Chapter Fifteen: Esselle

It had been the most taxing week. One of relentless torment and labor.

The aches and pains had multiplied from the pounding of my archless feet to limestone. My back was knotted and stiff. Even in the night, I awoke with cramping quads.

But I won. Hearing Willow confirm my alibi whilst eavesdropping on Terrance was the icing on the cake. I'd smiled to myself knowing that lie exonerated me. And I'd rest easy tonight knowing Lyewkin was somewhere scratching his head.

Having a night off would be nothing short of medicine, a night away from those suffocating murals and gold trimming.

I pleaded with my grandfather for the tenth time all afternoon.

"Please come with me!" I tugged at his arm, gently, for it was fragile. "I've already gotten you a ticket." And by gotten I obviously meant stolen, but what's the harm? The couple practically flaunted those tickets for all to see. The boastful nobs deserved it.

Chester's raspy chuckle echoed throughout the shelves of trinkets littering the shop. "I'm flattered you think so highly of my pegs, kid."

"You manage the markets fine," I coaxed, "You can bring your cane. We'll probably sit most of the time, anyway."

Chester chuckled again, then croaked, "If you think walking and sitting is all you're in for," a grin ensnared his lips, "then you haven't heard the tales of the Festival."

The Festival was a three-night province-wide event, chosen at random each year by the emperor himself. Pale hadn't been chosen to host in over a decade, and would likely not be chosen again for at least that, if not more.

That its third and final night fell on my one night off was a stroke of luck I couldn't overlook. It was almost like the Gods wanted me to celebrate.

I wanted Chester to take part, too, but at some point, I had to count my losses and move on. I figured now was that time.

Sighing, slumping, and falling into one of his desk chairs, he looked at me sidelong and sucked his teeth. And reaching 'neath his desk, fetched a bundle of silk, chiffon, and ribbon.

My eyes widened at what had to be the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. Olive green and sleeveless—the top was a corset attached to flouncing fabric that draped from the hip. A skirt of various patterned chiffon, lace, and netting. It looked like something of a fairytale. And much too elegant for me. My eyes met Chester's, poorly hiding those exact thoughts.

"Don't look at me like that," Chester scolded, pointing a finger at me, "If you're set on mingling with the nobbiest of 'em all, you gotta look the part."

He was right. My linens would attract eyes, and after a week like mine, I desperately wanted to blend in.

My fingers met the smoothest material I'd ever felt. I glided them over the ribbons lacing the corset into one steel-boned piece. Soft and smooth at once, the texture was that of rose petals.

"And jewels—you'll need jewels," Chester croaked under his breath, already clicking open our display. And drawing my gaze to Lyewkin's pendant.

I froze.

How could I forget about the topaz evidence sitting front and center of our glass display?

I had to get rid of it without alerting Chester. Worrying him over my week of interrogations and schemes would be cruel. He was already barely-standing as it was.

"Could I wear that one?" I queried, pointing at the pendant.

He lifted it, crinkling his nose. "You could. It's a tad… manly."

"It's the latest fashion," I lied, "Every lady in the theater seems to have one just like it."

He muttered an OK and handed it over hesitantly. Then he plucked two golden rings, embellished in rubies. They shimmered in his open palm, under the light of his desk candle.

"Chester, those are too—"

"You'll wear 'em proudly," he declared, "Believe me they'll be gussied up in flashier."

I didn't doubt that.

➸

The gown felt sinfully luxurious—particularly-so against my wharfish skin—flashing my chest and cinching my waist in a sheath silhouette. My finest slippers fit well with the olive, a canvas beige—now wrapping the calloused pads of both feet.

And with a dash of kohl over my eyes and two taps of rouge atop my cheeks, both of which Chester insisted upon, I felt like a faker. I said as much looking into the mirror of my bedroom, studying my fingers, hugged in bands of the finest metals.

I felt beautiful, but I also felt like someone else. Perhaps I'd let myself be someone else tonight, if just to escape the monotony of being myself.

I had planned to throw Lyewkin's pendant into a river along the wagon ride eastward, but couldn't bring myself to do it. It was an heirloom of his. How could I let something so precious ripple out to the ocean?

So I left it on the floor, nearest my tri-fold, next to the pocket-watch—settling on dealing with it another way, another time.

Instead, I enjoyed the ride, meeting the eyes of many oglers. Some eyeballing my dress, others eyeballing something else—someone else inside it. Not me. Certainly not me.

And when the sun began setting westward—a wash of violet and crimson cast over everything—each glint of light and color was slowly swallowed by the horizon. All but the beam of light shooting skyward east of Ristic was little by little shrouded in darkness. The beam I was headed to. Where the reverberation of music and coalescence of sound could be heard throughout every avenue east of the Cleft.

My chest began to flutter in excitement at the sight, as a ring of tents—colorfully striped canvas—came into vision; as it became brighter, louder. Perhaps I was a fool, or no better than a nob, but I wanted to see the rarity for myself—see if the rumors were true, if the Festival was enchanting like folks said.

It was impossible to tell what waited beyond that wall of tents. For each was thirty feet tall, and the circumference of the circle they formed had to be three-hundred times that.

So I quashed any expectations and willed the butterflies away, stepping into a queue of nobs whose diamonds and garments glistened in the remnant light drifting outwards.

"I must say—you look ravishing," a voice sounded from behind me. I turned, spotting a young man with yellowish hair and a boyish face. His accent was foreign, his mannerisms even more-so, and I guessed he was one of the many travelers who'd come to experience the Festival from beyond the city.

"As do you," I returned the compliment—a formality I wouldn't bother with, had it not been for who I was pretending to be. Act the part, I reminded myself after cringing at the way my voice sounded. You're simply acting the part.

Of course, it wasn't a complete lie. He was handsome, just plain. Far from ill-favored, but a little bit boring. And I found myself wishing his hair were messier, perhaps tousled, a tad… darker.

"Are you alone?" He queried boldly. I nodded. "I, too. Perhaps we could accompany one another. Word is, a magician is performing in the center marquee. If you'd care to join me, that is." His speech was proper and made me wonder if mine divulged my secret, that I wasn't a noble. Not even close.

"A magician?" My voice came off more excited than I had planned. It was just that I'd never seen a magician before. I didn't know they existed beyond the make-believe tales.

He grinned at my wide-eyes.

I regained what little composure I felt, stepping forward with the queue as it shifted. "That sounds lovely," I willed my voice to sound glossy, like his, "But I was plotting a stroll through the grounds first." And I don't care to rub shoulders with men that dress in velvet capes. I kept that one to myself.

"That sounds better than my plan. Would you mind if I joined you?" My nostrils flared before I could tame my irritation.

And I faked a toothy smile when I said, "Of course not."

I turned back in time to watch the person before me pass through the gate, and for the heavy-eyed ticketmaster to extend an arm down from her booth. Her eyes swept my frame, the ticket she snatched from my hand, and whatever button she pushed to send one end of the gate airborne. She gestured for me to pass through it.

Part of me wanted to ditch the blonde behind me, dash through the gate, and never turn back. He'd find another lady, a prettier, wealthier lass to court. And maybe I would have done it, left him, were it not for the scene that unraveled before me, leaving me stunned and speechless. Rendering me frozen in place.

It was like walking into a flight of fantasy, only one pumping blood, boundless in beating and breath. It was too much to take in at once, yet too much to dare look away from. So I scanned the scene, left to right, absorbing every color, every sound, every fragrance, breeze, and view, one at a time.

Noticing first that Chester was right.

As gussied up as I felt, I looked plain amidst such company. For they wore silks, too—chiffon and lace, alike. But both men and women were coated in beading, jewels, pearls, anything light might reflect from and make twinkle.

Pastel veils of fine netting were drenched in glitter and set to sparkle over porcelain skin. I'd never seen such pretty people, all dancing together so joyously. I'd seen colorful markets, sure, but none like this. None where petticoats twinkled like they were glazed over in raindrops.

From the outside, it seemed grand, but from the inside, so many people, things, animals filled every inch of it. It somehow felt cozy and chaotic at once.

Sky-scraping palm trees and massive tents encircled everyone and everything, but none of the outer tents compared to the center marquee—so big that more tents lined its rim. It was impossible to see what each had to offer from where I stood—I'd have to stroll around to get a better look.

From what I could see, many resembled stalls like the ones in Port. Others vended food. But most were filled with contests, tables, wheels, games—unparalleled to anything I'd ever seen before. I wanted to visit each one.

Peddlers pushed carts through the overcrowded walkways—bartering jewelry, candy, trinkets, and novelties from foreign lands. From cities and provinces I'd never heard of.

A collective gasp of what had to be almost a hundred people permeated from the marquee, followed by a flash of light that seeped through its closed flaps, where a queue of nobs stood. Waiting to see the magician, I assumed.

And no one seemed to pay mind to the free-roaming lizards, rainbow pheasants, flamingos—fluttering through the fountain or sprinting under jigging feet.

Jugglers. Fortune tellers. Dancers. Minstrels. Mimes. Horse-drawn carriages carrying folks from one tent to another. And a mammoth contraption, heaved along by laborers, lifted nobs skyward and back down in circles—in painted hardwood two-seaters.

And just when I thought it too good to be true, a whoosh ensuing a burst sent the color pink streaking through the sky—its tails of light falling like bands of water and sliding over an invisible dome overhead. What was that?

The blonde caught up to me and read my mind.

"A firework," he sputtered with eyes tipped up at the sky. "To mark every hour. They have ten prepared for the finale." He looked down and beamed at me, "Since it is, unfortunately, our final night of this."

A shared pause sent his eyes to scan over me, starting at my slippers and roaming upward before his sea-blue irises met mine. "I know I've already said this, but you're even more beautiful in the light."

My face heated under his scrutinizing gaze. It felt like he'd bore a hole through my face, but even more-so my body.

"Thank you," was all I could muster. Though I wished he wouldn't ogle me like that.

Spinning to take in all that I could. I wasn't even ten paces in, yet I felt stuck in place. And had no idea where to begin.

My eyes clung to the wooden contraption. It looked like the spoke of a wagon-wheel, only fifty-times the size. I wondered what we might look like from way up top, where each couple was given a moment to peak when the laborers paused their heaving.

I guessed we looked like splotches of color. Like fibers of a rug.

"Would you like to ride the Giant Wheel?" The boy queried.

"Are you a mind-reader?" After hearing that magicians existed, my query wasn't a joke, but his head tipped back to laugh.

"Come on," he said, tugging at my wrist. His grip was a bit too-harsh and warranted unwanted memories. Still, I followed. To one side of the spoke where we joined a fair-sized queue. I paused to consider what nobs spent their time talking about.

"I've ridden this thing at least a hundred times," the boy stated casually.

"You've been here already?"

"Two nights." He shrugged. "This will be my third, and I'll likely ride it ten times more, but I only get to do so once a year. It would be a sin not to take advantage—wouldn't you agree?"

I exhaled something of dismay, but hid my irritation with an insincere grin. He had to be grotesquely rich to attend three nights of the Festival—and every year, regardless of the city it traveled to.

And while he shrugged away the awe of it, thousands of wharfs only miles from here would do anything to see such a view—likely thanking the Gods for the occasional firework they could spot from miles away—even if it was, to them, but a pink dot appearing in the sky for less than a beat.

"I'm Kyran Salomeul," he said, with a bow of his head. Yes—he was certainly a foreigner with a surname like that.

"Esselle." I reached for the hand he extended—surprised when he didn't shake mine, rather seized it in his to kiss the back of it. His hand was delicate. I wondered if he felt that mine was different.

If he did, he didn't seem to care. For we crept through the line, and I listened, as he boasted his wealth in more ways than I thought possible.

Finally, we made it to the fore of the queue, and a set of laborers ushered us to the hovering two-seater—connected at its back-edge to the wheel. Kyran spoke only of himself throughout it all, but I tuned out his naggy voice once my feet lifted from the ground. Once I was floating.

And once we reached the top, it was just as I imagined. Everyone below was but a speck of color in a kolam painting—like an animated street-mural. It was breathtaking.

For once, I felt tall.

But like a thundercloud sheathing the sun, the beauty of it all turned grim in an instant—when I felt Kyran spread his hand over my thigh. That pale, pampered hand.

My breathing hitched in the most unpleasant of ways, and feelings of terror ambushed my chest when he wiggled his fingers through my skirt's ribbons of fabric, sliding them up my bare thighs. I halted his hand with my own before it could push its way any higher.

I lifted it and shoved it off of me, my head turning away in thrumming discomfort. Just moments ago, I'd wanted to see this view more than anything, and now, I wished for nothing more than to be back on the ground.

My words caught at the back of my throat. They were sticky. For the entire situation was a mess. And a panic began to build at my low-stomach, a panic that spread like a drop of paint in sand, to every part of me.

If I said the wrong thing, there was no telling what Kyran would do. He was already beginning to snap—and from fifty feet in the air, where he could push me to my death in one swipe.

"Such a tease," he spat and flung one insult after another my way. He called me a whore, ugly, prudish. I let the names ricochet off me, relief flooding my veins when the wheel began to move back down.

While we descended through the air, I tried not to look at Kyran. Though with the glance I did spare, I realized his eyes were like those of a demon—possessed by something cold-blooded. He wasn't right in the head, and his words were simply the result of bitterness. He was rejected and didn't like it, but none of this was my fault.

And as we neared the ground, several eyes turned to take in my seat-partner, the loudmouth with a crude tongue that hadn't ceased with the insult-flinging.

I sprung from my seat, refusing the help of an usher to guide me away, and sped through the crowd of lookers. Though my slippers were stiff, and I nearly tripped over a lady's skirt. Giving Kyran the second he needed to catch up to me.

"Do you know my rank? I'm of Salomeul blood—believe me, you don't want to offend me!" By now, more nobs had turned to feast their eyes on us, our little scene. And not one made a move to defend me. Of course, by now, I'd thought up many words to put this blue-blood in his place. None lady-like and none that a noblewoman would dare say. "Why don't we start over," he coaxed, nearing me and reaching for my wrist.

Then—

"Lady Abeline!" The voice escaped the crowd of lookers doing their best to feign disinterest behind me. A wry voice. A familiar voice. I spun to it, spotting Lyewkin's muscular frame pushing through. "We did not ride all this way to have you rubbing shoulders with such low-lifes," he announced—his eyes so full of judgment as he looked Kyran up and down. I gaped at him, my face likely wearing confusion like a sign. But he continued without a hitch. "And you already know what your father would say, hearing that you dismissed each of your handmaidens and ditched Godwin and I… again."

Before I knew it, another man—even taller, bulkier—appeared at the other side of me, eyeing Kyran the way Lyewkin was, with folded arms and tall posture. Realization struck me then. Lyewkin was helping me by pitting the creep's only weapon against himself. Social status. For only the highest ranked women walked around with courtiers and handmaidens. And only royalty walked around with bodyguards.

A smile played at my lips, and I turned to meet the blonde's face. It had paled, and his eyes were wide. And for a breath he was stock-still before taking off in a sprint, pushing through nobs, and disappearing into the crowd. The lookers around us turned away, like they weren't just relishing in the drama. Some of them even bowed to me, falling for Lyewkin's lie. It gave me the confidence to tilt my chin an inch higher. For if the people here could mistake me for royalty, I must have truly looked the part.

I gathered the courage to turn, to meet Lyewkin's gaze. And took him in as I did, dressed tastefully in a navy buttoned tunic. I wondered if he had the same one in every color. A pair of black pantalones extended down his toned legs, where they tucked into worn boots of leather dyed the same color. His eyes looked more green in this light, and his hair—again tousled—more walnut than chocolate.

Standing so close, I could smell him, his woody musk like warm sands and aspen. Part of me wanted to bury my nose in it. The other part of me was more composed. Instead, I dipped my head back so that my gaze could meet his. Something I never had to do when he was seated at the bar. For when he sat, or even stood, the marble slab between us was enough to save my neck from straining in such a way. But now, standing mere paces apart, I realized just how tall he was—how much bigger he was than me.

And his friend—he made me feel like a crumb.

"Lady… Abeline?"

"It was the first name that sprung to mind," he said through a look of amusement.

"It's a crime," I said, lowering my voice, "of posé-majesty… faking royalty like that."

"It's a crime," he repeated, "if you're caught." And his lips formed the laziest of smiles. My lips followed suit, and for a moment, I forgot who he was. I think he did, too.

His friend, who I glanced to regularly, not once lifted his eyes from my chest. Lyewkin, on the other hand, seemed to just now notice my garb—his eyes dropping down to my slippers and catching at the gleam of my silky corset. A reminder that it couldn't look good for a bar-maiden to be caught in such luxury—in ruby rings and chiffon. A reminder that the last thing I wanted was to arouse suspicion… yet again.

So, in a shakier voice than I intended, I said, "Well… enjoy your evening." And set off the same direction Kyran did. I must've looked like a frisky cat that caught sight of its own shadow, scurrying off like that. So hasty.

Only this time, instead of being hounded by one scraggly blonde, there were two ruffian-sized men on my trail—one of which I knew was looking at me and licking his lips, like a lion stalking prey.