It was a very complex fantasy, which frequently left her even more depressed than she’d been before.
The smoke charade faded away to loud cheers, and the illusionist had not finished his bow before every candle flame on the head table exploded.
Levana screamed, tipping backward so fast that her chair crashed to the floor, bringing her with it. Though the flames continued to roar above her, bright and flickering, she realized after a terrified moment that there was no heat coming from them. Neither the threatening pulse of fire nor the smell of charred flesh followed.
No one else had screamed.
No one else had tried to get away.
Now, everyone was laughing.
Trembling, Levana accepted the hand of one of the royal guards—they alone were not showing their amusement. Her chair was righted, and she settled self-consciously back onto it.
The flames continued to burn, every one of them now as tall as a person, and with her terror waning, Levana was able to discern that this was just another illusion. Hovering over the table of wine goblets and half-finished plates was a line of fiery dancers, twirling and leaping from candlestick to candlestick.
Channary was laughing harder than all the others. “Whatever is the matter, baby sister?” Come here, baby sister. “You can’t possibly be afraid of a silly little trick.” I want to show you something.
Levana found that she couldn’t respond. Her heart was still thumping wildly, and her distrustful gaze was still fixed on the flame-dancers. Their existence, even if only a mental trick created by manipulating her own bioelectricity, made it impossible for her to relax. She could not tear her attention from them. Which was fine. She didn’t wish to see the mocking expressions around her. Hearing the laughter was bad enough.
She was only grateful that she’d had enough practice with the glamour of the invisible girl that she hadn’t lost her control.
“Is the princess afraid of fire?” asked the illusionist. Though he didn’t stop the illusion, the dancers did stop jumping, instead content to twirl slowly upon each candlewick. “I apologize, Your Highness. I did not know.”
“Don’t worry about her,” said Channary, holding a hand toward one of the dancers. “We cannot let her childish fears ruin our fun.”
“Ah—do be careful, Your Majesty. The fire underneath is still very real.” To prove his point, the illusionist sent the nearest dancer stepping down off her candle and into Channary’s palm, leaving the very real flame still flickering behind. Again, the crowd oohed its pleasure, and again Levana was forgotten.
Don’t worry about her.
It was only her birthday, after all. This was only her party.
The performance ended with all of the dancers turning into old-fashioned rocket ships that blasted upward and exploded into fireworks.
Once the delighted crowd had finished applauding, the dessert course was served. Levana stared down at the chocolate torte with the sugar sculpture that rose up nearly an arm’s length above her plate, a delicate series of curls and filigree. It looked as though it would shatter with a single touch.
Levana did not pick up her fork.
She wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was still in knots over the explosion of fire. She could feel her palms sweating beneath the glamour, and that was the sort of detail that was hard to ignore and could weaken a person’s focus. Having already embarrassed herself, she would not let these people see beneath her glamour too.
“I’m going to bed,” she said, to no one in particular. If anyone had been paying attention to her, if anyone had cared, they would have heard. But no one did.
She glanced at Channary, who had called the illusionist over to their table and was feeding him a forkful of chocolate.
Levana wondered what the illusionist looked like beneath his glamour. He was handsome now, but beneath the surface, he could be anyone.
They could all be anyone.
Why couldn’t she be anyone? Why couldn’t she be the one person she wanted to be?
Perhaps the trouble was that she could never quite figure out who that person was.
She pushed her chair out, reveling in the loud screech of legs on the hard floor.
No one looked her way.
It was not until she had left the dining hall and was alone in the main corridor that someone stopped her.
“Your Highness?”
She turned back to see that a guard had followed her into the corridor. Well—three guards, but only two of them were assigned to follow her at a respectful distance and ensure she wasn’t threatened en route to her chambers.
This third guard was familiar, but only in the way that she knew he had served beneath her parents for some years.
“What is it?”
He bowed. “Forgive my intrusion, Highness. My friend, Sir Evret Hayle, asked me to give you this. With joyful birthday wishes.”
He produced a small box, wrapped in plain brown paper.
Her heart twisted and she found that she couldn’t approach him to take the gift.
“Evret Hayle?”
He nodded.
It’s a trick, it’s a trick, it’s a trick. Her mind repeated the warning over and over. This was something her sister had set up. Some cruel diversion.
But her heart fluttered anyway. Her pulse boiled and rushed.
She dared a glance through the enormous doors back into the dining hall. Evret was stationed at the far end of the hall, but he was smiling kindly at her. As she stared, he placed a fist to his heart, a respectful salute that could have meant nothing.
Or could have meant everything.