Cinder (The Lunar Chronicles #1) - Marissa Meyer Page 0,101

noise as well, swiveling in unison like puppets on strings.

And there was Queen Levana.

She was leaning against one of the columns that flanked the doorway to the gardens, holding a goblet of gold wine in one hand and pressing the fingers of the other against her smiling red lips. Her figure was perfection. Her posture could not have been more poised had she been carved from the same stone as the pillar. She wore a royal blue dress that shimmered with what were probably diamonds yet gave the very distinct impression of stars in an endless summer sky.

The orange light blinked beside Cinder’s vision. The queen’s glamour, the endless lie.

In addition to the queen, a Lunar guard stood just within the doorway, stark red hair swept up from his brow like a candle flame. A man and woman dressed in the distinctive uniforms of royal thaumaturges also lingered nearby, awaiting their mistress’s order. Every one of them was strikingly beautiful and, unlike their queen, their beauty didn’t seem to be an illusion. Cinder wondered if that was a requirement for serving the Lunar throne—or if she just happened to be the only Lunar in the galaxy who hadn’t been born with brilliant eyes and flawless skin.

“How charmingly naive,” said the queen, followed by another spill of laughter. “You must misunderstand my culture. On Luna, we consider monogamy to be nothing more than archaic sentimentality. What do I care if my husband-to-be is in love with another…”—she paused, her dark eyes sweeping over Cinder’s dress—“woman?”

Terror wrapped around Cinder’s throat as the queen’s eyes seemed to pierce right through her. The queen knew she was Lunar. She could tell.

“What does concern me,” continued Queen Levana, her voice a sweet lullaby that sharpened with her next words, “is that it appears my betrothed has fallen in love with an insignificant shell. Am I mistaken?”

The thaumaturges nodded in agreement, their eyes fixed on Cinder. “She certainly has the smell of one,” said the woman.

Cinder wrinkled her nose. According to Dr. Erland, she wasn’t actually a shell, and she wondered if the woman was making that insult up to mock her. Or maybe she was smelling the gasoline fumes from the car.

Suddenly, her netlink recognized the woman, and Cinder forgot about the affront. She was the diplomat who had been in New Beijing for weeks, whose picture had been all over the news feeds, though she’d never paid her much attention.

Sybil Mira, head thaumaturge to the Lunar queen.

Mistress Sybil, the girl had said over the D-COMM chip. This was the woman who had forced her to make the spy equipment, who had put the chip in Nainsi.

Cinder tried to relax, surprised that her control panel hadn’t short-circuited with all the adrenaline coursing through her veins. What she wouldn’t have given for a weapon, even a measly screwdriver to protect herself with—anything other than this useless foot and slight silk gloves.

Kai abandoned Cinder, marching toward the queen. “Your Majesty, I apologize for this disruption,” he said, Cinder only catching his words as she adjusted her audio interface. “But we need not make a scene in front of my guests.”

The queen’s charcoal eyes flashed with the warm ballroom light. “It seems you’re perfectly capable of making a scene without my help.” Her smile turned to a playful pout. “Oh, dear, it seems that I’m more hurt than I thought I was by your fickleness. I believed I was to be your personal guest tonight.” Again, her eyes caressed Cinder’s face. “You can’t think her prettier than me.” She reached out a fingernail and traced it along Kai’s jaw. “My dear, are you blushing?”

Kai slapped Levana’s hand away, but before he could respond, she turned toward Cinder and her expression filled with disgust. “What is your name, child?”

Cinder downed a painful gulp, barely forcing her name from her throat. “Cinder.”

“Cinder.” A condescending laugh. “How fitting. Ashes. Dirt. Filth.”

“That’s enough—” started Kai, but Levana breezed past him, the sparkling dress swaying over her hips. She held her wine glass aloft, as if prepared to compliment the prince on such a pleasant dinner party.

“Tell me, Cinder,” she said, “what poor sapling Earthen did you steal that name from?”

Cinder’s hand went to her wrist and gripped the silk glove and flesh that concealed her ID chip, barely sore from the small incision she’d made earlier. A weight settled in the pit of her stomach.

The queen sniffed. “You shells,” she said, her voice rising for the crowd. “You think you’re so clever.