. And on the center table stood a line of embellished gâteaus, green and frosted, with dozens of cream-filled layers.

A true First Estate fête.

Chatine’s mind involuntarily fluttered back to the last fête she had attended. The linking cérémonie at the camp. Sols, how much she would rather have been there than here. The memory of Etienne’s face as he turned away from her in the Terrain Perdu had been like a permanent knife burrowed in her side ever since she’d left.

Marcellus guided her off to the side, where a row of delicately trimmed hedges flanked the perimeter of the lawn. From here, they could observe the rest of the fête without being easily spotted.

“Can you see the champagne fountain yet?” Cerise’s voice slipped back into her ear.

“I’m looking.” Marcellus craned his