First 3 Chapters

The Origin of The Daemon King

An excerpt from “A Brief History of Nilos” by Forsynthian historian Argile Cartwright.

When the meteor hit the continent of Agea three thousand years ago, the Kingdom of Forsynthia did not yet exist. 

Prior to the meteor’s arrival, Nilos was an insignificant blue speck of a planet in the Twin Rings galaxy. Its flora and fauna followed the natural evolution of bacteria into plants and aquatic life, then into warm blooded mammals, then primates, then mankind. Ten thousand years ago, the meteor entered the atmosphere at terrifying speeds, creating an arc of fire across the sky, visible from pole to pole. Most of the meteor dissolved into rubble and sand. But a large molten chunk landed at the southern tip of the continent, opening an abyss over a hundred miles long. Although never confirmed by living eyes, its depths were rumored to reach the center of the planet.

Fed by Nilos’ rich atmosphere and native resources, specks of life lying dormant upon the meteor began their own, mutilated form of evolution. These parasites grew and evolved within the Abyss, undisturbed for thousands of years until without warning, the Daemon King appeared. A black, abhorrent beast of tremendous size, whether the creature was plant or mammal or insect or “other” remained unknown. Its body a writhing mass of tentacles, with poison-tipped claws and acidic maw, the Daemon King began spawning monsters into the Abyss.

At this time, as though orchestrated by a hand much greater than mere evolution, the Luminous emerged, humans of immense power and talent rising up from among the normal population. Whether gained from meteoric dust or by destiny or fate, the ability to channel a mysterious power called mana manifested among certain people of Nilos. Due to their glowing hands while channeling, the term “Luminary” or “Luminous” was adopted, and later, the name “Skytouched” was coined by the common people. The most powerful channelers formed families, then allegiances, establishing the Kingdom of Forsynthia as its ruling class in. The same pattern repeated in the neighboring kingdoms of Bratzia, Dresengard, Illysea, and Sera’naya. Day-to-day life changed forever, as generations of Luminous soldiers went into the Abyss to fight off the monsters and preserve Nilos’s blooming civilization.

Technology evolved, moving through the bronze age into the iron age. Then, with the advent of combustion engines, the world entered into a brand new era of industrial revolution.

Guns were provided to the armies of Forsynthia to fight back the daemonic horde, but bullets proved ineffective against the monsters’ alien powers. The Skytouched remained the most efficient means of combating the creatures. Gunpowder proved only somewhat effective against the Daemon King’s regenerative body. Despite technology’s progress, it seemed only Luminary soldiers were capable of restraining the horrors of the Abyss. And so the Luminous remained the sole protectors of the kingdom. Year after year, special units of Daemonguard were trained by the military to protect the kingdom against the nightmares of the Abyss.

Many exceptional heroes rose up through the ranks of Skytouched to defeat the Daemon King. Over and over, the war was won, and the enemy was declared “dead.” But it seemed that, no matter how many times the Daemon King was killed, the heart of it remained buried somewhere deep within the core of the planet. Like a tenacious weed, the creature would lie dormant for a period of time before spawning again.

Sometimes, the monster’s dormancy lasted several generations, allowing the kingdoms of Nilos a chance to rebuild and their people to thrive. Sometimes, its dormancy lasted only a decade or so before the creatures of the Abyss surged again. 

And so the tides of war and peace, of chaos and security, came and went for the people of Nilos. 

Many stories have been written about warfare and battle—fewer have been written about the aftermath. Our tale begins shortly after the Daemon King’s defeat, at the end of a grueling ten year siege in the Abyss, with the Kingdom of Forsynthia returning to a period of uncertain peace on the cusp of industrial revolution.

Chapter 1 

The Invitation

Celise stood on the front steps of Gravenmere Castle, her calico skirt clutched in hand.

She rested her parasol against her shoulder and stood still for a moment, listening to a bird trill from a drooping cherry tree next to the front drive. Behind the castle stretched the rambling Grapevine Mountains, their purple peaks contrasted by a crystal blue sky. A hedged lawn of sculpted shrubbery, walkable garden rooms, and glowing marble fountains sprawled within the castle’s monolithic walls.

She tugged at the high, itchy collar of her dress, borrowed from her younger sister’s closet.

I am not good enough to stand here, she thought.

She could leave. She had traveled a full day and night by train to reach the estate of the Blackwood family. A hundred times over, she had thought of changing tickets to Castleberry City. It would make more sense. She could find work and a little room to rent, though she wasn't very good at anything. Still, she could clean, and she knew a lot about horses.

She braced herself and rang the bell that hung beside the front door. The hollow brass sound startled a robin from a nearby tree. She watched the bird fly away.

That should be me, she thought.

Her invitation to the duke’s manor was a mistake. 

Celise remembered the day she and her sisters were summoned to the Great Hall by her father, Lord Sebastian Dhastel. She was brushing down a horse when the summons came. A serving girl, her hair tied in two buns on either side of her head, popped around the corner of a stall and said, with a touch of concern, “The Master wants you, miss.”

“Oh?” Celise murmured, as drowsy in the afternoon heat as the sleepy bay mare she was brushing. “I will come immediately.”

The Dhastel estate was an equestrian ranch with a sprawling mansion house, several guest pavilions, and stables to house more than five-hundred horses. It was midday, and the estate was bustling with activity. Horse trainers, wranglers and ranch hands ran back and forth, pulling along a plethora of horses on leads. Dhastel stallions and draft horses were in high demand across the Kingdom of Forsynthia. Their family was known for their specialty breeds: lady’s walkers, load-bearing draft horses and hearty standardbreds. Ten years ago, her father was commissioned by King Valienthe to breed a special warhorse for the daemonguard. Dhastel “hellions” were too temperamental for common jobs, but the fearless beasts were highly prized among soldiers and huntsmen alike.

The county fair was at the end of the month, and the Dhastel family’s newest stock always made an appearance. 

As Celise followed the maid back to the manor, she passed by the farm manager, Mr. Talisworth, who gave her a slight nod. Mr. Talisworth was a very tall man, with light blond hair and a jutting brow, characteristic of the northern people of Dresengard, the land of his birth. It wasn’t common to encounter his people this far south, but Celise had known the horsemaster all her life. Behind Talisworth, a young farrier laden with tools followed at his heels. They headed to a row of tethered horses in need of shoeing. 

The manor house was a good hike from the stables, and by the time she reached the back entrance, Celise was sweating in the late summer heat. 

Alert yet quiet, Celise took off her boots and exchanged them for slippers to enter the house. Not much to be done about the dust on her tunic shirt or the bits of straw that clung to her pants. She walked into the house with a cold pit in her stomach. 

What did her father want?

Probably nothing good.

She went to the Great Hall, a large central room in the Dhastel manor where her father spent his days entertaining guests, or relaxing with his hounds before the hearth. After a riding accident two years ago, during a particularly rainy autumn season, Lord Sebastian Dhastel had lost much of the mobility in his right leg. He walked with a crutch, and his riding days were well over.  

The Great Hall was the largest room on the ground floor of the manor, fit for a banquet of a hundred people. The wattle and daub interior was immaculately kept. When Celise was younger, she used to imagine herself walking through the ribcage of a giant horse whenever she entered the room. Thick, black beams of stout oak gave the Great Hall a strong sense of presence and prestige. Between the vertical beams, the whitewashed walls were polished with fine clay and limestone. Wooden studs and rails created a geometric, almost celestial pattern of hexagons and half-stars across the vaulted ceiling. The wood displayed galloping horses, mountains and scrollwork, a treat for the eyes should anyone find themselves gazing upward. The Great Hall was symbolic of the Dhastel family’s wealth, and their ties to the kingdom as one of Forsynthia’s noble houses. 

The Great Hall’s floor was covered in a single rug that spanned the entire chamber. Celise tread softly over the blue and tan geometric patterns. The banquet tables were pushed neatly to either side of the room, not currently in use. A half-circle of overstuffed leather couches and armchairs filled the space before the empty hearth. 

There, her father sat next to his wife, Lady Marcella Dhastel. 

Her father was drinking a mug of beer. The foam stained his beard. His skin was bronze from working outdoors most of his life on the ranch, and his wiry hair was gray with age, but his beard still held a dark brown hue. 

“Ah, here at last,” Marcella said with a soft sneer.

Celise’s two younger stepsisters were present as well. They sat upright on a chaise lounge like two little dolls before their parents. 

Heather, the youngest at sixteen years old, had sunny yellow hair and a wide forehead. 

Katrina, the older of the two at eighteen, was dressed in her fencing regalia: a white padded jacket, knee-length breeches, calf-high socks and thick leather gloves. Her dark violet eyes flashed to Celise, then away, her chin tilted upward. A servant stood nearby holding her mask and foil. Her long black hair was tied back in a braid, with loose tendrils falling about her face.

Celise paused before her father and bowed low, until her forehead almost touched her knees. Then she quietly moved to an empty chair, where she sat adjacent to her sisters, her eyes lowered. She avoided the sharp gaze of her stepmother.

“Now that we are all here, my daughters, I have important news to share with you. An invitation has arrived in the mail.” Lord Sebastian Dhastel’s grumbling voice effortlessly carried through the Great Hall. 

Celise folded her hands in her lap and kept her eyes focused on the flagstone. Her raspberry-colored locks fell across her face in a wild tangle. She felt numb as Lord Dhastel opened a sealed envelope in his lap. He slid out a square of heavy cardstock and held it up to the afternoon light. Then he read the letter aloud to his daughters in a round, booming voice.

The Duchy of Gravenmere

Blackwood Hall

Year of the Restless Moon, Season of Ardoursol

Month of Amberfen, Day 26

To the Esteemed Lord and Lady Dhastel of Windhaven Estate,

It is with the highest regard that I extend to you and your household a formal invitation to attend a gala hosted at Gravenmere Castle on the evening of the 10th day of Duskwane. The gala is in celebration of the thirty-second nameday of my son and heir, Elias Blackwood, Lord High Commander of Firehelm Fortress and the Duke Apparent of Gravenmere.

It is my sincere hope that you will attend, accompanied by your daughters: the ladies Heather, Katrina and Celise. Their grace and upbringing shall lend great charm to the evening’s festivities. Many notable members of the military and court will also be present. We anticipate an evening full of merriment and esteem.

The gala shall include a banquet, formal dancing and a concert by the Plum Dahlia Quartet, an award-winning ensemble out of Castleberry City. At the end of the evening, we ask that all guests plan to stay for a special announcement.

Kindly send word of your acceptance by courier no later than the first of Duskwane, that we may make accommodations for your household.

We wait in anticipation of your reply.

Signed,

Bernard Friza, Clerk

Penned on behalf of His Grace,

The Duke of Gravenmere

Lord Cornelius Blackwood

Her father finished reading and silence fell upon the hall. Then Katrina and Heather burst out talking.

“A ball at the Blackwood estate?”

“The Blackwoods are very rich, aren’t they, father?”

“Did His Grace write the letter personally?”

“What did he mean by ‘a special announcement?’”

Lord Dhastel held up a strong hand, silencing his two younger daughters. “Blackwood’s clerk wrote it,” Dhastel explained with a chuckle. “It’s a standard invitation. I expect many noble families received a similar letter. This will be a large event, the largest you’ve attended yet. I don’t know what manner of announcement Old Lord Blackwood refers to. I suppose that’s what makes it ‘special.’”

“I have my thoughts on that,” Lady Marcella said. She plucked the letter out of her husband’s hand and scanned over it, her lips pursed. The lady’s black hair was braided on top of her head, held in place with two gold hairpins. Her skin was white as cream, just like her two daughters. Lady Marcella was many years younger than her husband, and it showed. “He names our daughters specifically. It’s been two years since the war ended. I think Blackwood is looking for a match for his eldest son.”

Katrina wrinkled her nose. “The Mad Dog duke? But he’s already been engaged seven times!”

“Hush, Katrina,” Marcella snapped. “Can you imagine what life would be like as a duchess? Either of you girls would be lucky to wed a Blackwood. A duke is still a duke.”

The room fell silent as Marcella read over the invitation, her brow arched and a scheming glint in her eye.

“Why do they call him the Mad Dog?” Heather chanced a question.

“Because he’s utterly mental,” Katrina giggled.

Marcella hushed her daughters with a firm stare, then went back to inspecting the letter, as though it held some sort of secret code.

Celise cleared her throat. “Am I to attend the ball as well?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, girl,” Marcella snarled before Lord Dhastel could reply. “By some wretched twist of fate, it appears Blackwood’s steward dug up your name from the Dhastel family’s records. It’s a fluke. Of course the invitation isn’t meant for you.”

“Now now, Marcella, this is a happy occasion,” Lord Dhastel murmured with a gentle frown. “Let us not risk offending His Grace. Celise was named in the letter, so she should attend the ball. Just . . .” he waved his hand in the air. “Make sure she has something appropriate to wear.”

“Something not stained with horse drool,” Heather whispered to Katrina, and the two girls sniggered.

Lady Marcella looked furious at her husband’s request. A tantrum flitted across her face like a silent black cloud. Then she composed herself. She sat back in her chair and regarded Celise with a scrutinizing eye. A smirk perched upon her pointed, hawklike face. 

“I suppose we can dig up a dress from last season’s closet. You may attend, Celise, if only to hold Katrina’s drink while she dances with the duke.”

“Yes, my lady,” Celise murmured, feeling numb.

Her stepmother continued, “Be grateful, child. You’ll be in the company of war heroes, royalty and the Forsynthian elite. This party is far above the grasp of an ignorant, dimlit girl like yourself.”

Lord Dhastel didn’t seem bothered by his wife’s snide remarks. He reached down to scratch his favorite wolfhound behind the ears. The dog sighed and leaned against his leg. Celise watched through a tangle of raspberry hair. 

Her father continued in his stately manner, “I shall post our reply today. It’s been some time since I visited the Blackwood estate. This is a good business opportunity. Old Blackwood has ties to the military. He might be interested in our latest stock of Dhastel hellions. I’ll have to bring a catalogue. This last generation has a more natural amble—much easier to ride.”

“You always think of your horses first,” Marcella said with a coy smile. “I will ask after Blackwood’s wife, Estoria, and the reason behind this ball. I want to know what Her Grace plans for her eldest son. If this is about finding a bride, we must be prepared. I wonder if Lady Verabon has any tidbits to share—she and Her Grace are close.” She placed an elegant hand against her chin in thought. “Our book club meets tomorrow. I’m sure the ball will be a popular topic of conversation.” Then, with a rustle of skirts, Marcella leaned forward and smiled at Heather and Katrina. “Now, girls, the most exciting part—it’s time to order new dresses!”

Katrina squealed, while Heather clapped her hands. 

Lord Dhastel winced. A bit gruff, he said, “Within reason, my dear.”

“For this event, we must spare no expense, my love,” Marcella gushed, as though her husband were a naive lad. “Our daughters must be dressed in the latest fashion! It will make all the difference. If Katrina is to become a duchess, she must look the part. I wonder if the duchess Estoria has a favorite color. I would guess emerald green, but that’s the Blackwood’s house color and a bit too on the nose. Come, girls, let’s retire to the sitting room, and we’ll review my latest copy of The Modern Lady’s Wishlist.”

Katrina and Heather leapt to their feet, bowed to their father, then skipped from the room hand-in hand, chatting excitedly all the way. Celise thought they looked like a prancing pair of show ponies, ready for their big debut at the circus. 

A bit slower, and much quieter, she rose to her feet and began to follow her stepsisters out of the Great Hall. She kept her shoulders hunched and her steps quick. She hoped, if she left quickly enough, her stepmother would forget about her. But Marcella wasn’t finished.

With a drawling tone, the lady called, “Don’t wander off, Celise. I will send the maids to your quarters this evening to take your measurements. A few of Katrina’s dresses from last season should suit you. But first, immediately, I insist you take a bath. If we use enough soap, we should get the horse smell off of you.”

Celise stumbled, turned and bowed to her stepmother, then to her father, even though he wasn’t looking at her. Then she left the Great Hall.

Chapter 2

Rivalries

The solid oak doors of the Great Hall shut with a resounding boom! 

Celise likened it to the closing of a coffin lid.

She pressed a hand over the hard knot in her stomach. Standing in the empty corridor beyond the Great Hall, she gazed sightlessly at the floral wallpaper. She felt utterly blindsided. 

Attend a gala? she thought. Has my lord father lost his mind? 

Celise didn’t consider herself truly part of the Dhastel family. She didn’t often think about her noble blood. She lived in a room meant for a farmhand above the stables, and indeed, she felt more like a hired hand than a nobleman’s daughter.

The Blackwoods, on the other hand, were the elite. She was unfit to stand in the presence of such a high status family. She had no interest in dancing with the young duke, or finding a husband of any kind. She was happily committed to her life as a spinster and she expected to die an old maid. 

This is a mistake, she thought again.

“Hello sluggy,” a voice interrupted her thoughts.

Celise whirled around. Katrina emerged from the shadows next to the staircase. She carried her fencing foil in one hand and her leather gloves tucked under one arm. The buttons of her white jacket were popped open around her neck, revealing a cotton undershirt and a glimpse of her graceful collarbone. 

Katrina had obviously been waiting to catch Celise in the hallway before she could escape the house. A gleeful, malicious look sparkled in Katrina’s eyes. Naturally a dark violet color, they glowed with a luminous light. Mana. 

Celise shuddered—she felt a terrible sense of foreboding. 

“It’s a shame you were accidentally named on the invitation. You’re going to cause Mother so much needless worry,” Katrina sneered. “If you must attend, I promise I’ll select my very best dresses for you. Only my favorites.”

Celise felt a burning sensation deep in her gut—a distant flare of anger. As a young girl, she had once sported a fiery temper, but years of Marcella’s beatings and Katrina’s bullying had taught her to hold her tongue at all costs. 

Still, that fire simmered deep down like hot coals in a forgotten hearth. 

She quickly pulled the wool over her feelings, tightening down on that burning core.

“That’s very considerate of you, my lady,” Celise murmured, carefully pronouncing her words. The best way to put off Katrina’s games was not to play at all. 

“Don’t you care about what you wear to the ball?” Katrina mocked her. 

“I have no desire to attend the ball, my lady,” Celise whispered. “I shall only go if our father insists.”

Katrina’s face contorted at those words. “Our father? Don’t be disgusting. You don’t resemble our family in the slightest. That bitch who birthed you was a whore and your real father was a farmer, I’m sure of it. That’s what Mother believes. You’re just a lousy, dimlit commoner.”

The burning coals in Celise’s gut grew a few degrees hotter. Katrina noticed. Her smile curled a bit wider. “Don’t think the duke’s invitation makes you one of us. You should make yourself scarce before the ball. Perhaps you should fall off a horse so you can stay behind.”

“You want me to injure myself to avoid the gala?” Celise asked, her shoulders stiff.

“Why not? I can help you. I’ll make it look like an accident. There are many ways to fall down.” Katrina’s left hand was glowing with mana. She gripped her foil by the hilt. A silver-white sparkle worked its way down the length of the thin blade. 

Katrina lifted the foil and pressed it against Celise’s shoulder.

“Point!” she cawed.

A sharp zap! of mana struck Celise through the blade. The impact threw her backward as though struck by a two hundred pound man. Celise was not very tall or heavy, and she slammed back against the wood panelled wall with a soft “Ah!”

She bit her lip, already feeling the bruise spreading across her shoulder through her tunic shirt. She schooled her features. To reveal her pain would only goad Katrina on.

“A few more of those, and you’ll be in no shape to attend the ball,” Katrina pouted sympathetically.

At that moment, light footsteps echoed from the top of the stairs, and Heather’s voice called down to them, “Katrina? Do you have Mother’s copy of The Modern Lady’s Wishlist? I can’t seem to find it.”

Katrina glared at Celise, a look that promised more pain to come, then she stepped back. She tucked her foil under her arm and straightened her crooked collar. Celise took her chance to escape. Ducking down, she slipped around her younger, taller sister and threw herself toward the kitchens.

Katrina caught her arm.

“Not so fast, sluggy,” Katrina hissed through clenched teeth. “Consider this a warning. If you attend this ball, I’m going to torture you every step of the way.” 

Celise felt her control slip. “Perhaps I’ll attend just to spite you,” she said, her words pathetically soft, her throat stiff with fear and anger.

“What did you say?” Katrina snapped.

Damnable dust, now she’d done it. 

Flushing bright red, Celise pulled herself free and ran down the hallway. She moved at a fast trot like an anxious horse, not quite a canter but almost. She didn't want to trigger Katrina’s predatory instincts by acting like prey—but it was probably too late for that. 

Why did I do that? Why did I talk back?

She didn’t like turning her back on Katrina, not when her bullish stepsister was in a mood. Katrina always liked to emphasize her threats with an exclamation mark. And she always had to have the last word.

The muscles along her back remained tense, expecting one last blow.

Celise didn’t have to wait long.

A gust of wind brushed her shoulder, spinning her around. The force of the push almost made her trip. She stumbled a few steps before catching her balance on a low wooden table at the side of the hallway. It was startling, but Katrina could do a lot worse . . . .

On top of the wooden table, a vase began to glow with a faint bluish light. Mana. 

The vase seemed to move by itself. Before Celise’s eyes, the priceless object wobbled, unbalanced itself and fell to the ground. 

No!

With a quick dive, she caught it before it shattered on the floor. Oof! She fell, landing clumsily on her bruised shoulder, her arms wrapped around the heavy vase. She winced in pain, but the expensive heirloom was saved.

Celise remained on the ground for a moment, her heart racing. If the vase had shattered, Katrina would have told Marcella and she would have had Celise whipped.

Cunning Katrina almost pulled it off.

She heard a distant giggle. Then she heard Katrina’s footsteps running lightly up the stairs. “I’m coming, Heather! Just a moment! I was just dealing with the staff.”

Celise climbed to her feet and carefully set the vase back on the small table. By the time she looked back at the staircase, Katrina was gone. 

She glared at the empty landing at the top of the stairs.

The Dhastel family was Luminous, boasting several generations of mana channelers. Unfortunately, Celise was a dunslug. She didn’t have any evidence of the Dhastel gift, which made her common—unfit for the ruling Luminous class, and less useful than half the kingdom’s skilled workers. 

Without fail, all of the Forsynthian aristocracy were Luminous, born with the ability to channel mana, a mysterious power stored within their physical bodies. It seemed that humans were either born with mana, or they weren’t. The trait was passed down through bloodlines, but it sometimes appeared spontaneously among the working class. Some commoners were born Skytouched, and it was considered an immense blessing from the celestial goddess, Valestra. Either they enrolled in the military academy as soon as they turned sixteen, or they attended special schools to apply their mana to a trade. Some became exceptional musicians, seamstresses, bricklayers or other artisans. But not Celise. Hers was a normal, ungifted life. 

The midwife had identified her as a dunslug shortly after her mother died in childbirth. Many times, Celise had tried to prove the midwife wrong. Young children often got flickers of mana in their hands, before they learned how to regulate it. On rare occasions when her temper flared, she imagined a sense of power gathering in her palms.

Just like she felt now. 

With a bit of force, Celise thrust out her left hand as though shooting a blast of energy out of her palm, straight at the top of the stairs where Katrina had disappeared. She clenched her jaw and held her arm stiffly before her.

Nothing happened.

Nothing ever happened.

A few seconds passed. Then, with a sigh, Celise abandoned her ridiculous pose.

She continued on her way to the kitchen at the back of the house. 

* * *

As Celise approached the door to the kitchen, a maid with a tray full of biscuits launched past her. 

“Out of the way!” the maid barked, almost slamming into Celise, who shrank back, pressing her slight form against the wallpaper. The very definition of a wallflower. 

Just inside the kitchen, a bell rang incessantly. There, a wood panel displayed almost thirty different bells. Each one was numbered. Each one was shined. Celise didn’t know how the technology worked, but she knew the Skytouched had an easier time manipulating shined objects than regular ones. 

This bell belonged to Lady Marcella’s room.

The mistress of the house had some meager channeling ability, though not as powerful as her daughter, Katrina. Marcella couldn’t do anything truly impressive, but her powers were strong enough to frighten the staff. A plate exploding in the middle of a tantrum wasn’t unheard of. Once, the butler had fallen down the stairs under suspicious circumstances and broken his wrist. Lord Dhastel had given his wife a firm lecture behind closed doors. Laws protected commoners against that kind of thing—if Marcella were caught.

She was never caught.

Celise watched the panicked maid flee down the hallway with her tray. She imagined Lady Marcella seated in her private rooms with her two daughters, the latest edition of Modern Lady’s Wishlist in her lap, picking the most popular designs for their new dresses. 

They’ll cost a goldlark apiece, no doubt.

After purchasing their new gowns, she would spend the rest of the afternoon writing letters to all of her friends, fishing for the latest gossip about Lord Blackwood’s son and the upcoming gala. Such grueling work paired perfectly with tea and biscuits. 

Ugh.

Celise detached herself from the wall and slipped through the kitchen doors. Hot steam filled the air. By the mouthwatering scent, Chef Beechwin was making onion soup and pork roast for dinner. The Dhastel manor’s kitchen sported no less than four clay ovens. A butcher block countertop with eight cooking stations spanned the length of the room. The magnificent, country-style kitchen suited the grand old house. Generations of Dhastel servants had used it to prepare the family’s meals.

“What is it, child?” the chef roared when he saw her. He took a second look, then yelled to his wife, “Lilibeth, see to the girl’s needs. She looks ready to fall into a pot.”

Lilibeth was up to her elbows in a sink full of dirty dishes with a scullery maid on either side. As the chef’s wife, she oversaw the desserts and breakfast menu for the household. She wore a dress of light blue livery and a long apron. She looked up, a lock of frazzled gray hair falling across her round face. “My goodness, girl, you look like you’ve eaten a spoiled pepper. Come, sit down out of the way. Chef’s busy. You know how he gets ‘round a roast.”

In the heat of the kitchens, Celise was beginning to feel more and more lightheaded. 

“There is a . . .” she mumbled. “There’s a ball at Gravenmere Castle. It’s a birthday party for the . . . the Mad Dog?”

“Oops, easy does it! Don’t lose your feet!” Lilibeth took her by the elbow and guided her to the corner of the kitchen. Celise found herself sitting on a wooden stool with a biscuit in hand. Lilibeth patted Celise’s sweaty face with the corner of her apron.

“Now what’s this about a birthday party for a dog?” she asked. “Sounds like utter nonsense!” 

“She means the Mad Dog duke!” one of the scullery maids laughed. “Don’t you read The Lady’s Letter?”

“I didn’t know you could read, Ivy.”

“I can’t, but Dasha can! She keeps us all updated on the latest news. Everyone is calling Lord Elias Blackwood the ‘Mad Dog’ duke!”

“Blackwood? You mean that soldier—the Hero of the Realm? The man who defeated the Deamon King?”

“The very same!”

“Huh! I went to a parade in his honor after he returned from the war.” Lilibeth shook her head. “Oh, well, I can’t be bothered with that now. Celise is in a state!”

Celise spoke up, still lightheaded, “Lady Marcella told me to bathe . . . to get the horse smell off . . . before the dress fitting . . . for the gala . . . .”

Ivy laughed. “Lady Marcella? She would rather lick a toad than let you attend a ball!”

“Shut your trap, Miss Ivy!” Lilibeth snapped, glaring at the outspoken maid. “Don’t forget Lady Celise isn’t like us. She’s Lord Dhastel’s eldest. If Marcella requires her to bathe, then we shall see to it! Now start heating water for the soaking tub in the cellar and bring the Castile soap. We must assist the child.”

“Right away, ma’am!” Ivy called. She pulled her hands out of a dirty sink, dried them off on her apron, and started hauling a big pot toward the ovens.

Chapter 3

The Kitchen

Not a half hour later, Celise found herself down in the cellars beneath the kitchen. Ivy was handing her into the steaming tub when the door to the cellar blew open and Mr. Talisworth stomped down the steps.

With a gasp, Celise fell into the hot water. “Oh!”

After the initial shock, the heat wasn’t all that terrible. Celise’s skin flushed bright red, and she felt the tense muscles along her back loosen. She wasn’t very large due to years of malnutrition in her youth. Her shoulders were narrow and her ribs poked out, no matter how much she tried to put on weight. She was strong from working in the stables around the horses, but her small stature made her easy to knock over.

Which is exactly what happened when Ivy gave her a firm shove down.

“Hide yourself beneath the soap suds, miss!” the maid gasped. “Don’t let him see the improper bits!”

“Where is she?” Talisworth demanded as he walked through the crowded cellars under the kitchen—a tight squeeze for such a large man. Copper pipes ran along the bottom of the house, bending this way and that across the cellar’s low ceiling. 

Lilibeth threw up her apron and blocked Talisworth’s path. “Whoa now, you big lout! No men allowed down here! Ivy, didn’t you lock the door?”

“I forgot!” Ivy cried.

Talisworth’s blue eyes spotted the tub of steaming water. He immediately turned back to the stairwell. He cleared his throat.

“Oh, I see, good . . . I thought . . . .”

“Thought what?” Lilibeth chided. “You old softy. The lass is just fine.”

“Well, you know, the comments Marcella made last time about having her removed . . . .”

“Whether or not Lady Marcella means to sell her off, today is not that day.”

Mr. Talisworth paused for a long moment. Celise sank an inch lower into the water, embarrassed. Then he called over his shoulder, “After you’re done with your bath, Celise, I could use your help counting the stock for the county fair next month. That, and I have a gelding ready for the rope. He tolerates the saddle, but he needs a gentle rider to break him in . . . .”

Celise shook her head with barely a jerk of her chin. Flecks of soap suds flew through the air.

“I can’t,” she said. 

Mr. Talisworth looked at Lilibeth questioningly, and the cook sighed. “Marcella wants her bathed before fitting her for dresses.”

“Dresses? Why?”

“There’s going to be a ball.”

Mr. Talisworth looked stunned. Celise wished she could evaporate like the hot steam. 

Then Talisworth blew up, “Why would Lady Marcella force Celise to attend a ball? What’s the nasty rot-queen scheming now?”

“Watch your tongue,” Lilibeth snapped. “If she catches wind of that insult . . . .”

“I won’t be afraid to speak my mind! This is a horse ranch, not a prison! That woman has it out for Celise. She wants to make sure her brats inherit—”

“Mr. Talisworth, that’s enough,” Lilibeth hushed.

The horsemaster grumbled a curse under his breath. He half turned toward the tub and said strongly, “Don’t trust anything that woman says to you, Celise!” Then, blowing and blustering like an angry stallion, he started back toward the cellar steps. “I have a lot to get done before the end of the week. Take care of her, Lilibeth. Tell Mordwen the same. She’s our girl.”

“I’m sure Mordwen has already heard about all this. But yes. We all feel very protective of our Celise,” Lilibeth agreed.

Celise shared a glance with Ivy. The scullery maid gave her a cheery smile and leaned down to whisper, “I think Talisworth is a bit soft on you.”

Celise almost choked on the bath water. “Ivy! He’s far too old . . . .”

“Doesn’t stop a man from having a crush.” The scullery maid winked. Then she started washing Celise’s hair. 

With Mr. Talisworth gone, Celise sat up a bit straighter in the bath, less concerned about showing “her improper bits.” She considered Ivy’s words as the maid helped her wash. She had wondered on occasion if the old horsemaster might be a bit soft on her, but he was more than twenty years her elder and courtship was out of the question. In fact, Celise’s romantic prospects had always suffered around the Dhastel ranch. As a lord’s daughter, an invisible barrier existed between herself and the staff.

Even if she worked alongside them, she wasn’t really part of their world. She fell solidly between the cracks: not quite a servant, not quite a lady. For that reason, although a few stablehands or wranglers had approached her over the years, they were always warned off. 

Too pureblooded to marry a servant—yet unfit for a gentleman.

She didn’t truly belong anywhere.

Life had always been this way for Celise. Lord Dhastel had lost all interest in his eldest daughter shortly after she was identified as a dunslug. Then he remarried Marcella, who was every inch a spoiled heiress. Celise was discarded the moment Marcella became pregnant with Katrina. 

The servants had disliked their new mistress instantly. The Lord’s new wife had feigned a “horse allergy” her first day in the manor house. Using her allergy as an excuse, she kept the servants cleaning all day and night, trying to chase away every last speck of horse hair or dander that might touch the floors. The torture never stopped. Lady Marcella kept a mental list of slights she perceived from the unlucky staff. Her sneezing fits always arrived when she wanted to punish someone. Feigning innocence, she would force anyone who offended her to clean the house from top to bottom, even if the floors were spotless. The whole house walked on eggshells around her. Celise had witnessed her stepmother’s pettiness firsthand, many times over.

One harsh winter, when she was ten years old, Marcella had locked Celise out of the house in the middle of the night, hoping the child would freeze to death in a snowstorm. Celise didn’t remember the incident, but as Lilibeth told it, young Celise found her way through the storm to the stables, where she wandered into the stall of the most fearsome stallion in the herd. A stablehand found her cuddled up to the giant horse the next day. 

None of the servants wanted to admit openly what their mistress had done, but after that, Celise’s room was moved out to the stables. The horsemaster, Mr. Talisworth, put little Celise to work mucking stalls. Lady Marcella seemed to forget about the girl’s existence, except to sneer in her direction when their paths crossed.  

Because of her stepmother’s hatred, Celise wasn’t brought up like her two younger half-sisters. She had never attended etiquette school. She barely knew how to read. She might have noble blood, but she knew absolutely nothing about being a lady. The only times she encountered her younger sisters was to remove the tack from their horses.

The gala would be her first foray into polite society.

It was overwhelming.

Celise was filled with a sense of inadequacy. She fumbled with her washcloth for a moment. Then she said, “Lilibeth, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, my dear. What is it?”

“What . . . what am I supposed to do at a dress fitting?”

Lilibeth looked at her, startled, then barked out a laugh. “Oh my, but you’re truly in over your head, aren’t you?” She chuckled to herself. “I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised. Don’t worry. Mordwen will handle everything. You just focus on scrubbing the dirt off your feet.”

* * *

After her bath, Celise returned to her lofted bedroom above the stables. The gentle rustle of horses drifted up through the floorboards. A clay bowl of birdseed rested on her windowsill, where a yellow finch twittered merrily as he ate his dinner. She sat at the edge of her bed and watched the little bird as she unwrapped a towel from her hair. A soft wool robe covered her slight, waiflike form.

Celise lived in a modest room above the stables. Her belongings fit into a single weathered chest at the foot of her bed—she didn’t own very much. The rest of the room’s furniture was rescued by helpful servants from Lady Marcella’s donation piles. Her iron bedframe was sturdy, if a bit scuffed. Straw and flock filled her secondhand mattress. Burlap curtains framed the windows, embroidered with little yellow buttercups. On the wall hung four small paintings of the famous Grapevine Mountains. One of the paintings was stained by water damage. 

A single square window looked down over a fenced dirt corral, which connected to a grassy paddock, which opened into an expansive pastureland behind the Dhastel estate. Beyond acres of grazing horses, a dirt country road wandered past the pasture’s fieldstone walls. 

Suddenly, Celise heard a ruckus of stomping boots on the staircase up to her loft. She heard Mordwen’s familiar voice drift up the stairwell: “Curse these damnable steps, why are they so uneven? Crow’s rot, this entire barn is about to fall over!”

“Watch your step, Mordwen!” sang out the young maid, Dasha.

Celise’s room didn’t have a proper door, so she hung a linen curtain across the entrance. Throwing the curtain aside, three servants entered her bedroom: Steffie, Dasha and Mordwen. Steffie and Dasha did most of the tailoring for the household, from refitting uniforms for the stablehands to mending Lord Dhastel’s wardrobe. Their arms were laden with colorful dresses from Katrina’s closet.

Mordwen entered the room after them with a moody scowl. A hard-bitten widow, the Head Housekeeper had worked for the Dhastel family since Celise’s father was a boy, more than forty years now. She was the only servant immune to Marcella’s tantrums, since Lord Dhastel had a soft spot for her. 

Technically, Mordwen didn’t need to be in the room for the dress fitting, but Celise considered her a great aunt of sorts, and the old bitty went about the grounds as she liked. By the look on Mordwen’s face, it seemed that word of Celise’s predicament had reached her already.

“Now, my girl, no need to explain, I’ve heard everything. My only question is—how did your name end up on this devastating invitation?” 

Celise found herself smiling at Mordwen—her first smile of the day. She shrugged her fragile shoulders. “I don’t know. The Blackwoods must have a very thorough clerk.”

“That’s right,” Mordwen said. “Very thorough . . . but I think we best consult the cards for this. It all seems too auspicious!”

Then Mordwen reached into her housecoat and pulled out a stack of thick, dusty purple cards. They were bigger than playing cards by a good inch, almost too large for the old woman’s hands. The backs were decorated with geometric patterns printed in bright goldenrod, visible against the purple cardstock.

“Ooh, fortune telling?” Steffie gasped. She dumped her armful of dresses down on the bed, swept her blond hair out of her face, and moved to sit down near Celise. 

Mordwen snapped her fingers at the maid. “Oh no, you don’t! You and Dasha get the room set up. What are you lazing about for?”

Steffie pouted and stood up again, then went to help Dasha lift a heavy mirror up the staircase. In the meantime, Mordwen shuffled her cards. Celise felt hypnotized by the geometric patterns sliding back and forth in the master’s hands. Mordwen never explained why or how she shuffled, but she used various techniques, her lips screwed into a frown, her eyes focused on a distant spot on the wall.

Then she withdrew a card. She glanced at it. Grunted.

“What is it?” Celise couldn’t help but ask.

Mordwen revealed the card with a bit of flair. Celise’s eyes fixed upon the painting of a pale hand holding a glowing wand. 

“Ah-hah!” Mordwen crowed. “I knew it. This is more than just a chance invitation. Valestra’s wand is stirring the pot. This, my dear, is fate.”

Celise’s expression remained unchanged, but Steffie let out a loud gasp from the stairwell. 

“You drew Valestra’s hand! That’s so rare!” Steffie said.

“Watch the mirror!” Dasha shouted when they almost dropped it. Together, the two girls wrestled the heavy mirror into the bedroom, then placed it against the wall next to Celise’s bed.

Mordwen pulled out another card from the deck. This time, it was the symbol of the wiseman, the zodiac sign for the month of Duskwane. “It means a change in your destiny,” the crone declared. “Coupled with Valestra’s wand, this is very auspicious! Whatever happens at Gravenmere Castle will change the course of history—perhaps for the entire Kingdom! It’s the will of the Goddess Valestra.” Mordwen fixed Celise with a stern gaze. “If I pull your zodiac flower next, then we know the reading was meant for you!”

Celise gulped.

Steffie abandoned Dasha and ran to Celise’s side, where she placed her hands on her shoulders. Celise couldn’t help but feel a bit excited. Even Dasha looked curious. 

After a significant pause, Mordwen pulled out the third and final card from the deck. She turned it over. “The Abyssal Rose!”

“Oh.” Celise’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not for me.” She didn’t know who the rose belonged to, but it wasn’t her zodiac flower. 

“Let me pull again,” Mordwen blustered. “It wasn’t the first card I touched, there was another one at the front of the deck. I had a misgiving . . . .”

“Put the cards away, Mord!” Dasha rolled her eyes. “You’re disturbing Celise! Just look at how pale she is! No more talk of destiny or fate. Celise was invited by accident to the ball. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“Who’s zodiac is The Abyssal Rose, then?” Steffie asked. “Anyone in this room?”

The gathered women all shook their heads no. With a sigh, Mordwen stacked up her cards and slipped the deck back into her pocket. Steffie patted Celise’s arm apologetically, then she jumped back up to her feet. The maids went back to work clearing space for the dress fitting. It was a small room. 

Celise sighed and gazed out the window again. She wasn’t surprised. The Abyssal Rose. Of course Mordwen’s reading would be for someone else and not for her. What interest did the Goddess Valestra have in her fate?

“Most of these are from at least three winters ago,” Dasha lamented as she laid out the dresses on the bed. “I’m surprised Katrina’s kept them this long.”

“We can’t send Celise off to a ball wearing that,” Steffie muttered.

“I know, I know . . . there must be at least one dress we can use . . . maybe this pink one . . . .” Finally, Dasha declared, “We can’t send Celise off to a ball dressed like this. It will only make things worse for her. She should at least look like she belongs!”

“Of course she belongs!” Mordwen scoffed. 

“But she doesn’t, ma’am, not really,” Dasha insisted. “I mean no disrespect, but we all know Celise wasn’t raised right by His Lordship. She doesn’t know the first thing about lady’s etiquette, none of us do, and she doesn’t have any of those flashy powers.” Dasha brushed off a sprigged cotton dress—an off white color dotted with tiny, nondescript flowers—and handed it to Steffie. “Put this one in the ‘maybe’ pile.”

Celise continued to gaze out the window, her thoughts out past the distant purple mountains. She barely heard Dasha’s comment. She was used to being talked about as though she weren’t there. 

“I think Katrina is a more likely match for the duke,” Steffie piped up. “She just made her debut this past Vimspring. She’s fresh on the market, if you know what I mean!” Steffie laughed and shared a wink with Dasha. “She’s Luminous and a gold medalist at fencing.”

“Junior league,” Mordwen snarled.

“I think Elias Blackwood will fall head over heels for her in a heartbeat!” 

Celise privately agreed. Her younger half-sister was sweet-faced, big-bosomed and good with a sword. Well, foil. Knowing Marcella, the rot-queen was probably already plotting a scheme for Katrina to win over the duke.

“Our Lady Celise is just as worthy to become a duchess as that spoiled little chit,” Mordwen said. “Celise is every inch a noblewoman by birth. Perhaps this will be her chance to take back her birthright!”

“Even without mana?” Steffie glanced sadly at Celise.

Mordwen harrumphed. “She’s heir to Windhaven Estate by blood and birth order. What should it matter?” 

Celise stirred. “You know as well as I do that it does,” she pointed out. “I’m not heir to anything, Mordwen. I’m not out to reclaim my inheritance or fight off Marcella’s brood. I know my place. I’m happy working in the stables.”

“I would say you’ve settled for the stables, my girl, but I’m not sure you know what happiness is. Now buck up, we have a ball to prepare for! Stop lazing about, Steffie. Take her measurements and be thorough about it, just like you’d do for Katrina or Heather!”

“Right away, ma’am!” Steffie cried. She pulled Celise up to her feet and tugged her over to a stepping stool in the middle of the floor. “Come over here, my lady. Let’s get started. It won’t take but an hour and we’ll go quick. I’m already behind on this afternoon’s mending.”

Steffie boosted Celise up onto the stool, where Celise reluctantly gazed at her own reflection. A small, mousy girl stared back at her in the mirror: gaunt-faced, undersized, thin as a pine shaving and bronzed by the sun, with raspberry locks that had no business being so dense or frizzy. Celise’s wide eyes dominated her face. She thought she looked like a goblin child wearing a clump of vines on her head.

Dasha brought over the first of the dresses: a soft pink gown with little roses sewn into the sleeves and bordering the skirt. Simple and pleasant, it was best suited for daywear. Together, Dasha and Steffi pulled the dress over Celise’s head and tugged the skirt down over her small frame. Then they stood back, surveying their new project. 

Celise stood with her spindly arms spread out like a scarecrow. The oversized dress drooped toward the floor. 

“My, my, but you have a . . . petite figure,” Steffie said. “This is going to take a lot of pins.” 

Celise rewrote Steffie’s words in her head: she had a boyish figure. She was turning twenty-four that coming Brumadir season, but she looked as young as her half-sisters due to her small size. Katrina’s dress was cut for a figure much more curvaceous and womanly than her own. 

Celise considered herself pretty enough, even though beauty had never made a difference in her life. If she wore a bulky jacket and tied her red hair up under a cap, she could pass herself off as a boy, which is how she dressed around the stables. Even on a renowned ranch like the Dhastel estate, it wasn’t safe for young women to work alone. Her father employed dozens of stablehands and farriers, and the workforce changed season to season, as part-timers left during the winter months and new ones were hired each spring. She had learned to hide her femininity as much as possible.

As the maids tucked and pinned Celise’s new dress, Mordwen strolled about the room, inspecting the furniture and checking the corners for rat droppings or cockroaches, as though she didn’t visit Celise’s loft at least once a week. She picked a russet apple out of a basket on Celise’s dresser and took a big bite. Then she sat down on the bed with a sigh.

“So then, what’s all this about a ‘Mad Dog' duke?” Mordwen asked. 

“You really don’t know?” Steffie gasped.

“I keep hearing that name,” Celise said. “Why do they call Elias Blackwood that?”

Dasha jumped in to explain. “The Lady’s Letter ran an article about him a few months ago. They dubbed him the ‘Mad Dog’ because he chased Lady Raelia Riverton out of his house with a sword! He was frothing at the mouth. Haven’t you heard?” 

“Of course she hasn’t heard,” Mordwen said with a sarcastic bite. “Our dear Celise doesn’t read that brain-rot rubbish. The Lady’s Letter is nothing more than a gossip column.”

Dasha rolled her eyes, shrugging off the old maid’s grouchiness. 

“Well, according to The Letter, Elias Blackwood has a sinister reputation. He’s been engaged seven times since returning from the war. All of his fiancées flee from him!”

"He carries horrific scars from the battle,” Steffie confided. “His arms and face are mutilated by fire! He walks with a limp and drools continuously. His teeth are all broken! He mashes up his food and drinks it through a straw. He’s cruel and eccentric, and unfit to wed anyone.”

“How ridiculous, to say that about a war hero!” Mordwen huffed. 

But Steffi carried on, “They say the military altered his mind with all sorts of strange spells and hexes when he fought in the Abyss. They say the war drove him insane.” 

“Perhaps he’s a bit eccentric?” Mordwen grumbled. 

“He’s horrible,” Dasha repeated, “trust me. Servants talk.”

A brief silence fell on the room. 

That’s the problem with living in the stables, Celise thought with a bit of irony. The horses don’t know the latest gossip. 

“If he’s so harsh, then why is he throwing a big party?” Celise asked.

“It’s likely his father, Old Lord Blackwood, who’s throwing it for him,” Mordwen explained. “They’re hoping to land a bride for the Hero of the Realm. Really, it shouldn’t be that hard. The Blackwoods are practically royals. I’m surprised they’re going to such lengths to see him settled. The gossip must be particularly bad.”

Dasha and Steffie exchanged a meaningful look that Celise couldn’t read. Then they returned to pinning her dress.

Is any of it true? Celise wondered, thinking of the coming gala. She couldn’t help but feel a bit curious. The Lady’s Letter was a popular magazine based out of Castleberry City. It published all sorts of gossip about the nobility: important parties, latest trends, new engagements, and profiles of the most eligible bachelors or bachelorettes of the season. Of course, The Letter was sensationalized to entertain its readership. But if Lord Elias was crippled and scarred, that explained why he couldn’t find a bride, and why Old Lord Blackwood would use his son’s birthday as an excuse to throw a gala. 

Celise wondered if the war had truly driven Elias Blackwood insane. Only two years ago, the soldiers had returned home with the Daemon King vanquished. The siege in the Abyss had lasted ten years. She didn’t know if Lord Elias had spent an entire decade fighting monsters underground. Surely, that would make anyone lose their mind? 

She thought of Lady Marcella’s words: “A duke is still a duke!” 

In a soft voice, Celise mused, “Do you really think Lady Marcella would marry off Katrina or Heather to the Mad Dog?”

“I think that woman would do anything for power,” Mordwen said darkly.

Dasha nodded, her mouth full of pins. Steffie looked pale.

Good riddance, Celise thought. If Katrina marries the duke, then she’ll leave the Dhastel household to go live at Gravenmere Castle. Maybe then I’ll have some peace.

Celise wished her little sister the best of luck.

* * *

The following day, Celise’s father summoned her into the dining hall just after the dinner hour. Celise didn’t have any time to change out of her work clothes, but found herself running into the manor house with muddy boots and a stomach full of dread.

Once again, Celise entered her family’s presence wearing dusty overalls and a tweed cap over her braided, pinned-up hair. 

She hovered just inside the doorway of the small, informal dining room. Heather was seated at a harp in the corner. The harp sparkled with each stroke of her fingers as an entrancing melody filled the dining chamber. Heather’s mana channeled through the shined instrument, illuminating the strings of the harp in a pale blue glow. Her mana allowed Heather to loop the melody so that she could play her own accompaniment to the song. From the hallway, it sounded as though two or three harpists sat in the room and not just a soloist.

Celise was enchanted by the sound, though she tried not to show it. She hovered in the doorway. She didn’t want to interrupt Heather’s performance. Her presence went unacknowledged. 

Finally, Heather finished her song and stood up. She bowed to Lord and Lady Dhastel. 

“I hope it pleases you, mother,” she said.

“It’s much better than it was last week,” Marcella allowed, which was high praise. “Not yet worthy of a blue ribbon, however. Keep practicing.”

“I thought it was lovely,” Lord Dhastel said to his youngest daughter.

Heather beamed at their father, then she took her seat at the end of the table next to Katrina. 

Only then did Lord Dhastel seem to notice Celise’s presence. He glanced at her just long enough to take in her soiled clothes. Then he averted his eyes, as he always did when she stood before him, as though he couldn’t bear the sight of her for more than a minute at a time. 

“Ah! Celise, good for you to join us. Marcella and I have been discussing the coming ball and banquet at length. We’ve decided you should eat with us in the main house until the gala, so you can learn proper table manners.”

Lord Dhastel motioned to an empty chair near the end of the table, close to her sisters. As Celise walked down the length of the table, he began reading over his steward’s reports.

Before Celise could sit down, Marcella waved to one of the servants attending the table. “Place a towel down on the seat,” she said. “I won’t have the girl staining the chairs with her filthy clothes.”

Celise felt a twinge of humiliation as the servant placed a white towel down on the chair across from her stepmother. Her stomach tightened. Then she sat down. Across from her, Marcella perched as stiff as a stuffed eagle, her eyes focused on Celise’s every move, a sneer hovering about her lips. 

“Tomorrow and from now on, I expect you to bathe before entering the house,” she snipped. “I don’t want you to embarrass us at the banquet. Many important people from around the kingdom will be there. At the very least, you shall learn to sit properly and conduct yourself.”

Celise bobbed her head, keeping her eyes focused on her plate.

The dinner hour passed with agonizing slowness. It seemed Marcella was more interested in humiliating Celise than instructing her. At first, the rot-queen criticized Celise’s slouched posture. “Sit with your back straight, so you don’t spill soup down your bodice!” Then came a million other rules she would have to remember at the banquet. 

Celise dropped her utensils several times, overwhelmed by paralyzing anxiety. 

Katrina sniggered at her clumsiness while Heather averted her eyes.

Celise had to endure the barrage of criticisms until the grandfather clock struck eight in the evening. Lord Dhastel put down his fork. With a groan, he stood up and gathered his papers, then he walked down the length of the table.

“You’re retiring early?” Marcella asked.

“I have to review our accounts before the fair next month,” Lord Dhastel murmured. Celise wondered if she imagined the slight downturn of Marcella’s lips. He dropped a brief kiss on the top of his wife’s head as he strolled past. He didn’t look at Celise as he walked through the doorway and turned down the hall toward his study, carrying a stack of papers in hand.

Celise waited until Lord Dhastel left the dining room. Then she shot up to her feet. She bowed to her stepmother and turned toward the door, eager to run back to the stables where she belonged. 

But Marcella wasn’t finished with her yet. “Girl, I wish to speak to you for a moment.”

Celise felt a shiver run down her spine. She stepped aside as Katrina and Heather both exited the room. Then she turned to face her stepmother. Marcella didn’t rise immediately from her place at the table but took a moment to pat dry her lips. Then she folded her napkin and set it down next to her plate. 

She held out a hand to Celise. “Come here, let me look at you.”

A lump of fear in her throat, Celise crossed the room to stand before her stepmother. Marcella stood from her chair. She was almost a half-foot taller than Celise, a woman of striking beauty with strong shoulders, wide bust, sloping neck and a proud jaw. Celise remembered being in awe of Marcella’s dark, dramatic beauty when she first wed her father almost eighteen years ago. That’s when Celise had tentatively thought of Marcella as her new mother. However, that role didn’t last very long.

As Celise grew into a young woman herself, her awe of Marcella’s beauty gradually diminished. Now, nearing the age of forty turns, Marcella’s jaw was a bit more heavy, her eyes a bit less bright, and an extra thirty pounds clung to her tall frame. Still, with her luscious black hair and wide, dark eyes, Marcella turned heads wherever she went. 

The gorgeous matron looked over Celise like a master appraising a horse. Her hand went to Celise’s jaw, lifting her chin slightly to study her features. Celise kept her eyes downcast, wondering if her stepmother would strike her. With Marcella, one could never tell.

But her stepmother only smiled—a cold, calculating look.

“Such an unusual hair color,” she mused. “A pity, truly, that such a rare quality is wasted on a giftless child. I assume you take after your mother, because you look nothing like your father. I doubt anyone would believe you’re my daughter.”

Celise cleared her throat. “If it pleases you, ma’am, I can accompany you as a servant alongside Dasha and Steffie . . . .”

“Unfortunately, no. Old Lord Blackwood named you in his invitation, so you must appear among the nobility, no matter how unsuitable I find you. Your name will be on the guest list, so you will be announced alongside Katrina and Heather.”

“I see.”

“I don’t expect you’ll have any luck with the duke, unless the Mad Dog has a taste for urchins.” 

“I would never presume to dance with the duke,” Celise said.

“Of course you wouldn’t, and I forbid it!”

Celise’s eyelids fluttered. She glanced up and met Marcella’s gaze, then looked away. Marcella spoke softly, but her words were laced with ice. Celise knew what the threat meant. She bore several scars along her back from Marcella’s punishments. The rot-queen never wielded the cane herself, but enlisted her loyal staff to do it. The carriage driver, the gardener and Lord Dhastel’s footman were all in her pocket, and many of the ranch hands as well, who were still taken with her beauty. 

“Was that a defiant look?” Marcella sneered.

“No, ma’am,” Celise whispered.

“Don’t cross me,” Marcella snapped. Celise flinched, expecting a strike that didn’t come. “Now you listen to me, girl: you are only attending the dance to support your sisters. Don’t you dare do anything to embarrass my family. If you put so much as a foot on the dance floor—or cause any kind of scandal—you will rue the day you were born. Your father might be against sending you to a convent, but there are other places for unwanted women.”

Celise didn’t react to her stepmother’s threat, but did her best to pretend to be deaf and dumb.

Marcella released Celise’s jaw, her hand falling back to her side. “For the next two weeks, you shall meet with me for an hour each morning until we leave for Gravenmere. I will do my best to make you presentable for the gala, although I feel my efforts will be wasted. Do not make me regret this.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will do whatever you ask.”

“Good. Now, when we meet tomorrow morning, you must wear a skirt and slippers, not men’s clothing, and nothing smelly or covered in hay . . . .”

As the long list of requirements spilled from Marcella’s lips, Celise found herself hunching lower and lower. Maybe I should fall off a horse to avoid the ball, she thought. It sounded a lot more pleasant than enduring the next two weeks of torture.

“I will see you in the morning in the Great Hall. Don’t be late.”

Marcella dismissed her with a wave of her pale hand. Celise bowed deeply and left the room. As soon as she entered the hallway, she started to run, unable to restrain herself any longer. Her boots pounded on the floor as she darted down the length of the dark manor, passing by dim wall sconces and charging down wood-paneled hallways. She flew out the back door and across the wide lawn, barreling toward the stables like a galloping horse. 

It was hard to breathe in the house, but out under the stars, she felt much better. Her claustrophobia faded. She ran until she was covered in sweat, her legs aching, her lungs heaving. Then she threw herself down upon the cool grass. 

I can’t do this, she thought. It’s too much. I’m not like them. I’m not meant to be in high society.

Her stepmother’s thinly veiled threat echoed in her head: “. . . there are other places for unwanted women.”

She thought of Lilibeth’s echoing concern: “Whether or not Lady Marcella means to sell her off, today is not that day.”

So, the rot-queen had threatened to sell her. When this conversation had taken place, and with whom, Celise didn’t know. But it seemed like Mr. Talisworth and Lilibeth were well aware.

Where else could Marcella sell her off, but The Painted Lady?

Courtesans of The Painted Lady offered companionship to the most wealthy clientele. It tried to present itself as a respectable place for men of a certain class, but at the end of the day, a brothel was still a brothel.

This past summer, Lilibeth had pointed out the establishment in Castleberry City along the riverfront. Celise had wondered why the cook’s wife bothered to tell her about it, since she had no interest in a gentlemen’s club. But now she understood. Lilibeth had been trying to warn her. 

Since Celise was a dunslug and her mother had passed away at birth, she was an ideal candidate for such a place. Lady Marcella could sell her off as a courtesan to the establishment for a pretty penny. If that happened, then the owner, Madam Moongale, would keep her until her contract was paid in full. 

Celise felt numb at that thought.

A sense of dread filled her. 

The gala was going to be a disaster. 

Two weeks wasn’t enough time to learn lady’s etiquette—Katrina and Heather had both attended school for two years for proper training. And what if she brought shame to the Dhastel name? What if she let slip that she worked in the stables? What if she accidentally spoke and behaved like a common laborer?

How much longer would her stepmother tolerate her?

Celise’s eyes traveled to the barn at the side of the field, where she saw one of the upper windows aglow with lantern light. It looked like Mr. Talisworth was still in his office. She gazed at that warm window for a long moment. Should she go to him? Tell him her fears? Ask him to help her with some scheme to avoid the ball?

He would help her, but . . . . 

Was there truly any escape?

If Marcella intended to sell her off, could anyone protect her?

It all seemed out of her hands.

Celise sighed, her eyes returning to the two moons above her. One was high in the sky, a pure silver color, called the Kind Moon for its gentle light. The other was close to the horizon, a pale orange like a copper coin, which they called the Mad Moon. Only one day a year was the Mad Moon alone in the sky, and that was Darkwell, the last night of Hallowsin, which heralded the end of harvest season. Darkwell was a holy night when ghosts and daemons were thought to walk the land.

The celestial goddess Valestra governed over the two moons. Only during Hallowsin did they appear in the sky at the same time. But the summer months of Ardoursol had yet to end. It seemed the twin moons were dancing early this year. 

Mordwen would say it was a sign. 

A sign of what?

Destiny? Fate?

She thought of Mordwen’s zodiac cards and her unfinished fortune.

As her heart calmed down, Celise’s thoughts turned inward. She reflected upon her situation, pondering it in a new light. Yes, learning lady’s etiquette was overwhelming, and Marcella’s schemes terrified her, but . . . some part of her was curious. How had her name come to be on the invitation? Was it truly by chance—a diligent clerk too thorough at his job—or was some greater force at work? Some higher will?

Perhaps Valestra’s wand was at play. 

Don’t be silly, she chided herself. You were invited to the ball by mistake. It’s best to keep your head down and stay invisible.

But . . . maybe some small part of her didn’t want to hide. Maybe she was tired of feeling out of place no matter where she went. Tired of Marcella’s threats. Tired of Katrina’s bullying. Wouldn’t it feel good to transform into someone else, if only for a few days?

What awaited her at Gravenmere Castle?

A bit of warmth awakened in her breast. Celise felt that familiar fire—long ago stifled, all but smothered—stir in her heart.

Was it courage? No, not entirely. But . . . maybe it would become courage, someday.

* * *

The next two weeks were spent in a whirlwind of activity, preparing Celise for their visit to Gravenmere and her introduction to high society. Lady Marcella’s hurried lessons in etiquette were confusing at best. Celise didn’t remember any of it, and her stepmother gave up before long. 

Marcella forbade her from doing anything at all at the gala: no eating, dancing, speaking or sitting. She could stand prettily in her dress and smile, and curtsy but not too deeply. And if she must sit, do so with poise, as though sitting on a pin. She must follow Katrina and Heather everywhere and not wander off. She mustn’t be out of their sight for even a minute. And no horses.

Now, standing on the front steps of Gravenmere Castle, Celise wondered once again why she had come so far to attend a party she wasn’t truly invited to. Her fragile self-assurance had dissipated with the morning dew. Every small sign seemed like a bad omen. A gust of wind rustled through the hedges. The front drive seemed overly long, solitary and winding. 

Beneath the midafternoon sun, she felt a shiver of foreboding. She pulled in a steadying breath, trying to ease the knot of apprehension in her stomach. 

She reached up and rang the bell.