Caylus locked the egg away in a padded trunk. Though the idea of leaving the egg anywhere I wasn’t made me uneasy, transporting it in and out of the castle was too risky. Still, as I climbed into the carriage to return to the castle, I felt like I’d left a piece of myself behind.

Eighteen

The next couple of days followed a similar pattern. Caylus worked at the bakery in the morning, so Kiva and I used that time to train. That morning, I found her already at the training grounds, Auma a nearby shadow, watching her dance with Sinvarra. They’d continued to have lunch together despite Razel’s warning.

At first, I’d worried she might get the girl into trouble, but when I mentioned it to Kiva, she said she’d already tried talking Auma out of it for that very reason. Auma had made it very clear that she could take care of herself and would make her own decisions.

In the afternoon, I returned to Caylus’s to run through experiments. While we waited for things to brew, I helped him with other little projects for his newest inventions, but our results yielded nothing.

Ericen was nowhere to be seen. When I asked Razel at dinner where he went, she simply smiled her knifelike smile and turned back to conversation with her newest male guest at the table.

My unease never settled. The eyes of the Illucian servants held mine with quiet dislike, and I never turned my back on a soldier. Each time I saw the blue-and-gold Illucian banners, my skin flared hot, my hands itching for my bow with each sneer of an Illucian guard. The added appearance of decorations for the upcoming ball only made me sick.

With every failed experiment, the warmth of my bed called out to me, free of scowling faces, but I didn’t listen. Each morning, it was a struggle, but I dragged myself from beneath the comfort of the covers, pushing against that pull to sit, to wait, to spiral deeper and deeper inside myself, and each day, it got a little easier.

On the evening of the promised ball, I left Caylus’s a bundle of nerves. Earlier that week, Razel’s seamstress had offered to make me a dress, but I’d declined. I had one. I’d never gotten to wear it, as it had been made in anticipation of the day I would become a rider. Another thing I’d thrown in my closet and planned never to look at again yet couldn’t leave behind.

Servants helped me dress, one even spending a good half hour bundling my curls atop my head, despite the fact that they would escape within the hour. Several long pieces twirled down my back and around my face.