Leah Squires: Final Major Project Creative Extract
Chapter Three: Seren
Veira and I walk up towards the castle, the sand and dirt of the path over the grassy cliffs crunching beneath our boots. The sun begins its descent into the ocean, its glow illuminating the sky in a pink haze, yet no warmth reaches us. Instead, the wind sweeps along the water’s surface and whips up through the waves, crashing into us in a cold collision of salt and sea spray. I clutch my hooded cloak around me with cold hands, and call out to Veira, “At this rate we’ll arrive at the ball looking like peasants!” Veira is quiet for a moment, as she often is when taking care to select honest words, or of course, when she refuses to speak at all. The latter will probably form her behaviour this evening. Amidst all her protests before we left the cottage, I had to remind her that this was a party. All she needs to do is look presentable, stay silent, and smile. “It’s all right,” she calls back. “Our cloaks are doing what they’re supposed to do.” As ever, I contemplate the truth of her statement and look down at my cloak, which has indeed taken the brunt of the weather’s force. Running a hand underneath my hood confirms my hair is also relatively well-protected. I painstakingly wove glittering threads through several braids, which I wrapped around my crown and pinned into place. Then I decorated the coronet with pearlescent jewels, a satin ribbon, and white blossoms from the peach tree in our garden. Veira
even let me replicate a similar style for her, only less ornate thanks to her hair’s shorter length. At least we’ll look respectable, I think. I keep my eyes fixed on the castle and tell myself it’s not much further to go, but the uphill climb is still straining my legs with every step. At my side, Veira is walking strong - barely out of breath. Perhaps taking on Father’s responsibilities of chopping the wood and working our land has made her stronger already. A few minutes later, with the dying daylight still guiding our steps, the grounds of Hynaidh Castle unfold before us. Its crumbling grey stones have been replaced with large, sandstone bricks, giving each tower and turret newly sharpened corners that gleam with unweathered strength. Our parents used to take us for walks along this cliff, but always forbade us from playing in the ruins. Mother said the castle here was tiny compared to the royal palaces on the continent, but curiosity still compelled me to explore every dark crevice of its remains. All these years later, I finally have the chance to peek inside. We come to a stop outside the castle gates, where rows of vibrant green hedges and blossoming trees line the perimeter of the grounds. “Here would be a good place,” Veira says, bending over to slip off her walking boots. I glance around to make sure no other guests can see us. A crow pecks at the grass nearby, but we’re otherwise alone. I follow Veira’s lead and start unlacing my own boots. She takes both pairs of Mother’s silk slippers from the pack she brought, hands me the white and silver pair I selected - they bring out the shimmering embroidery in
my pale lavender gown - meanwhile she takes the gold-threaded ones for herself, chosen to compliment her emerald green dress. We stash our walking boots inside the bag and secret it beneath the bushes. Veira’s finger twitches as her eyes move purposefully between the entrance and our hiding spot. “Seven hedges left of the main gate.” I nod, and we move towards the entrance. The gates are made of black wrought iron, which has been fashioned into curls and spirals with small leaves sprouting from each one. It looks like the gate to a magical faerie kingdom, almost as though it had been lifted directly from one of the tales Mother used to tell me. My heart quivers as I allow myself to imagine what might lay on the other side of these gates. A gentle noblewoman with a handsome son. A castle of riches to last a lifetime. A night of enchantment and romance. I’m about to push the gate open and enter the grounds when Veira touches my arm. I turn to face her, seeing the colour has drained from her cheeks and she is staring aghast at the castle. A frown of confusion - no, horror - mars her face. “Veira? Are you all right?” She blinks hard and shakes her head, then opens her eyes again. They scan the castle once more but reveal nothing. “I . . . I don’t know,” Veira stammers. “I’m sure you’ll feel better once we’re inside and you have something to eat.” I pat her shoulder and lead her through the gate, along the stone path, and into the grounds. The courtyard alone is so vast, our cottage could probably fit in it twenty times.
Past the three-tiered stone fountain, a row of cast iron braziers lights the way to an open door, made of oak, and reinforced with horizontal metal bars. It may be the home of nobility now, but these details remind me it was once a well-defended fortress. Once inside, there are multiple passages and corridors, but only one path is marked with more lights to follow. This time, they take the form of sconces holding candles, each sphere of light connecting a narrow path through the shadows. I can just about make out the grey stone walls, which seem to emit a deep coldness. The outlines of the picture frames are barely visible - their contents remaining a mystery - and the plush, crimson carpet swallows our footsteps. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen another soul here, and I begin to wonder whether we’ve arrived on the correct evening. As we walk further still, I take shallow breaths through my lips to avoid the stuffy odours of dust and damp that cling to the castle’s interior. It’s almost as though the vast memories of this ancient place linger within its walls. After a fair distance, the corridor opens up into an antechamber, where finally, we encounter other people. It takes all my effort to not recoil at the sight of Governor Yurith in one corner, exchanging some quiet words with Darian Bayne and his father, Raïss. The two talk in hushed voices as Darian’s mother Esyllt, and his wife Erinne, stand to one side, mute. Caelyn’s face flashes into my mind and my stomach twists, anger and bile churning in the pit of my gut at the memory of what they did to her. A darkness inside me stirs, threatening to spread throughout my body and devour me whole, so I turn away, barely glancing at the other villagers long enough to recall their names or professions, searching my mind for something to discuss with Veira.
“It appears we leave our cloaks here.” She nods to a row of brass hooks on the far wall, which already displays a few coats and capes, and she begins to unfasten her own. I do the same, following her to where we place our outerwear. The gilded doors to the ballroom remain closed, but the antechamber is a decent size, illuminated with an overhead chandelier and floor-standing candelabras on each of the four walls, positioned as though they were the points of a compass. The floor is tiled with alternate black and white squares, while the walls are adorned with large mirrors, oil paintings and velvet tapestries. Once we’ve found a spot at the furthest possible point from Yurith and the Bayne ilk, I try to temper the fury simmering in my veins by breathing deeply. It fails to do much. Veira clasps my elbow and speaks in a low, almost conspiratorial, whisper. “Seren.” Her eyes dart around, as though checking that no-one else can hear her barely-there voice. “This place is . . . strange. I don’t know how to explain it.” Her head drops for a breath, and when she lifts it, turmoil lines her features. She blinks hard again, as though enduring the pangs of a headache. Not this again. “What are you talking about?” I whisper back. Veira scrutinises the wall tapestry beside us and outstretches a cautious hand. Once her fingers have grazed its surface, she places her hand flush against it, pressing the tapestry into the wall. She removes her hand, lifts it to her face - examining it for some trace she can’t seem to find - then sniffs it. I grab her wrist and lower it, snapping open my silk fan in my other hand to conceal us from the judgement of onlookers.
“What are you doing? You’ll embarrass us!” I search Veira’s face for the cause of this madness, but find nothing. “The governor already has us in his sights. Don’t give him a reason to pounce.” “Seren. Please. I think we need to leave.” Her words send a chill through me and my muscles stiffen. “Do you mean leave the castle? Or leave the island?” Veira’s eyes snap to mine. Hurt gleams inside them now. Fear, too. Good, I think. She deserves to know how betrayal feels. We still haven’t spoken about Aunt Vana’s letter, yet now she’d take away my first opportunity to secure a good match at the very moment it’s within my reach. Before Veira can respond, the doors to the ballroom open, and we move forwards to enter. ~ My breath stills as I step into the ballroom. It is iridescent. Every surface twinkles with golden droplets of light. In a domed recess high above hangs the largest chandelier I’ve ever seen, with more candles than I could hope to count in a lifetime. They illuminate the white ceiling and walls and set the gilded filigree panels ablaze. Alcoves with velvet seating areas line the walls of the ballroom, with gold columns placed between each one. Atop every column, more candles flicker until everything around them glitters and dances. It is without a doubt the grandest room I have ever seen. Grander, even, than any sparkling faerie kingdom I might have imagined.
We glide across the rich mahogany floor, perfectly polished and gleaming, and for the first time, I catch a glimpse of our hosts through the assembled crowd. I inch forwards to get a better look, tugging Veira with me. The woman, Lady Rhian Ledrythe, looks to be in her seventh or even eighth decade. The lines on her face are deeply etched, yet she stands tall, shoulders squared, with a gracious smile. Her deep purple gown, embroidered with yet more shimmering gold, swishes along the floor as she strides towards the awestruck villagers - a paragon of elegance. A man younger than the Lady walks at her side. From the letter we received, I presume him to be Sir Calon. He’s tall and broad, with chestnut brown hair sweeping away from his face. As they approach, I see he’s bearded, with two lines creasing his forehead. My stomach lurches at the realisation that he must be at least in his fourth decade. Is he too old for us to make a good match? I reason that, although there may be an age difference, my youth and charm could still win his security and protection. I know how Veira feels about being a man’s prize, but if I could achieve my dream of living in a comfortable house with a safe sister, a kind husband, and happy children playing in the grounds . . . yes. This is a match I want to make. My gaze drifts to the other guests in attendance. Many of the townspeople have braved the walk up the cliff to be here this evening and there are a few young women I may find myself competing with. I don’t know the name of the baker’s daughter, but her fair hair and ample bosom draw the eyes of many men. No matter, I tell myself. I can be demure and graceful.
Unlike Veira, I can spin words to win trust. Hide my pain and grief behind a pleasant smile. Play the role that can keep us both safe. “Honoured guests of Ceartas,” Sir Calon begins. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you on this fine evening, to the newly renovated Hynaidh Castle.” Veira places a hand on my arm but I barely notice. Sir Calon’s voice has a youthful strength to it. Perhaps he’s still full enough of vigour that I might dare to hope for at least one dance tonight. “I will be making this evening’s introductions on behalf of my mother, Lady Rhian Ledrythe.” The Lady steps forwards at her son’s announcement, hands clasped at her waist so the bejewelled rings adorning her fingers shine in the luminescence of the ballroom. “Please,” she gestures to the long tables against the back wall, “enjoy your fill of food and libations. The dancing will commence after the introductions have taken place.” I find myself entranced by the richness of her voice. Its smooth cadence wraps around me like a warm blanket, comforting me closely as though I were a child in my mother’s arms. I’m snapped back to the moment by Governor Yurith, who sweeps past Veira and me with a knock from his elbow, eager to be the first person officially introduced to our wealthy hosts. Sir Calon’s eyes linger on my side at the direct spot where Yurith’s elbow landed, then turn towards his approaching shape with a frown of disdain. Behind the governor, other town officials and male-led families gather, waiting their turn to be introduced. “Come on.” I touch Veira’s elbow and gesture towards the buffet. “We’ll probably be low on the pecking order for introductions.”
But I’ll be sure to leave a memorable impression. As we turn away from Yurith speaking to Lady Ledrythe and Sir Calon, I hear him utter the word taxes. His effrontery clearly knows no limits. The refreshment tables are as beautiful as everything else in the ballroom, draped in velvet and adorned with more finery and artisan food than I’ve ever seen before. I don’t recognise most of the appetisers, but they’re delicate in size and vibrant with exquisite colours. I reach for two crystal glasses to decant some wine, but an arm grazes my own. Instinctively, I pull back and take half a step away. “I beg your pardon.” The words leave my lips and my eyes track upwards until they land on a familiar heart-shaped face, with blue eyes, framed by thick, black curls. “M-Mrs Craddock,” I stammer. Caelyn’s mother. I must’ve missed her in the crowd. A sad smile twitches one corner of her lips and she inclines her head in greeting. “Please, Seren. There’s no need for formalities. Cerys will do.” Mr Craddock approaches behind her and places a tender hand on his wife’s arm. “Allow me, darling.” Arlan Craddock is a tower of a man – tall and broad, with olive skin and a thick, dark beard – but Caelyn and Cerys never bore a single bruise from his hands. My dead friend’s father takes two of the crystal glasses and decants a measure of wine into each, passing one to Veira and one to me. He repeats the process, giving a glass to his wife and keeping one for himself. With our drinks in hand, he ushers us towards one of the recessed seating areas to escape the crowd. Even though we’re too far from the other guests to be overheard, his voice is low. “Are you both well?” My heart sinks.
“Please, do not think of us. Of course, I miss Caelyn every day . . .” My breath catches in my throat and I take a sip of wine to swallow the emotion choking my voice. It tastes of nothing. I wonder if that’s what each new wave of mourning will do . . . wash away more flavour, more colour, more vibrancy, until everything fades to grey. “You should be thinking of yourselves right now, not us. Our prayers are with you both.” Cerys looks down, water glazing her eyes and spilling out. “Thank you,” she says, her small voice cracking - like a fire that’s about to die out. Or perhaps already has. Arlan braces a large hand on Cerys’s shoulder as she reaches into her satin purse for a handkerchief. “What I mean,” Arlan leans forwards, “is to ask whether you are both safe. As people associated with our daughter, it’s possible that the governor’s suspicions will turn to you next.” “We are aware. But we’re . . .” I glance at Veira, whose expression is blank. “We’re taking steps to protect ourselves.” Starting tonight. “I am glad of it,” Arlan emits a deep sigh. “Every time I think the people of this town have seen enough hatred and destruction, they manage to prove me wrong.” I shift in my seat, which is less comfortable than I might have hoped. “Forgive me for asking, but how are you both coping?” Cerys and Arlan interweave their hands and exchange a look. “One day at a time,” they say together - a mantra they must have repeated to one another a considerable amount over the past week. “Wait,” Veira speaks for the first time in a while. “You’re not leaving the island?”
Caelyn’s mother looks at Veira with grim resignation. “What would be the point now? We should’ve left long ago, when our only child still had the chance for a full life.” Cerys shakes her head, then fixes me with a firm stare. “But you two . . . you should leave while you can.” The sting of her words is amplified by Veira’s fingers wrapping themselves around my arm, as though her underhanded actions are somehow vindicated. I shrug off her grip and sip the tasteless wine again. “Doesn’t that seem quite drastic?” “They don’t need a reason to persecute you,” Cerys replies. “Yet they already have several. You are women. You are young. You were associated with a convicted wi . . . Blast, I can’t say the accursed word.” “Witch,” Veira whispers. I turn to her. Veira’s face is rigid, her mouth a hard line, her eyes not meeting my own. No doubt sulking that I still don’t wish to leave. But that’s a conversation for us to have later. It would not do for polite party chatter. “Thank you for your words of advice.” I inch forwards in my seat. “We’ll consider it carefully.” As I get to my feet, Cerys grasps my hand in her own. “Wait.” She glances to Arlan and then back to me. “You were there? In the town square, the day my sweet girl . . .” She doesn’t need to say the rest. I nod, my mouth too dry to speak. “Her last . . . last moments . . .” Cerys stammers, tears once again flowing freely. “Was she in great pain?”
Arlan speaks in a gentle whisper. “Please, Cerys. I wanted to protect you from witnessing those moments. When we think of Caelyn, we need to think of her life.” Not her death, I think. But Arlan doesn’t need to add that. My eyes close as I think back to the moment I arrived in the town square. To the crowd, many of whom are here tonight, who called for her death. To the blood that flowed from the mutilated stump of her hand as she was tortured. I remember the pull of the lever, the creaking of the trapdoor and the snapping of the rope. Of Caelyn’s neck. My pulse quickens as fresh pain and rage surge through my blood, threatening to explode out of every pore in my skin, but the delicate hand resting in my own - the hand of Caelyn’s mother - refocuses my thoughts. I cannot leave her with those memories. I will not. Caelyn would have wanted her parents to have comfort. With a deep breath, I push the horror of Caelyn’s death out of my mind and force myself to think of my own parents. I remember my mother’s last moments . . . her strained voice as she spoke her last enchantment, her soft hand holding mine for the last time, her smile as her final breath left her lungs. Then I think of my father. I focus on the peace in his eyes as he told Veira and me how proud of us he was, the warmth of his last touch as he told us he loved us, and the wish he made for our future. Holding those thoughts in my heart, I open my eyes and look at Cerys. “She was brave,” I say. “She loved you. And she departed this world knowing that your love for her would carry her safely to the next life.” Veira flinches beside me, the necessary lie probably causing her some discomfort. But before I can take my hand from Cerys, something passes between us. Our clasped hands become warm for a moment and tingle, a small glow shimmering across the surface of my skin, then transferring to hers.
Cerys snatches her hand back with a gasp and looks at it, confusion contorting her features. Yet when she takes another breath, she brings her hand to her heart and whispers, “Thank you.”
Chapter Four: Veira
I grab Seren by the arm and yank her away from Caelyn’s parents. “What in the Goddess’s name do you think you’re doing?” I growl through clenched teeth. “Veira, shut up. Don’t cause a scene.” She plasters a sweet, innocent smile onto her features, and again snaps out her silk fan as I pull her to a private alcove of our own. “Me cause a scene? Goddess still my tongue forever if I’m wrong but . . .” I take a breath, wondering if I’ll be able to say my next words. “You just used magic. On Cerys Craddock. In public.” Seren blinks. “It was an accident.” “Be that as it may, the governor is mere feet away and you could’ve exposed us.” I sigh deeply, my heart hammering in my chest. “You have to be more careful.” She looks down at the floor and shrugs. “Grief is . . . powerful. It affects us in unpredictable ways.” “Seren. You must control it. We cannot risk such blatant exposure.” She simply shakes her head. “I don’t expect you to understand how it feels.” That stings. Like ice.
I place my hands on her shoulders, pulling her gaze to meet my own. “Then talk to me. I know you’re in mourning, but . . .” I hesitate, knowing that if this conversation doesn’t break down Seren’s walls, it will only push her further away. “Why are you so determined to stay here and marry someone and live such a small life? Especially when you must see how unsafe it is for us?” Her head dips again. When she speaks, her voice is small. “What makes you think the world out there will treat us any better? At least here we have a home our parents made for us. We have each other. And,” she glances at Sir Calon, “we have hope.” I look over at the wrinkled old dullard and scoff. “Seren, he’s more than twice your age.” “But if we were under his protection the governor couldn’t harm us.” “How could you even consider marrying someone merely for security?” “How could you not consider it?” she retorts. “This world is not made for young, unwed women, Veira. I don’t think leaving Ceartas will change that.” “You can’t possibly know that for sure. There’s only one way to know what the world out there might hold for us.” “. . . I can’t risk it. I won’t.” I take a step back, looking at her as though it’s the first time I’ve truly seen her. “Perhaps you’re right, Seren. I’m not sure I understand you at all anymore.” My cold words hang heavy in the air, cleaving a canyon between us. Seren’s attention flicks back to Sir Calon, who approaches us with his noble mother. Behind them, musicians begin to tune their instruments. “Now is not the time or place for this conversation,” she says. With deft hands, Seren closes her fan and rotates her body towards our hosts, curtseying low.
As ever, she is far better at playing this role than I am. My muscles protest as I force them to mimic Seren’s stance, and when we stand, I look upon our hosts. “I don’t believe we’ve yet had the pleasure,” the old coot says. The way Seren giggles and extends her hand for Sir Calon to kiss makes my eyes involuntarily roll. “May I introduce myself, Sir Calon Ledrythe, and my esteemed mother, Lady Rhian Ledrythe.” “I’m Seren Sayres, and this is my sister Veira.” Sir Calon and Lady Rhian look at each other, an understanding seeming to pass between them. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Misses Sayres.” Lady Rhian wears a knowing smile. “How are you enjoying my ball thus far?” “It’s magnificent,” Seren says, glancing around the ballroom. “We’re truly honoured to enjoy your generosity.” I don’t need the heat in my veins to tell me that was a lie. Seren knows I don’t want to be here, but has disregarded my fears as though they were mere village gossip. Without meaning for it to happen, a thought slithers into my mind. I alone could leave. To my shame, I don’t dismiss the idea immediately. Unlike Seren, I can’t escape with a pretty excuse. Although perhaps I could explain, in the vaguest terms possible, that I feel strange. At odds. In need of home and rest. And leave Seren alone in the governor’s presence. No. I can’t do that. Even with our differences, I can’t leave her. As I shake the thought from my mind, I notice Lady Rhian is regarding me with narrowed eyes.
“Do you agree with your sister?” she asks. “I beg your pardon?” I dab a droplet of sweat dewing at my temple. “Ah - my Lady,” I hastily add. Blast. I should’ve been paying attention. Lady Rhian chuckles. “Do you agree about how magnificent my ball is?” “No.” The word slips off my tongue before I can stop it, and panic shoots through my body, tightening every nerve. “Ah . . . what I mean to say is that . . .” My mind scrambles to come up with polite words I can truthfully utter. “That’s not the exact word I would use to describe it.” “Oh? And what word would you use?” My magic again compels my tongue before I can intervene. “Strange.” “What my sister means, my Lady, is that we’re not accustomed to such grandeur.” “That’s true.” I attempt a smile. “W-We’re not accustomed to grandeur. My Lady.” Lady Rhian laughs and glances around at the other townspeople who, even in their finest clothing, still don’t look as though they belong here. “Yes,” she says, “I suppose the spectacle of wealth would seem strange to those who don’t have it.” “Your Ladyship is quite right.” Seren dips her head in agreement. The anxiety gripping my every vein and blood vessel eases a fraction, but I’m still on edge; hyper-aware of unwillingly saying something incriminating. Sir Calon’s touch remains on my sister’s fingertips, as though adhered to them. “Might I impose on you for the first dance, Miss Seren?” She blushes, a coy smile on her lips. “It would be my deepest pleasure, Sir Calon.”
They drift off towards the centre of the room, commencing their positions to dance the Black Alman. One of Mother’s favourites. Behind Seren and Sir Calon, a few other couples take up their places. As the musicians begin to play, Lady Rhian flinches, a hand rising to her temple. “My Lady? Are you well?� Before she can answer, the splendour of the ballroom fades, returning to its former state of ruin. The ancient walls are crumbled around us. The rotting floor splinters and cracks underfoot. And the golden columns are nothing but weatherbeaten logs. This is like the vision I had before entering the castle, where the renovations melted away before my eyes - and again in the antechamber, where the tapestries faded to dull cloth. The same cold pangs of fear and panic I felt then creep along every inch of my skin. Seren and Sir Calon keep dancing, along with the other couples. The other guests continue to eat, drink, and mingle as though nothing untoward is occurring. As though the velvet drapes have not become rags, the filigree panelled walls have not turned to stone, and the wine they sip is not merely . . . water. I blink hard, and when I open my eyes, the ballroom is restored to the same splendour as when we first entered. There are only three possible reasons why I keep seeing the ghost of this place. Firstly, I am insane. Secondly, my vision is failing me. Or thirdly, this castle is cursed. Since the governor has failed to wrap me in chains for howling at the sky and I can see everything else - no, every one - at the ball with perfect clarity, that only leaves one possibility. This place is . . . wrong.
I know little about curses. Mother rarely spoke of them. But she may have some reading on the matter at home. My focus shifts back to the moment and I force myself to regain composure. Beside me, Lady Rhian smooths the skirts of her immaculate dress, her features once again placid. “My Lady? What happened?” “Ah. Yes, I am quite well, thank you. Perhaps the music merely startled me.” A vague statement. My blood runs neither hot nor cold. Am I to suppose that she didn’t see a change in our surroundings? “Will you be dancing tonight, Miss Veira?” “To be honest my Lady—” not that I have a choice, of course, “I’m hoping to avoid it. I . . . lack my sister’s grace and would rather observe.” She chuckles again. “I must say my girl, I find your candour most refreshing.” Thank the Goddess for that, I think. Although it’s a lot less refreshing after seventeen years. “Perhaps then, you will sit with me awhile to enjoy the dances?” She gestures towards a seating area. No. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go. After that vision, my instincts are screaming at me to grab Seren and run. She said I’d be able to stay silent all evening, not forced to somehow make polite conversation. But I can’t leave now without drawing unwanted attention. No. I’ll have to navigate this situation with caution until we can leave. The hostess seems to enjoy my company. Maybe I can stay with her for a few moments until Seren and Calon return. Then I grab my sister and explain why she needs to lie our way out of here – now.
I follow Lady Rhian to the alcove and take a seat beside her. “Your Ladyship won’t be dancing either?” “No. I cannot imagine anyone would want to dance with an old crone like me anyway.” I glance over to Governor Yurith, who is eyeing up the crystal champagne flutes, and I snort. “I can.” Lady Rhian follows my gaze. “You mean that awful pig man?” She sighs. “How does someone like that become Governor of a once fine island like Ceartas?” “To my knowledge, no-one has ever stood against him for the position.” Lady Rhian shrugs, and a companionable silence settles between us. After a moment, I become aware of how I might use this opportunity, if only I dare to. I shift in my seat and snap out my own fan. As it forces cool air onto the skin of my throat, I imagine my fear shrinking away. This is fine. I can ask questions. “How long does your Ladyship intend to stay in Ceartas?” “Oh, indefinitely. It’s our home now.” Lie. “Had you ever visited before moving here?” “Hmm? Oh, yes. My family used to summer here when I was a girl.” Lie. “So, what made you and Sir Calon decide to move here now?” “Oh, you know. The quiet life, mainly. Warmer weather. And one or two . . . business opportunities.” Lie. Lie. Lie.
As I contemplate what these answers might mean, I glance back to Seren. She and Sir Calon are still dancing, only the musicians have started playing a lively jig. The old codger does a passable job of keeping up with Seren, but her elegance is still unmatched. She’s lightly hopping from one foot to another, while her delicate hands swish those flowing lilac skirts around her ankles. Sir Calon gazes at her, admiring her form, her blushing cheeks, her delicate smile. I knew Seren was a formidable dancer, but her calm demeanour after our confrontation warrants recognition of her acting skills too. Every movement, every expression is perfectly orchestrated to accentuate her beauty, and Sir Calon is transfixed, like a blind man with his sight restored, seeing the night sky for the very first time. “Miss Veira,” Lady Rhian inclines her head in my direction. “I have a slight headache.” True. “Would you perhaps mind fetching me a beverage?” A little, but I’m obliged to say yes. “Of course, my Lady.” I rise to my feet and make my way to the refreshments table. It’s been almost completely picked bare, but there appears to be some fruit punch left - if it even is fruit punch. I fill a crystal glass and lift it from the table with care, but as I turn around, my elbow collides with a solid shape behind me, spilling liquid onto the gleaming ballroom floor. “Tut tut, Miss Veira,” Governor Yurith croons. “You really should be more careful. We wouldn’t want anything else precious to be lost, would we?” Caelyn.
The fear and panic are gone. Everything is still. I can do nothing in the face of this man. “Cat got your tongue?” he teases. No, that would be the Goddess. “No,” I reply. “I’m very glad to hear that. And how have you been these past days?” I glance over at Seren, twirling in Sir Calon’s arms in time to the music. “. . . Tense,” I confess, cursing my magic. He has me cornered. “Excuse me, Governor, but Lady Rhian asked me to fetch her this drink—" “Come now,” he interrupts. His yellow teeth are so close that I can almost smell the rot on them. “It is my responsibility to ensure all my citizens are safe and well. So tell me, Miss Veira,” he grins, “why are you so tense?” Goddess, please, no. “My sister and I . . .” The blood in my veins burns as I try to stop myself from speaking, my body still rooted to the spot. “My sister and I are currently in a disagreement.” “I see. And what might that be about?” I cringe as more words involuntarily slip out of my mouth. “She . . . wants to stay here in Ceartas. But I want us to leave.” Yurith’s eyes sharpen. A predator who has his prey in sight. “And why do you want to leave, Miss Veira?” Because I’m scared you’ll find out we’re witches. My entire body throbs with a pulsating fire as I try to clamp my mouth shut. “Why?” he presses. Goddess, please do not allow me to utter this truth.
The burning continues, getting hotter still. “Miss Veira. Why do you want to leave Ceartas?” It was too dangerous to come here, I knew it. The searing heat intensifies as my mouth begins to form the words I don’t want to speak. “Because . . . I’m scared . . . you’ll—" “Lady Ledrythe!” someone shouts. The governor’s head jerks towards the source of the cry. A dozen townspeople are scurrying over to the noble hostess, who is collapsing onto the floor with a hand pressed against her head. I can only suppose that Yurith’s desire to bleed Lady Rhian’s pockets - and therefore fall into her good graces - overpowers his desire to see me swing, as he tears away from me and takes off in her direction. Some valiant rescuer. I close my throat, the rest of the words already tumbling out in a strangled whisper as I stand alone. “. . . find out we’re witches.”