Winter's Ball, Giselle Ava [best books for 8th graders .txt] 📗

ballroom, Sir Tam following a short distance behind her. The chamber seemed huge when there was no one inside, just the spots of servants and cleaners, a few Lavus lords and ladies testing the floors. She leaned up against the gold parapet, resting her chin on her forearms. The ballroom was mostly blue and brown and bits of gold, everything very expensive and gaudy, as they were “putting on a show to the rest of the world.” She sniffed the scent of food cooking in the kitchens, and felt a sudden bout of nausea.

“Lady Mithriv.”

She rolled her head to see her uncle strolling up to her, straight-necked, wearing a fine cobalt military-esque uniform with gold buttons and a cape. Some would say he was overdoing it, but this was tame by Uncle Andreius’s standards, so she thought nothing of it.

He stopped a few feet from her, rigid. Uncle Andreius had been on an extended appointment during that winter’s ball seven years ago, and as a result had lived. Upon returning, he had rejected any notion of grabbing hold of power, instead becoming a simple lord.

“What?” Sarina said.

“Have you made up your mind regarding the placement of additional guards throughout tonight’s and the week’s festivities?” Uncle Andreius said.

Sarina turned from him, straightening her back and staring at a point beyond even the great wooden doors of the ballroom. The last time she’d spoken to Uncle Andreius about this was two nights ago. Then, it had seemed the only option. She’d employed additional guards every winter’s ball since that one. It was an order she never even had to think about, but tonight...She pictured Yorik, his experimental medication, her own unbearable paranoia. What did they think of her, so afraid of shadows, seven years later?

You don’t owe them anything, he’d told her. And yet...

She needed to get over this. She was being a little child, employing guards at every single corner, in every room, men who shouldn’t be on duty, men who should be enjoying the festivities. She still had Sir Tam, and Mikka, and the regular appointment of guards.

But what if? she asked herself.

But no. How could she move on if she was still so tied to that event, if she let it dictate every single decision she made, if she outright refused to let herself move past it?

“Lady Mithriv?” he said again.

She hated it when they called her that.

“It’s no problem,” Uncle Andreius said abashedly. “We can employ them—”

“No,” she said, surprising herself. She looked at Uncle Andreius’s shocked, then pleasant expression. “There will be no need. Let them enjoy the festivities.”

Uncle Andreius took a moment. “Yes, of course.”

And with that, he walked away. Sarina watched him until he was out of sight, and then she felt her hand reaching down to take her pocket watch. She paused, but then grabbed it anyway, flicked it open and held it up to the light. The black hands ticked ominously. It was five minutes to eleven. Guests arrived at seven on the dot. She would need to bathe again, work on her makeup and then her hair, do some of Yorik’s breathing exercises...

She looked at Sir Tam, who was still staring down the corridor to where Uncle Andreius disappeared. His eyes flicked to her, paused, as if expecting something.

She simply walked back to her room.

3: Indigo

A throwing knife bit into the center of an archery board with a quiet thunk, sending out a blast of icicles and wood flakes. Engraved on the handle of the knife were two letters written in cursive, one slightly bigger than the other, both slightly uneven: T. V.

Tasha Vasil.

She sheared another knife against the grindstone, sending off a hiss of sparks, and then piffed it into the archery board, landing it slightly beside the first, off-center.

“Shit.” She grabbed another engraved knife from the tin can, weighed it in her hand. A light snowfall settled over the sparring courtyard of Castle Lavus, glazing all of the weapons in a thin sheet of ice. She ran her glove across the knife’s blade, cleaning it, then repositioned herself roughly thirty feet from the target. The knife flew.

It hit one of the other knives and they both clattered to the frosted dirt. Tasha walked over to them and collected the knives. The sound of steel on steel chimed around her, heavy boots on rugged ground, armor plates sliding. Tonight was the winter’s ball, and then there’d be an extended week of festivities. The night brought up feelings of anger. She dreamed of it often. Seven years ago, she’d been a scrawny little eleven-year-old girl with blonde pigtails. She had been injured by an explosion, and her memory of the event was fuzzy. All she knew was that her parents both died, likely unheroically, which forced her into the custody of her father’s brother, who she killed on her eleventh birthday—a present to herself, because nobody else got her anything.

She picked up the final knife and walked back to the table with all her gear on it. The castle loomed before her, high and proud. The windows were lit with amber light, and the light melted snow which dribbled past. She began stretching.

The order had come through that Sarina, despite her paranoia, had decided not to utilise additional guards for the first time since it happened. That meant more work for Tasha, who had received the order to be on guard, mainly because she had the best eye in the city but also because she was good at killing, if it came to that.

Tasha had never quite gotten along with Sarina, but nevertheless the two orbited each other. They had both survived the Killing Night, and though their paths had diverged, they always ended up in the same rooms. And though she did think of Sarina as a paranoid freak at times, she respected her duty and therefore would make sure the night went as planned.

She was down low stretching her hamstrings when Alyos approached wearing indigo leggings and a very smart-looking