But even her measured smile is beautiful, and it’s surrounded by the most glorious black hair I’ve ever seen. She wears a gown of silver blue with cobalt trim and a necklace of sapphires. Her imperial crown is made of shattered Godstones, a symbol of her unique power, and they catch the light of the chandeliers just so. She has always been generously plump, but her rigid posture reveals a waist thickened by two pregnancies—and another on the way.

Her current pregnancy is supposed to be a secret. I glance around, wondering if anyone is noticing.

Standing next to the royal family—my family—is Songbird, the Invierno ambassador, who has been attempting to negotiate a new trade and cultural exchange treaty. He wears fabrics that match those of the wealthiest members of the court, a symbol of the ties that already exist between our people, woven in elaborately patterned colors that complement his unnatural height and his pale skin without drawing extra attention to them. His retinue is similarly attired, emphasizing the commonalities between us instead of the differences. The attempt to fit in doesn’t succeed; an empty space surrounds his party, as if they are bearers of a contagious disease. The ambassador’s large, thoughtful eyes linger on me, curious but not rude.

But the light of Elisa’s smile draws my attention back to her, pulls me down the aisle. The “Entrada” crescendos. Nobles twist in place to follow my journey with their eyes. I’m supposed to be here, doing exactly this; I know I am. But my ruffles are ridiculous, stretching the length of the receiving hall. Light from the chandeliers washes my skin to nothing. Everything feels off. Wrong. Like I’m a hawk dressed up to look like a camel.

Rosario’s attention is pulled toward the right, and I follow his gaze. It’s Lady Carilla, a girl about my age, with blushed round cheeks and huge dark eyes that gaze at the prince in rapt, unwavering attention. I resist the urge to smile.

Someone murmurs off to the left. The slightest sound, but jarring nonetheless. I glance over—it’s Lady Malka, speaking to a companion behind a gloved hand.

Her hand lowers, revealing full lips turned up into something too nasty to be a smile.

Rosario’s fingers on my elbow tighten.

Straight ahead, Elisa’s face falters. Hector reaches down and grabs her hand.

The air is taut and heavy—how did I not notice it before? Eyes are wide with anticipation. With sure knowledge. I pass a tall, reed-thin man wearing a green silk stole, who glares at me with fire in his eyes. His hate is such a palpable thing that I nearly stumble.

As quietly as I can, I dare to whisper, “Something is wrong.”

“Just keep walking,” Rosario whispers back.

Is it my mark? Maybe the dye didn’t take. Maybe it’s shining as white as a cloud for everyone to see. Or perhaps my train ripped, or it picked up something unspeakable on the journey through the palace that now drags in its wake.