To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Iwork tirelessly, pinning long sections of hair into golden rosettes that sit high atop my head. Fitting the final piece into place, I tame loose tendrils around my face, completing the bouquet hairstyle that’s far too regal for my liking.

But it fits the mold—makes me look like a High Master’s ward would be expected to look.

I hope.

I glance down, ensuring the pendants resting between my unbound breasts aren’t obvious beneath the sheath of blood-red material.

Poor Tanith. I think back to the moment she came to collect the gown, only to find a naked mannequin and me, claiming to have condemned the dress to a watery grave during my visit with Kai this morning.

The lie slid off my tongue, and I’d felt a twinge of guilt when she paled, claiming she’d been ordered to retrieve it. But not enough for me to fetch it from beneath my mattress and hand it over.

Not once has Rhordyn offered me an easy out, which means he’s purposely trying to keep me from the ball. Perhaps he thinks Cainon will poison my mind, but blinkers are bracketing his eyes, and he can’t see that Cainon’s the antidote.

I’m the antidote.

He’s going to toss me out eventually ... it might as well be in a territory that hasn’t been invaded by Vruks yet.

I pop the cork off a jar of lip lacquer I made from ground-up rose petals, scented oil, and a bit of lard. Women at the Tribunal often wear red on their lips, so I figured I’ll blend in if I do the same.

Claiming a paintbrush, I draw a deep breath and look to my pale reflection.

Tonight, this mirror is not my enemy. Because tonight, I’m not the Orlaith who’s spent the majority of her life hiding behind a make-believe line, using Rhordyn as a shield.

Tonight, I’m somebody strong, composed, and resilient.

“Strong, composed ... resilient ...”

I dip the tapered bristles, steady my hand, and stain my lips red with delicate precision. The color makes my lilac eyes pop and is the perfect tone to compliment my dress. But more importantly, it makes me look like somebody else, and tonight, that’s exactly what I need.

A mask.

Next is a smudge of kohl around my eyes, turning them smokey and mysterious. I even use a sharpened stick to draw a line of it above my lids that flicks out beyond the corner.

Vision complete, I let the stick fall to the vanity.

I look so confident and majestic—nothing like the woman who broke down in the gardens yesterday. A pretty, sacrificial offering dolled up just enough to draw that pair of clippers Rhordyn was so intent on warning me against.

It’s perfect.

Pushing to my feet, I smooth the material hugging my legs before retrieving my shoes off the bed.

The heels look like oversized thorns, and I have almost a hundred and fifty stairs to descend. With that in mind, I decide to put them on later rather than risk cartwheeling to the base of Stony Stem and breaking every bone in my body.

Stressing the limits of my tight dress, I edge down the tower in increments, one hand tracing the wall while the other grips my shoes and hem, every step announced by another bitten word.

Strong.

Composed.

Resilient.

By the time I reach the foyer at the base of my tower, I almost believe myself.

Bending to slip my heels on, I notice a dinner tray sitting on the ground near the open doorway, covered by a wooden lid with a small velvet pouch perched on top. Frowning, I reach for it ...

The door slams shut.

The sound of a bolt sliding into place has my heart diving into my stomach. I dart forward, grasp the brass handle, and push—

The door doesn’t budge.

It’s never been locked before. I didn’t even know it had a lock.

“Hey!” I bellow, slapping my hand against the wood so hard my palm throbs. “Open the damn door!”

My only response is a convenient void of silence.

No retreating footsteps.

Whoever just locked me in here is standing by, listening to me yell, and there’s only one person I’d give that sort of credit to.

“Rhordyn! I know you’re there! Open this door right now!”

Nothing.

I kick at it, slam my shoulder against it, search its hinges for a way to pry them loose ...

“Rhordyn!”

Heavy footsteps retreat down the hall while I kick and snarl and scream. Teeth bared, I unfasten a hairpin and dig it down the side of the door where I think the lock might be, but it’s useless.

There’s no weakness for me to manipulate.

Bent pin pinched between my throbbing fingers, I crumble to the ground in a frustrated, sweaty heap ...

How dare he.

* * *

Flopped on the bed, I stare daggers at the velvet bag hanging from my finger. The one I just opened to reveal a stash of healthy bluebell heads ...minus the stems.

I frown, seeing the gift for what it really is.

Placation.

Perhaps Zali told Rhordyn I was standing behind that curtain. Perhaps he’s just being a controlling prick. Whatever the cause of my sudden jailing, the outcome is still the same.

I’m pissed, trapped, anxious ... and that’s a dangerous mix.

I’m not silly. I know Cainon has seen something he likes in me—that he’s using me as a bargaining chip. Something Rhordyn is obviously opposed to.

I know he thinks I’m better than a political pairing, but what Cainon said to me at the base of Stony Stem suggested Rhordyn’s own pairing is at least partially political. And what’s good enough for Rhordyn is good enough for me.

I may not be a High Mistress, but I can do one better than Zali. I can secure Rhordyn a hundred ships and the means to put a stop to the carnage spreading across the land. I can help make the world a safer place just by accepting a simple cupla.

But I can’t do that from up here in my tower, and the deal’s off the table at midnight.

We’re running out of time.

I hiss at the clutch of bells, half tempted to toss them out the window and see how fast they fall.

Actually ... screw it.

I roll off the bed and swing the door open, sweeping onto the balcony in a swish of red. Stepping close to the balustrade, I take in the castle grounds littered with people dressed in pops of color, decorating the grass like a field of wild blooms.

There are carriages parked about, hooked up to horses chewing on piles of straw. A line of torches leads to the front entrance, ready to light a path for the guests whose chatter comes to me on the still twilight air.

My isolation from such a crowd would usually thrill me to the bone, but I’m not that girl tonight. All I see are potential victims of a future raid I could have prevented.

It’s not good enough.

I suspend the bag of blooms over the edge, gaze diving to the long, metal support beam that runs from the base of Stony Stem by the fifth floor, crosses a courtyard, and anchors itself to a sturdier wing of Castle Noir.

My heart flip flops. “Of course.”

I dash inside and set the velvet pouch on my pillow, though not before I give it a sniff. I’m not searching for the bluebell’s fragrance, but savoring the scent of leather and a crisp, icy lake.

Rhordyn handled this bag. Picked these buds. Somehow knew I needed them. Then went to the effort to remove the stems required to make more Exothryl, leaving only the goods to make more paint.

The bastard.

I stain my lips with another layer of rouge before grabbing my shoes and making a dash for the stairs. They’re full of the murky light of sundown, the sconces not yet lit. They probably won’t be, considering the door’s locked and I’m supposed to be hiding in my tower. But again, I’m not that girl tonight.

I’m strong. Composed. Resilient. Someone who doesn’t cower from the slice of a stare or the hack of a word.

Someone who wears her skin with pride.

I lean against the concave wall, one hand gripping the base of a tall, oblong window. My heart sits high in my throat as I glance across the canyon of empty space, tracing the thin, metallic beam that roots from just below the window, stretching toward a stout part of the castle.

A safe, sturdy destination, which is a lot more than I can say about the beam.

I cast my stare on the stone courtyard five stories below ...

That fall looks terribly unforgiving, but the way I see it, I either tiptoe across this lengthy plank and make it to that damn ball or more innocent people suffer.

There is no option.

I lift my leg, causing my dress to split from knee to hip along the side seam, leaving a gaping hole. I groan, rip it to the hem so it comes across as a risqué fashion choice, then clamber onto the window ledge and shift my grip to better support myself.

If I don’t die now, I will when Rhordyn sees I’m flashing half my ass cheek in-front of the entire congregation.

Praying nobody looks up, I stare at the ground.

“Shit ...”

My one saving grace is my experience walking The Plank, something I hope will aid me to keep my feet firmly planted.

That’s the theory, anyway.

Drawing a deep breath, I secure the train of my dress and cast my gaze toward the opposite window. I settle my first foot on the beam barely wide enough to support the full width of it and relinquish my grip on the sill, transferring a single shoe to my other hand to balance myself.

I push my arms out like I’m flying, my other foot moving on its own, sailing me away from the port of Stony Stem. The chasm of doom yawns beneath me as I settle into that corner of my mind that’s quiet, calm, and entirely naïve.

My heart slows as I walk—paces long and delicate, body light as a feather.

I’m not five stories in the air with my life balancing on a shift of wind. I’m strong, steady, and there’s nothing in this world that can stop me.

The air seems to cradle me as I walk the last few paces, and a laugh bubbles in the back of my throat. I transfer both shoes to one hand and grip the skirting, using it to swing myself through the open window, landing in a narrow hallway like an agile cat.

My smile is so wide it feels like my face is splitting.

I dart down the corridor lined with tall, peek-a-boo windows to my left. It takes a sharp bend, then a fall of stairs has my feet hammering the ground at a swifter pace. The steps flatten to a landing, and I slide my hands over the wall to my right, applying pressure until it swings open and reveals a secret entrance to The Tangle.

This elbow is tight, squiggly, and dark—a trail I have to work my way through by feel alone—but a short route that spits me inside a blanket box. I shove the lid open and clamber out, brushing myself off in the dusty storage room that’s stacked full of old furniture. I pat my hair, secure any loose bits, then step out the door into a loud, bustling hall doused in the smell of baked seafood.

The kitchen is ahead on my left, a steady stream of servants flowing in and out.

I walk at a brisk pace, keeping my chin high and eyes trained forward as I pass the door, inserting myself amongst the river of servers clothed in black—

“Stop right there, missy!”

Dammit.

I spin to chase the source of the fiery inspection burning the side of me. “Hi, Cook ...”

She clicks her tongue, then herds me toward a quieter section of the hallway and eyes me up and down, dusting flour on her already chalky apron while I try not to fidget.

“I was told you weren’t attending, and that I’m to serve a plate of honey buns at the base of your tower once the sun goes down.” She reaches deep into her pocket and pulls out a black key that makes me cringe internally.

“Whoever told you that must have gotten the message wrong,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the flow of servants. “I’m actually headed there now, so I’ll jus—”

“The High Master himself told me.”

Oh. Crap.

I nod, hating that I got caught lying to Cook, but her family lives in a nearby village ...

I’m doing this for everybody.

“Sometimes Rhordyn doesn’t know what’s good for him,” I mutter, and her gaze softens.

“Well. That’s something I can agree with.” She stuffs the key into her pocket and motions for me to step closer. “Quick, let me help you put those shoes on. If you bend over, you’ll tear that dress to your tit.”

My cheeks blaze as I squash a sigh of relief, swinging my shoes into Cook’s awaiting hands so fast I almost flog her with them. She kneels, holds them out, and I slip them on one by one.

As she fastens the buckles, I watch servant after servant rush past with round, silver platters encumbered by brimming champagne flutes, overhearing one of them natter about some announcement that’s about to take place ...

I frown.

“What announcement?”

Cook stands, gives me a sweeping scan, and rearranges a few pins in my hair. “You and I both know which announcement they’re referring to, my girl.”

My heart drops as I glance down the hall, wishing the backs of my eyes weren’t stinging. Wishing the extra surge of determination had everything to do with my will to do good—that it was untarnished by the thorn of resentment poking holes in my heart.

Yes, I know exactly what announcement they’re referring to.