Legendary

But according to the seamstress, Tella hadn’t even seen the best creations. The woman stepped back into the hall and returned a moment later behind a triple-tiered silver cart.

Someone gasped. Probably Tella.

She might have hated Jacks with the rage of a thousand cursed women, but she had to admit that when he wanted, he knew how to dazzle.

The cart was covered in the most sensational assortment of masks and crowns and capes, made of leather, precious metal, and gossamer-thin fabrics. Every item was fitted to exactly her size and worth a noble’s fortune. Some were lined in feathers, others in jewels or polished pearls. All of it monstrously beautiful, like the treasures of a magical nightmare, which she supposed Jacks was.

The seamstress smiled proudly. “His Highness wanted you to have your choice of costumes for Elantine’s Eve. But be careful, since everything has been made especially for you, the paint is still wet on a few of the masks.”

Tella edged closer to the sparkling cart.

She’d never worn a costume for Elantine’s Eve. On Trisda, Empress Elantine’s birthday was only celebrated on one day, but in Valenda, Elantine’s Eve was supposed to be even more fantastical than Elantine’s Day. To celebrate, everyone dressed in costume and took on the role of whoever they dressed as.

Supposedly Valendan monarchs were descended from the Fates, and on the eves of their birthdays it was whispered that the Fates came back for one night, to judge whether a ruler was worthy to reign another year. Therefore, some believed that behind a few of the masks and costumes were the genuine Fates, returned from wherever they’d disappeared for one night of mischief, havoc, and wonder.

Tella imagined the timing of this tradition was why Legend had chosen the Fates to theme this particular Caraval. She could already imagine how Legend would toy with people by having his performers pretend to be the real Fates.

Tella took her time examining the cart. She spied the mask of the Prince of Hearts, but instead of crying painted-red tears, this one wept rubies. The Shattered Crown—which represented an impossible choice between two paths—was tipped in gleaming black opals, dark polished cousins to the ring on Tella’s finger. But it was not nearly as glorious as the Unwed Bride’s veil of tears, made of real diamonds. It seemed every greater and lesser Fate was there. Tella saw the Poisoner’s elaborate cloak, Mistress Luck’s feathered hat, Chaos’s spiked gauntlets, the Lady Prisoner’s porcelain mask with frowning lips made of crushed sapphires.

“Does the heir always go to so much trouble for his ladies?”

“Never,” the seamstress answered. “In fact this is the first time he has ever had us design anything for someone other than himself.”

Tella feigned a smile. Jacks probably used different tailors for every one of his cursed consorts.

“Choose whichever one you fancy the most and then I’ll have you fitted for the costume to go with it.”

Every piece glimmered brighter as Tella considered them a final time.

The Maiden Death was out of the question. Tella would not let her head be caged in pearls, and merely thinking about the Maiden Death returned Tella to that day when she’d first flipped over her terrible card and brought about her mother’s departure.

The Assassin’s skeleton mask was not very attractive. Her Handmaiden’s masks were more interesting—she’d always liked the look of their lips sewn shut with crimson thread—but Tella didn’t like that the Fates themselves were merely puppets of the Undead Queen. Wearing the Undead Queen’s jeweled eye patch felt tempting—it was said she’d traded her eye for her terrible powers—but Tella wanted to make a bolder statement. She liked the Fallen Star, but given how flattering the golden costume was, she imagined half the girls and boys on the street would be dressed as Fallen Stars. And for once Tella wasn’t sure she wanted to look pretty.

“What’s this one?” Tella picked up a long black veil attached to an unlovely ring of metal covered in black candles. At first she’d thought it belonged to the Murdered King, but his crown was made of daggers, and it was grimly attractive. This was not lovely at all, and Tella doubted it would be easy to see through the veil, yet there was something fiercely arresting about it. For the life of her, she couldn’t recognize which Fate it belonged to.

The seamstress paled. “That wasn’t supposed to be on this cart.” She tried to snatch it away.

Tella stepped back and gripped the crown tighter. “What is it? Tell me or I’ll leave without any masks at all.”

The seamstress’s mouth pinched together. “It’s not part of a traditional costume. It represents Elantine’s missing child, the Lost Heir.”

“Elantine had a child?”

“Of course not. It’s just a nasty rumor people started because they’d rather not see your fiancé take the throne.”

“Well, that sounds like the perfect costume.”

“You’re a fool, girl,” said the woman. “Whoever put that on my cart did it as a warning to the heir—and to you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m only doing it as a joke,” Tella said. “My fiancé is very fond of tricks. He’ll have a great laugh when he sees me, and it will prove to whoever put it on your cart that I’m not scared.”

The seamstress creased her mouth. “We don’t have a dress to go with it.”

“If Jacks hired you, I’m sure you can figure out something.” Tella placed the waxy crown of candles atop her head and turned toward the mirrored wall. The gauzy black veil shrouded her features completely, shifting her into a living shadow. Absolutely perfect.

If there was one costume that declared that despite Jacks’s kisses and curses he would never fully own her, it was the crown of the Lost Heir. Maybe it was a foolish choice to be so defiant, but it was one of the few choices Jacks had given her.

The seamstress shook her head, again muttering something about Tella having no idea what sort of game she was playing.

But Tella knew exactly what type of game she was a part of: one that would destroy her and the people she cared about if she didn’t win.

17

Tella rode back to the palace beneath the slow descent of a falling sun. It was late afternoon, that warm hour of the day where the cerulean sky was usually tinged with gold and butter and wisps of peach light. But to Tella’s eyes all the colors above could have been called sepia at best. Everywhere she looked the sky was brownish, and dullish, and just wrongish enough to make her wonder if the afternoon was off or if it was her vision.

By the time she reached the palace she was half convinced another one of Jacks’s side effects was watching the once bright world lose all its color. But perhaps the true side effect was paranoia. Unlike the dull outside, Tella’s tower suite was as blissfully blue as before—from the periwinkle canopy above her bed to the tinted teal waters waiting for her in the bath.

But Tella didn’t have time to wash up more than her hands. She barely had enough minutes to change from her stained lace gown into a new dress from the seamstress. Made of midnight-blue satin and thick black velvet stripes that slashed down a full skirt, the gown was darker than Tella’s usual attire, but something about the combination made her feel fierce enough to battle Jacks and Legend and anyone in Valenda participating in Caraval.

With a fresh bounce to her step, which she hoped wouldn’t leave, Tella marched out of her bedroom into the main suite, and swallowed a curse at the sight of her sister.