I stare at him, processing that last bit of information. “I’m going to the masquerade?”
“As my illanté, you will be expected to attend.”
I’m ashamed of the fear that makes my heart stutter. The idea of facing Brahm’s mother again, and in her lair…
“It will be fine,” he says, reading my horrified expression. “The illanté agreement will protect you.”
“Will it?” I ask, uneasy. “I made the bargain with your mother, not you. What if she decides to…”
I don’t need to finish the thought. We both know what Queen Marison is infamous for.
He shakes his head. “You and she agreed to the arrangement, but you are my illanté. The tether between us proves it. She can’t hurt you.”
I slowly nod, wanting to ask him about the tether. Sometimes, when I’m nearing the iron fence, I think I feel it on my wrist, tugging me back. Warning me that I’m not allowed to wander that far.
“I’ve never been to a masquerade,” I say instead. “Is this one anything like the ones the humans throw?”
“I have not attended a human masquerade, but I imagine they are similar.”
“So…you’ll wear a mask?” I bite my bottom lip, trying not to grin.
Brahm lowers his voice. “Have you missed it?”
I give him a vague shrug.
Looking as if he doesn’t want to smile, he clears his throat. “Be ready to leave midday. I want to arrive in Auvenridge before dark.”
He then turns down the hall, deciding the conversation is over.
I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, watching him disappear into his room. With a sigh, I close my door, wondering what Auvenridge will be like.
Terrifying, most likely. And lonely, if this month is any indication.
* * *
In Wallen’s absence,an estate footman drives our carriage to Auvenridge. I watch out the window, eagerly taking in places of West Faerie I’ve never seen.
We leave the Rose Briar Woods and begin to climb into the mountains, traversing a road that’s too narrow for two carriages to pass side-by-side. When we meet traffic coming down, one of the coachmen must find a wide spot in the road and wait for the other to pass. It puts us horrifyingly close to the edge, though Brahm doesn’t seem even remotely shaken.
We’ve left the roses and raspberries in the lower forest. Here, wild flowering cherry trees grow amongst gray-blue spruces, filling the mountainside with showy pink blossoms. Bleeding hearts grow at the base of their trunks, with their cool foliage spreading like a carpet along the spongy ground. The white and fuchsia flowers drip along graceful, arched stalks, drawing hummingbirds and butterflies.
Just as Brahm warned, the trip takes several hours. I’m almost asleep when the road suddenly evens out, and the change in terrain jolts me from my dozing.
Yawning behind my hand, I look out the window.
Old stone cottages line the road. Ivy grows up their walls, and the roofs are made of thatch or wooden shakes.
As we go deeper into the city, the cottages become businesses, all built out of the same stone. We pass a clock tower in the main square. It’s a grand thing, elaborately carved. The artist crafted an owl to sit at the very top, and it now surveys the comings and goings in the square—its eyes blinking and head moving like a live creature’s.
There’s a bookstore and a patisserie. Another shop appears to sell concoctions. Past them is a chandler whose window is filled with hand-cut candles in a dazzling array of marbled colors.
A Faerie peddler sells wooden flutes on the street, and the stand next to him is filled with crystal figurines that seem to be lit from within. Some hold roses; others contain things more ghastly.
The strangest of all, perhaps, is the puppet shop with marionettes hanging from a dead tree outside the door. Though their hand-painted faces smile at those passing by, there’s something ominous about them.
I sit back in my seat, hiding from their watchful eyes.
The carriage pauses at a gate in a trimmed hedge. The living fence is at least twelve feet tall, with small pink flowers blooming between thick, oval-shaped leaves. The overhead sun is shadowed for several seconds as we pass under the arch.