Winter's Ball by Giselle Ava (the mitten read aloud TXT) 📕

small, wooden tables in the extended section of the ballroom, the faint rumble of music in her right ear. Eight thirty-two. Lord Desmond stared at her over his wine glass with a funny expression.

Sarina closed the clock and met his eye. “What is it?”

“Beyond the city they say you’re crazy,” he said sceptically.

“And have I disappointed you or lived up to your expectations?”

“I was sort of expecting you to scream at me when I spoke to you, or even run away immediately, turning your back to reveal wings, or that when a particular note is struck by the cellist, you would run up there and politely tell him no A-sharps, sir.” He shrugged, taking a sip of his wine and then resting it back down. “To be honest, I was half-hoping for it.”

“Those around me do often consider me a disappointment,” Sarina said offhandedly, as she took another sip of wine. Just a little bit. She could already feel it dulling her senses, faces blurring if she looked at them too long, or blinked too fast. But it also softened something else, that tension inside her bones, that feeling that she was constantly holding up a large, gargantuan rocky boulder. She allowed herself to smile softly.

“You are prettier, though,” Desmond said.

“You expected what of the High Lady of Lavus City? A girl with greasy hair, bad skin, and who smells like rotten fish? Even if I were that, the women up there would bathe me in flowers, cover my face with makeup and make me out to look somewhat presentable. Luckily, I have good genes. Otherwise, and trust me on this, I would be a horror to behold.”

He smiled warmly and she dodged his eyes.

“I can see what you’re doing, Lord Desmond Da’vail of Vaul, but I highly suggest you do not pursue me as anything more than another lady of the court, and a potential ally should things suddenly descend into bitter times. I have a rotten soul.”

“I am inclined to believe that.”

“And yet you remain...”

“Your ways are intriguing.”

“My ways?” She smirked.

“You were quite cute to my eleven-year-old eyes back then.”

“Where did it all go wrong?” Sarina sighed tragically.

“It was only eight years ago, out there in the gardens.”

“Oh my god. That seems like a lifetime...”

“Let me get you another drink and we shall continue this conversation.” He swiped their empty glasses off the table and stood. “Would the lady like anything specific?”

“High Lady will do,” she said.

Desmond smiled. “High Lady.”

“Let’s go with something that won’t make me immediately drunk,” she said, letting him be off. She glanced back down at her pocket watch. Eight thirty-eight.

Once he was out of sight, she got up, still buzzing with what had just happened. She had known Desmond when she was younger. They were both seven when they last met, one year before the night it all changed. One year later, it would all come crashing down and she would never see him again. In all that time she’d known him, and the time in between, she had never thought of him twice. But she couldn’t deny his older, polished charm.

She felt Sir Tam watching her from afar and she strode up to him. They stood by the unimpeded entryway to the ballroom proper, by a blue lantern.

“Have you seen Mikka?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Sir Tam said softly.

She thought about waiting there for Desmond to return, and then thought about what would happen if she snuck off and then met him again while she was sneaking off, and then thought it would just be best if she snuck off but in the completely opposite direction.

She made sure Desmond was out of sight and then scampered up the staircase back to the second floor balcony, and then out into one of the sitting rooms where people were quietly mingling and serving boys handed out delicious finger food. There was a small crowd within it. Some of them acknowledged her with nods or with a quiet “Lady Mithriv” and sometimes even a “High Lady Mithriv,” which was her official title, but she honestly didn’t care either way. They both meant the same thing: she was the last Mithriv lady in the court.

She was suddenly bitten by a sting of tension. She promptly forced it out with a long, deep breath. Raised her shoulders and dropped them, letting it all spill out onto the velvet, carpeted floor. She walked into the next room, forcing a smile back upon her face. Her hand reached for the pocket watch but she identified the tendency and stopped herself, instead taking some food from a serving boy.

“Sir Tam,” she said, turning to face him.

He was not there, but somebody else was. There among the crowds, having just sat up from one of the seats, was a tall thin man with small circular glasses. No hair, but very good eyebrows, like he had waxed them before arriving. And when he turned his head at a specific angle and you saw what lay behind those glasses, you would see empty eyeholes, fleshy and nondescript. The man did not appear to see her, but then again, he had no eyes. And yet the breath caught in her throat and she froze. Her muscles tightened.

The passage of time blurred. One moment she was standing inside that room and the next she was back inside the main chamber, the music a slurred melody in the back of her mind, people shapeshifting into inhuman forms around her, their movements trailed by ghost-like images. She’d taken another pill and was leaning up against a mahogany pillar.

“Is everything all right, Sarina?” Sir Tam’s voice pulled her back into the present moment. The loud voices. The delicate violins, the deep cellos and crystalline piano. Laughter. Smiles. Noblemen flung their dance partners, raised their arms and noblewomen spun underneath them before ending up back in their partner’s arms.

The crowds parted and there he was.

“I want you to arrest that man.”

The words surprised her out of her mouth,