Part 7
"After The Party"
Just before they reached the center of
the room where the dancers turned and stepped gracefully, Henrik
stopped short.
“Uh-oh,” he muttered, ushering
Stella off to the side, deeper into the crowd of spectators. “Let’s
go this way.”
Stella noticed the way his shoulders
hunched, because it was the same stance she took when she didn’t
want Jacintha to notice her. The moment of Nadia Stevens ended, and
Old Stella took over, keenly and painfully aware of absolutely
everyone they passed.
“What are we doing?” she whispered
to Henrik. “I thought we were dancing.”
He kept her close, at least. “We will
dance, I promise, Nadia,” he replied. “But just now, I happen to
be avoiding a certain relentless lady—“
“Your Grace!” A footman approached
them. He noted the expression on Henrik’s face, and glanced at the
unfamiliar young lady at his side. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“No problem,” Henrik responded,
straightening and keeping a wary eye out for the “relentless lady.”
“I was just trying to avoid the attentions of one certain—“ he
pointed until the footman could make out precisely whom he meant.
Stella followed his gaze, too, and her
heart just about sank in her chest. Agatha! She was looking, the long
neck craned, the pink dress flouncing all over the place as she
ignored all the bachelors crossing her path in the pursuit of one
only—if anyone would know who she was, in spite of the Ring, it
would be her!
“Ah, I see,” said the footman.
“Fear not, good sir. Miss Farfalle will be departing shortly, and
then you may move about freely.”
Henrik relaxed, but Stella could not.
If Agatha was leaving soon, that meant she would need to depart
sooner. She slid her hand out of Henrik’s grasp.
He frowned with concern as he watched
her. “What is it, Nadia? Are you all right?”
Stella gulped. “I…” What could
she say? “I don’t feel well.”
Henrik’s face fell. “I’m sorry I
haven’t done enough for you tonight. I promise I’ll try to do
better—“
“No!” Stella reached out and seized
his hand again. “Henrik, tonight has been more perfect than any
other night of my life! Please do not think me dissatisfied!”
Hope returned to his eyes. “Well
then, is there nothing I can do to induce you to stay? Anything I can
give you? I would buy you anything you wanted.”
Stella smiled. “But you see, you’ve
already given me the most precious of all gifts tonight: you gave me
your time.” Her voice caught as her throat tightened, but Stella
steadied herself and kept going. “No one has ever given me a second
glance, much less a moment where I could be important, and you have
done that. Thank you, Henrik; I’ll treasure this night forever.”
She backed away a step, looking for a chance to disappear without his
pursuit.
The footman leaned in. “Incoming,
your grace,” he muttered, and Henrik whirled around to locate
Agatha—and happened to catch her eye in the process.
“Yoohoo!” she sang out, waving to
him.
Cursing at himself, Henrik ducked to
continue running, and when he looked back to where Nadia had stood,
she was gone.
Down below the Drakistos property, just
beyond the gate, a shivering girl stood concealed in a thicket,
feverishly trying to cram a glittering golden gown into the bottom of
a basket, and slip her arms into the sleeves of a tattered shift.
Pulling the twists and braids out of her hair, she slipped out,
lugging the basket behind her. Last of all, she pulled the Ring off
her finger, and immediately her features changed from smooth,
unmarred skin into a twisted, scarred, and garish appearance. Stella
rubbed her thumb over the ropy, flaky patches along her palm,
remembering the feel of Henrik’s hand in hers.
Behind her, the gate slammed shut.
“Lazybones!” barked a harsh voice.
“Get over here!”
Agatha had arrived, and she looked to
be in a sour mood, in spite of the magnificent dress.
Stella knew it wasn’t her place to
speak up, so she meekly hoisted the basket into the back of the wagon
and joined the young woman in the chaise. Wistfully, she did glance
up just once, to see the glowing castle at the top of the hill, and
remember the young man who had done the simple thing of enjoying her
company.
“What are you looking at?” Agatha
growled.
Stella shrank back and directed her
gaze to her scarred, itching hands. “Nothing,” she muttered.
“I hope Mother won’t hear tomorrow
of any trouble you caused tonight,” Agatha continued. “You were
waiting for me the whole time, weren’t you?”
Stella could almost feel the tension
building in that small place, but she remembered being Nadia, and the
feeling dissipated. “Yes, I waited,” she answered softly. “Just
as you asked.”
“Good.” Agatha smoothed her skirts
and watched the scenery skate by outside. Altogether, it had not been
the most satisfactory night, but there would be other opportunities,
she was sure of it.
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Henrik stood in one of the upper
drawing rooms of the mansion. Guests still lingered below, but he
wasn’t feeling very sociable just now. He stood at the window,
watching the moon, and remembering the wonderful young lady he was
able to share at least part of his evening with. Lost in thought, he
raised his injured hand and picked at the edge of the dry patch with
his thumbnail. My skin does the same thing, she had said. How
was that even possible?
Someone coughed behind him. Henrik
turned to face the other person, a young man not much older than
himself, with the same fair locks, though the face was thinner, and
the eyes dull with fatigue.
“Hello father,” said Henrik calmly.
“Did you rest well?”
The pale, young version of Lord Sigmund
rolled his eyes as he slouched in an armchair next to his son. “I’ll
survive another cycle, at least,” he sighed, rubbing his face. He
glanced wryly at Henrik. “Be grateful I used my immortality to find
a way so that you would not have to suffer as I do, my son.” He
nodded to the party clothes Henrik still wore. “How was the
festival?”
Henrik wagged his head. “It was all
right. I’m not sure about why you had to have it—“
“Henrik!” Sigmund frowned.
“What, Father? What else do you want
me to say?” Henrik threw up his hands. “Why did you ask for it
now, of all times? Could it not have waited until you revived? You
know how much I dislike these parties—and to have one without you
nearby, well…” Henrik faltered awkwardly and resumed itching his
palm. He needed more of the medic’s balm that would help remove the
scales. Thinking of the scales reminded him of Nadia, and he heaved a
heavy sigh.
Sigmund’s lips tightened. To anyone
else, it would be more than a little unnerving to see one’s parent
appear so close in age to one’s child—but Henrik had grown up
knowing that this was as much an effect of the “Drakistos Curse”
as the appearance of scales on his skin. Sigmund would always emerge
from isolation appearing as young and hearty as the day upon which he
had inherited the curse, and after a while, he would age rapidly
until he looked the part of Henrik’s father—but by then, it would
be nearly time for him to isolate himself once again. Artists and
stylists alike had done their best to produce paintings and alter
Lord Sigmund’s appearance to match the expectations of his
subjects, but recently they had found it easier to simply hide His
Lordship from view, to let his reputation produce the desired effect.
He surveyed his son with a wise gleam
in his eye. “I know that sigh,” he said. “You did meet
someone, at last! Tell me of her!”
Henrik cringed at his father’s boyish
interest. “Father—was that the whole reason for the
festival? I was wondering why there were so many ladies flocking
about! It was miserable!” Had it not been for Nadia, that is,
added his psyche.
His father noticed, and the dark
eyebrows danced. “Except…” Lord Sigmund prompted.
Henrik smirked. “Except for one girl
I met—Nadia. I happened to be passing near the gate when she gave
her name, so I vouched for her because her name sounded familiar. You
once knew a woman named Nadia, didn’t you, Father?” Sigmund
didn’t answer right away, so Henrik finally turned away from the
window and looked at him. “Father?”
Sigmund sat as still as stone, an
expression etched into his face that seemed halfway between elation
and terror. “Nadia?” He gasped. “Did she say where she came
from? Did she mention anything about the curse?”
Henrik felt unease at his father’s
sudden urgency. “Well, she said she’d been living in Kadros her
whole life, but as far as mentioning the curse… I don’t
understand it, Father, but she seemed to know about it, and told me
that her skin produced the hard, dry scales too.”
“She had… scales?” Lord Sigmund
repeated hollowly. “You saw them?”
“No,” Henrik shook his head. “I
didn’t see any; but she didn’t seem repulsed by my scales,
either. It was strange. I’d never met anyone quite like her
before.”
Sigmund recovered himself, watching his
son keenly. “Henrik, I want to ask something very important, and I
want you to remember it to the best of your ability: was she wearing
any particular piece of jewelry that stood out in your mind?”
Henrik only needed a moment to
consider. “As a matter of fact,” he replied, “the only piece of
jewelry she wore was a ring on her finger. Nothing else.”
Sigmund licked his lips eagerly. “And
this ring,” he said, leaning closer to his son, “do you remember
what it looked like? Did it, perhaps, feature a dragon?”
“I don’t quite…” A moment after
he began speaking, Henrik recalled the sight of Nadia’s ring, as
she twisted it nervously while they talked. “Yes! I believe it
did,” he answered his father. “A dragon clutching a fire-red gem
in its claws, almost in the same manner as our family crest. Say!”
He snapped his fingers and stared at his father in astonishment.
“Does this mean she is somehow connected with our family,
after all?”
“Connected?” Lord Sigmund
bounded to his feet. “Henrik, unless by some miracle there is
another woman named Nadia with a ring just like the one you’ve
described, this may be the very woman destined to lift our
family’s curse!”
Itching palm forgotten, Henrik joined
his father on his feet. “The Dragon-Marked one? I never knew!”
“Quickly,” Lord Sigmund beckoned
his son as he walked out of the room and toward the stairs. The party
would be ending by now, and they needed to find Sir Travis. “Tell
me everything you know about her, Henrik. Did she tell you where in
Kadros she lived?”
Henrik furiously tried to recall every
bit of their conversation. “She said it was her first official
function, and that I would not have seen her around the Piazza
much—no!” He thumped a nearby table with his fist. “She didn’t
tell me anything about where she lived!”
Sigmund paced to keep up with his
whirling brain. “But if this was her first function, and she met
someone she could relate to—the governor’s son, no less—then
perhaps she might be enticed to show her face a second time…” He
stopped and snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” The spry, young
Sigmund raced down the hallway to his stately study. “Where’s
Travis?” he muttered, half to himself as he gave no indication that
he was still addressing his son. A passing servant caught the comment
and its urgency, and immediately set off to carry the message. “We
need more posters, and we need an official letter to go out to
everyone who entered the grounds yesterday!”
Henrik caught up with his father in the
doorway of his study. The sight of the young man racing around his
father’s things—so different that the stately, mature magistrate
that watched them from the painted portrait against the wall—never
failed to send a shiver down his spine. What would he be without this
curse? The young man shook his head.
“What are you thinking, father? Why
do we need so many letters?”
Sigmund was already penning the first
draft, which the scribes would copy. “A letter mentioning the
Ring—of course no one would think of it until now! The
Dragon is back—it could have been in someone’s possession this
whole time, and this could have happened years ago, but we couldn’t
be sure until the Dragon returned—the bastard!” Sigmund swore as
in his haste, he let several large blots of ink drip onto the words
he had already written.
Sir Travis approached the doorway. “You
sent for me, sir?” He glanced briefly at Henrik, as if to remind
himself that at least one of these youths experienced time
appropriately.
“Come in!” Sigmund beckoned to him.
“I need an announcement to go out to the visiting vendors and
guests—the Festival has been extended for one more night.”
Henrik felt like a dog watching the
doors of his kennel close. “But father! You promised it would be
one night only!”
“That was before you went off and met
the one person who could be our salvation!” Sigmund snapped. “Now,
we’ll give them one day to produce the Ring, and if that fails,
then we must hope that your good manners and charm will entice her to
come out to the Festival again.” Sigmund grabbed his son by the
shoulders, the gleam in his eye testifying his true age, in spite of
the youthfulness of his face. “Henrik, this is the day we’ve
been waiting for—don’t you want to be free of this curse?”
Henrik nodded emphatically. “I do,
Father.” No more ointments, no more itchy, dry scales! “I’ll do
what you ask.”
Sigmund smiled and gave him a light,
genial cuff. “That’s my boy! Inform the servants that the house
must be re-decorated—and get some rest! Your night has lasted long
enough, and I’ve had enough rest for the both of us. We can’t
afford to lose a moment—or this curse might remain for another
century!”
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