Legendary

Then his other hand was on Tella’s neck, his cold fingers idly playing with her hair. It was for show, but it felt so unpracticed. As if it was the most natural thing for him to reach out and touch her. She swore she felt his gaze as well, as cool as morning frost; it brushed against her mouth as Jacks watched every bite she took.

“You both must try some of these.” Elantine pointed to a tray of palm-size cakes decorated to look like presents in every combination of colors. From tangerine and teal to silver and sea frost, the color of Jacks’s eyes.

“These are a traditional engagement dish exclusively for royalty. Only the royal baker will make them. It’s illegal for anyone else to commission them. There’s a different surprise in each one that symbolizes what your future together will hold. Some are filled with sugared cream to represent a sweet life, and others are filled with candied eggs symbolizing great fertility.” Elantine winked again and Tella nearly spit out her water.

Jacks, who had not eaten a thing since his apple on the stairs, plucked a jeweled cake covered in blue velvet frosting, the same color of Tella’s dress, and brought it to his mouth. When he pulled it away thick raspberry jam oozed out.

Elantine clapped. “It looks as if the two of you will always have passion. Now your turn, dear heart.”

Tella was never going to marry Jacks—she’d rather be trapped inside of a card—so it shouldn’t have mattered which cake she chose. But she really didn’t want to take a cake. There were enough predictions of her future as it was. Both Jacks and the empress were staring at her, though. This wasn’t a request; this was a challenge.

“Interesting,” Elantine murmured.

Tella looked down to find her fingers had plucked a soulless jet-black cake with a bow made of midnight-blue frosting—the same color as the wings tattooed on Dante’s back.

“It reminded me of the moonless night I met Jacks,” Tella lied.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about the cake.” Elantine fixed her regal gaze upon the starburst-shaped opal ring on Tella’s finger. “I haven’t seen one of those in a very long time.”

“It was an heirloom of my mother’s,” Tella said.

“And she gave it to you?” Elantine said it just as warmly as everything else that evening, but Tella swore her eyes were now pinched at the corners, as if her smile was no longer genuine. “Did she tell you what it was for?”

“No, it was just one of the few things left behind when she disappeared.”

“And you wear it to remember her?” Elantine’s expression softened. “You really are a little gem. When Jacks first told me he was engaged again, I was skeptical. I feared—well, it doesn’t matter what I feared. I can now see why he would want you. But be careful with that heirloom of yours.” Her tone hushed to a whisper. “That looks like one of the keys from the Temple of the Stars, and, if it is, your mother must have paid a very high price for it.”

Tella’s eyes fell back to her hand. It seemed unbelievable, but the hopelessly hopeful part of her wondered if the ring she’d worn for the past seven years could be a key to unlocking her mother’s secrets.

“Pardon the interruption,” a raspy voice called out from the stage.

Tella looked up to see Armando dressed like the Murdered King—a Fate that could either represent betrayal or the return of something lost. He smiled at his small audience, the expression as chilling as his costume. A dripping red sword hung from his waist, a thick gash of blood stained his exposed throat, and a wicked crown made of daggers sat atop his head. “What a pleasure it is to be here tonight.”

30

Half the candles dangling from the ceiling blew out, leaving the banquet table in shadows. Only Armando and the stage remained aglow.

“Oh, good!” Elantine clapped. “The entertainment is about to begin.”

“Thank you for having us, Your Majesty.” Armando bowed low, surprisingly humble. “Since your coronation it has been Legend’s greatest wish to bring his Caraval performers to Valenda. We are deeply grateful you accepted his offer. To honor Your Majesty tonight, we have put together a very special performance to show what life was like when rulers were not so wise and gracious. We hope you all enjoy it.”

The curtains parted.

The play looked like a parody of a parody.

The stage was set to resemble an ancient throne room, but all of the colors were too bright and lurid—everything was painted in shades of flashy lime, electric violet, flirty fuchsia, cosmic blue, and pulsing yellow—as if a child had colored in the backdrop, the costumes, and the throne, which Armando sat upon. Jovan, dressed as the Undead Queen in a jeweled eye patch and a long, fitted black gown, lounged against his arm.

Tella shuddered, memories from the bridge outside Idyllwild Castle rushing back.

Jovan’s lips twisted, uncharacteristically cruel—just like the real Fate—as she surveyed the court assembled onstage.

Tella steered her gaze away. She recognized several of the other actors: some of them were dressed like nobles, but many were costumed to look like more Fates. Tella spied the Pregnant Maid, Her Handmaidens, and the Poisoner mixed among the small crowd.

She did not spy Dante. And she was frustrated with herself for even looking for him.

On the stage, Jovan the Undead Queen sighed dramatically. “I’m so very bored.”

“Maybe I can help with that.” Caspar sauntered into the scene wearing a red velvet tailcoat that matched the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and the edge of one eye. Apparently he was playing the role of the Prince of Hearts.

Tella dared a look at Jacks, to see how he would react to finding himself depicted onstage. His expression remained neutral, bordering on disinterest, but Tella felt the arm he’d wrapped around her shoulder turn arctic as Caspar waved a hand, beckoning two young performers onto the stage.

Tella didn’t recognize either of them. They were youths, a boy and a girl a little younger than Tella. Something about the way they were costumed was particularly disturbing. All the other performers were clearly dressed as characters. But this boy and girl appeared to be wearing their very best sets of clothing, neatly pressed and ever so slightly out of fashion when compared to the rest of the court, as if neither of them had reason to dress nicely very often, so there was little reason to update their wardrobe. It made both appear more real than the rest, as if Caspar had just plucked them off the street and promised them both bags of sweets if they followed him.

“What’s your name?” Caspar asked the girl.

“Agathe.”

“What a lovely name, Agathe. And yours?” he asked the boy.

“It’s Hugo.”

“Another excellent name.” Caspar’s tone turned from sweet to slippery. “In fact, I like both of your names so much I’m going to write them down to make sure I never forget them.”

Agathe and Hugo exchanged bemused glances, as if they sensed something was not as it should be, but then both of them nodded, clearly eager to please a Fate.

Caspar pulled two slips of paper from his pocket, the exact size and shape of cards. “Oh,” he moaned, “it seems I don’t have any ink. I suppose I’ll have to use my immortal blood instead.”

He took out a bejeweled dagger and pressed it to the tip of his finger. Blood welled, and Caspar made a show of using the blood to write on the card. As he finished, a puff of theatrical silver smoke appeared, enough to cover half the stage. When it cleared, Agathe was gone. In her place was a card.