Misrule by Heather Walter

Author:Heather Walter [Walter, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2022-05-10T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Imps are enthusiastic when I solicit their help. Fae and others of magical blood do not celebrate birthdays, as few of us can guess exactly when we were born, which makes the party seem marvelously eccentric.

Though I explained to them about other parties given in former Briar, the roguish creatures have no interest in Grace-grown flowers, or pots of redolent incense, or live hummingbirds flitting like winged jewels among the guests. Instead, columns are dressed as ominous trees with scythelike arms draped in cobwebs. Brambles curl along what’s left of the mezzanine. Vases teem with midnight-petaled irises and a species of orchid only the Imps could have summoned—with miniature leering faces in the centers. Ravens are captured and let loose in the ballroom, their laughing calls sinister and echoing.

The cake was the lone suggestion the Imps took to heart. It’s so tall that the layers list to one side. At first, the Imps tried to stick fat tallow tapers in the tiers as decoration. Crimson, so that it looked as though the candles were dripping mortal blood. But I convinced them to switch to smaller versions magicked to appear as dragons with wicks on the talons of their wings and tails. The icing is a shade of lavender, to honor Aurora, and piped into clusters of roses.

The Imps’ favorite aspect of the party is its secrecy. All day, Aurora’s trio of companions kept her away from our work. Shortly after sunset, the court assembles in the ballroom. A Vila plucks at her skirt, which is comprised entirely of thin tangled roots. Blackened branches make up the bodice, reaching over her shoulders and fanning out into a high collar behind her head. Several Demons sport headdresses with long curving horns, or nests of tangled serpents. A Demon wears a dress accented with bones, so that it appears the wearer’s spine and ribs are visible. I spot a cloak that gives the illusion of ghoulish faces pressed against the swaths of fabric. Even the Imps have donned gargoyle masks and elaborate hats made out of petrified bats. I’d asked them to conjure me a gown of onyx silk with a silver overlay. Gossamer wings float down from my shoulders. Will Aurora recognize it as being similar to the one I wore when we first met? My heart stammers.

Aurora’s Imps can soon be heard charging down the corridor. One is riding her shoulders, vermilion fingers clamped over her face. Two others gambol in front, shouting at her to avoid bottomless pits and duck under soaring spears. She laughs and tickles the bottom of the Imp’s feet, and he backflips onto the floor.

I’d instructed her keepers to make sure she dressed for this party, and they didn’t disappoint. Her gown is a striking sapphire color, littered with innumerable constellations of winking silver gems. It’s cut low in the front, and the skin exposed by the plunging neckline shimmers with opalescent powder. Like the night sky was crushed, stars and all, and she bathed in it.

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