Legendary (Caraval, 2)

Minerva’s ModernWear was not an ordinary dress shop. In fact, as Tella entered, she wondered if it was a dress shop at all.

The foyer was decorated with sumptuous lilac lounges, amethyst carpets thicker than uncut grass, and violet vases filled with flowers the size of small trees that smelled of lavender and expensive tobacco. But for all the finery around her, Tella didn’t detect any frocks or fashionable accessories.

“Aren’t you a vision?”

Tella jumped as a plump seamstress came flitting out of a pair of double doors. Her orchid-colored hair was bobbed boldly at her chin, matching the measuring tapes wrapped around her neck like jewelry. “He told me you were spirited, but he didn’t mention how pretty you were. No wonder you captured his attention.”

Tella didn’t want to smile, given that it wasn’t her choice to be here or to be in this relationship with Jacks, but it was rather nice to be fawned over.

“You’re earlier than I expected, so you may have to sit for a bit. Would you like any wine or cake while you wait?”

“I never say no to wine or cake.”

“I’ll have some sent straightaway.” The seamstress ushered Tella into another plush purple hall lined in velvet wallpaper and closed doors as dark as black cherries, with equally dark whispers coming from behind them.

“How much poison can these cuff links hold?” muttered a man.

Behind the next door a woman crisply explained, “It’s woven between the lace, just a gentle tug and you’ll have a garrote.”

A couple of doors down Tella heard someone giggling, followed by an accented voice saying, “The sleeves are this puffy so that you can hide a derringer inside. Feel that tiny cradle.”

Hidden pistols. Poison. Garrotes.

Definitely not normal, though of course the same sentiment could have been applied to Tella’s fiancé. Fictional fiancé, she corrected. Although for a charade of an engagement it seemed Jacks was going to a surprising amount of effort.

The seamstress stopped in front of a closed door at the end of the hall. “Why don’t you go in and get situated, pet? I’ll pop back with your items in a few.”

The woman disappeared down the hall and Tella reached for the doorknob. She half expected to find chandeliers made of poison bottles dangling from an aubergine ceiling, mirrors lined with swords, and dressing hooks made of silver daggers.

She’d not expected to see him.

Tella’s stomach dipped and her heart might have flipped, the same way it always did whenever she met Dante.

He didn’t lounge or rest, he possessed.

In the corner of the suite, atop a raised platform, he sat back in an excessively large black leather chair as if he ruled the world from it. His generous shoulders and chest consumed his temporary throne rather than the other way around. His posture was straight but not rigid, as if he didn’t know how to slouch, only how to take up space.

Arrogant scoundrel. Yet even as Tella thought the words, heat spread across her chest as she said, “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“How did you know I would be here?”

A slow, superior raise of his brows.

Tella’s world tilted once again. “You sent the letter?”

“Disappointed I’m not Jacks?”

She slammed the door shut. “Are you mad? Do you know what my fiancé will do if he discovers this?”

“He’ll only find out if you tell him,” Dante answered coolly. “And there’s no need to pretend with me that you two are actually engaged.”

Silent alarms filled the dressing chamber as Jacks’s words rushed back to Tella:

Take your tattooed friend over there … he’s one of Legend’s performers, so I can’t kill him this week. But if he discovers the truth, I could easily end his life once the game is over.

“Maybe I’m not pretending.” Tella started to put on her sweetest smile, but she imagined Dante would know it was false, and she needed to convince him this was the truth. She twisted her mouth into the sort of smirk usually worn by overconfident young men. “When Jacks and I kissed, did it look as if I was acting?”

Dante’s intense gaze remained frustratingly level, but Tella swore a muscle ticked near the corner of his jaw. “I’m not sure what you two are doing, but I don’t believe you’re getting married.”

“Why?” Tella challenged. “Because you doubt the heir to the throne would want to marry me?”

A slow curl of his lips said more than any insult ever could. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Red burst across Tella’s cheeks. She was trying to keep Jacks from killing him, but Dante couldn’t stop being cruel. “Did you just come here to mock me?”

“What have I said that’s mocking? You leap to too many conclusions, Tella.” He leaned closer as he said her name, drawing out the syllables, as if it were something he wanted to hold on to. “Maybe I was going to tell you that you’re clever and funny and beautiful. I always thought you were too smart to marry a murderer.”

“And I’ve always thought some risks are worth taking,” Tella countered, ignoring the way Dante’s use of the words clever and funny and beautiful continued to flutter about inside her. “Jacks is handsome and rich, and soon he’s going to rule the entire Meridian Empire, which means I’ll be the next empress. So, I suppose I should be thanking you for making our introduction possible.”

Dante’s eyes blazed, a brief spark of fire. He might not have liked what she’d said, but maybe Tella had finally convinced him.

“If you really think I did you a favor—” Dante cut off.

The line of his vision fell, the fire dying in his eyes. He pushed up from his chair, leaped from the platform, and captured Tella’s wrist in one abrupt move. “What happened to your hand?”

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Each sound mirrored her slowing pulse. Dark, red, unforgiving blood fell from her nails, soaking every fingertip on her right hand. Jacks.

Coldness swept over Tella’s skin and started sinking in like claws. That wretched, deceitful, remorseless, pain-enjoying prince of vile. It wasn’t enough that he’d cursed her to unrequited love; he really was killing her. The slower heartbeats weren’t merely in her mind.

White and black spots danced before Tella’s eyes.

Three more fat beads of blood fell from her fingernails, leaving fresh stains on the amethyst carpet. But all Tella heard was Jacks’s mocking voice warning her there would be side effects from kissing his cursed lips.

“I didn’t realize I was still bleeding,” Tella lied. “I caught my hand in a carriage door earlier. I should probably go and get it looked at.”

Dante held her tighter. “I can take care of it.” He yanked off his cravat; his movements were terse, but his hands were excruciatingly careful as he pressed the fabric to her fingers.

Tella’s breathing hitched.

Dante shouldn’t have been touching her so tenderly, or pulling her closer with every movement, and she shouldn’t have been letting him. She should have pushed his giant hands away. Growled at him as he slowly wrapped the warm silk that had encircled his throat around her bleeding hand. Not only because of Jacks’s threats, but because of who Dante worked for.

Tella really tried not to give much thought to what would happen when she handed Legend over to Jacks, but she doubted it would be a favorable outcome. Legend could be wicked, but the Prince of Hearts was evil. The sort who’d rip a girl’s heart from her chest and sink his teeth into it as if it were an apple.

To protect herself, she needed to stay away from Dante. Even if for a brief moment she just wanted to close her eyes and collapse in his arms.

“Tell me what really happened last night after the heir took you away.” His voice was soothing and commanding all at once, like the crackle of flames devouring wood. Fierce and fatal, yet somehow steady and reassuring. The type of voice a girl could have easily been consumed by.

“I really don’t need your assistance.” Tella yanked her hand away, freeing it from the silk and spattering her lacy gown with blood as she broke Dante’s spell before it could be fully cast.

He looked as if he wanted to reach for her. If her unsteady legs so much as swayed his way, she imagined he’d capture her in his arms and hold her so close she’d willingly confess her every sin and secret.

But he didn’t honestly care. He was just acting. Playing a role.

She forced herself to take a step back.

A vein throbbed in Dante’s neck. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Maybe I don’t want your help!”

Another bead of blood dripped to the floor.

Stars joined the spots in front of Tella’s eyes. And before she could take more than one step back, Dante was there, holding her wrist once more, and maybe he was holding her a little more together, as he finished the job he’d started. Tella wouldn’t admit it to him, but she felt a little less light-headed as his wide, warm hands wrapped her bloody fingers inside his cravat.

“I’d let you go, but you just admitted you need help.” His voice was softer than before. “Tell me what that murderer wants from you.”

Why did he have to be so stubborn? Couldn’t he just wrap up her fingers and leave her alone?

“Can’t you just let this go and pretend you believe it?” she asked. “You’re worried about me, but this endangers you, too. If Jacks finds out you know the truth, he’ll hurt you in ways that not even Legend can fix.” She said it like a threat, but rather than releasing her, Dante gave her a flash of teeth that looked a lot like a smile.

“I didn’t think you cared about me,” he said.

“I don’t,” Tella snapped.

It would have been more convincing if she’d pulled her hand away.

She didn’t need his help to win the game, and she didn’t trust him, but she unfortunately liked the feel of him. The bleeding had brought a chill that hadn’t been there before, but Dante managed to erase it as he cradled her hand and leaned in closer, until Tella’s back was against the door, and Dante’s body was moving closer to hers.

There was still enough room for her to grab the handle, to escape if she wanted. And she told herself that’s what she wanted. But her fingers were as stubborn as he was—they refused to reach for the exit.

“Tell me what he wants from you,” Dante said roughly.

“He wants to marry me, that’s it.”

Dante shook his head.

“You know, it’s starting to feel really insulting that you keep refusing to believe that.”

“Maybe I just don’t believe that’s all that he wants.” Dante’s free hand found Tella’s cheek and tilted her face toward his.

A flush went down her neck all the way to her toes as he slowly stroked her jaw.

“If you don’t tell me, I will figure it out,” Dante said.

And doom himself in the process—or reveal her plans to Legend and damn Tella as well as her mother.

Tella forced herself to remove his hand from her cheek. “I don’t dislike you, Dante. In fact, if you weren’t a mere actor, I would probably really like you. You’re almost as good-looking as you think you are. But I want more than a pretty face. Jacks can give me that. He can give me everything I’ve ever desired.” Tella pressed her lips together and briefly closed her eyes, as if imagining the kiss she’d shared with Jacks on the dance floor.

When she opened her eyes again, Dante’s face was a bare inch away, and his eyes were as black as spilled ink.

Heat uncurled low in Tella’s stomach.

“Either you don’t want much, or you’re lying,” Dante said. “I might believe you’ll actually go through with marrying him, but given what I know about you, I doubt someone like him can fulfill your every desire.”

When he finished, his lips were so close, one careless move and her mouth would brush his. Tella raised her chin slowly, aware she was walking a treacherous line as she gave him a look made of pure heat. “Maybe there are things you don’t know about Jacks.”

Dante answered with a grin, but it wasn’t kind or warm or soft like grins were supposed to be. It was calculated, the slow, teasing way someone curved his lips just before he turned over a winning hand of cards. “Are you saying that because he’s the Prince of Hearts?”

Tella froze, and even the blood spilling from her fingertips stopped as everything inside her panicked, sharpening her senses further. If she wanted to persuade Dante that she had no idea what he was talking about, she’d need to recover quickly, but playing naive would only convince him she was in over her head. And maybe Tella was. She was cursed, her mother was trapped inside a card, and to save them both, Tella was now playing a game involving two infamous immortals—one of whom wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.

Yet even before reaching Valenda, Dante had talked about the Prince of Hearts as if he was still alive. It seemed oddly coincidental, especially as she recalled the opening of Jovan’s welcome speech:

Elantine has invited us here to save the Empire from her greatest fear.

For centuries the Fates were locked away, but now they wish to come out and play.

What if Jacks was one of the Fates who’d come out to—

No. Tella refused to finish the thought. Believing the game was real led straight to madness. The other obvious explanation was that Jacks was playing a role in the game. But the blood dripping from Tella’s fingers and the heart dying in her chest felt like solid proof he was the real Prince of Hearts.

Dante had to be bluffing, gambling with lies just as he’d done with the matron at the palace when he’d first claimed Tella was engaged to Jacks.

“If Jacks really was the Prince of Hearts, I’d already be dead from his kiss.”

“Maybe you’re his one true love. Or he’s allowed you to live because he has other plans.” Dante’s eyes quickly traveled toward the fitted lines of Tella’s lacy sapphire gown, as if he somehow knew Jacks had sent it.

“Don’t stare at me like that,” Tella said. “You’re the one who claimed I was engaged to him.”

A final drop of blood fell to the floor, grimly punctuating her sentence.

Dante looked at it and his entire face shifted. His familiar arrogance fell away as he said, “You’re right. This is my fault. I made a bad choice. But I swear, when I said you were engaged to the heir, I didn’t know he was the Prince of Hearts.”

“Then how did you figure it out?”

“When I saw you dance with him at the ball. The Fates aren’t natural; they don’t belong in this world, just like those of us who have died and come back to life.” Dante swallowed thickly, and when he spoke again his voice was unusually quiet. “Everyone else at the ball might have been oblivious, but after he kissed you I saw him glowing—”

Bustling footsteps sounded in the hall outside.

Dante’s mouth slammed into a line.

The footsteps grew louder and closer.

“You might want to pretend you don’t know me,” he said.

“Why?” Tella asked.

“I’m not exactly supposed to be here.”

“I thought you arranged this!”

Dante’s mouth kicked into a dry smile. “Did I actually say that?”

Bastard!

He pushed off the wall as Tella’s mouth fell open. Though she should have known he hadn’t actually arranged it. He’d just hijacked her note and crossed out the proper time.

Before she could curse him out loud, someone shoved against the other side of the door.

Tella tripped forward as the door crashed against her.

Dante caught her instantly, two solid arms snaking around her hips, right as the seamstress stepped inside the room.

The woman’s eyes landed on their compromising position, before moving to the spatters of blood on Tella’s dress and the floor. “I don’t know what you’re doing in here, young man, but you have half of a second to leave before I tell the heir about this. And I think we all know what will happen then.”

“Be careful,” Dante countered, “you’re making His Deadly Highness sound predictable.”

Dante’s hands slipped away from Tella as he whispered in her ear, “I know you don’t want to believe me, but Caraval is more than just a game this time. I’m not sure what the Prince of Hearts has promised you, but to the Fates, humans are nothing more than sources of labor or entertainment.”

Tella’s heart managed to kick out a few extra beats, returning to almost a normal rate as Dante left. If Jacks hadn’t cursed her, she imagined it would have been pounding loud enough for everyone inside of Minerva’s to hear.

Once Dante was gone the seamstress was all smiles again. She set some cake and wine atop a small table that Tella hadn’t noticed. It was as if nothing had happened, though Tella wondered if the woman would be reporting everything that occurred to Jacks.

The seamstress spoke of Jacks constantly as she forced Tella to stand so she could fit her dresses. To Tella’s dismay, none of them contained any hidden weapons. But Tella couldn’t deny the garments were stunning. There were gowns that changed color in the sun, and capes sewn with thread made of stardust so they would always glitter at night.

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.