The Changeling

15

The night droned on after all the excessive preparation. All the nobility, titles, and pomp drove Cetlali's nervousness to new limits. It was rather tiring sitting up at the high-table, the largest, most ornate table, above all the rest.

Her belated and hateful realization was that far too many people could stare at her up there.

The garish beacon encasing her did not help.

An orphan, a steward, dressed like an Empress and feeling like a jester. She was conscientious to a painful extent as she sat between Ezren and Caran, of all people. Cetlali couldn't tolerate the tension. Not with the mess of feelings she had tucked inside the damned dress. It was squishing her anxiety about like thickening, bleak gray rain clouds fit to burst.

Caran was mostly pleasant company, thankfully, and wanted to hear about her travels and how she was faring with the changes. He updated her on Zeger, as they had been exchanging missives for some consistent time

now, and filled her in on all the interesting news of his own life. It was a lot since he was popular, charming, and beloved. Ezren, however, was altogether disagreeable. She spent the entire meal, all seven courses, managing a tenuous balancing act of one-sided conversations with both Caran and Ezren. But not together, no, because, for whatever horrible reason, they still refused to talk to each other.

Cetlali had tried to be amicable. Especially after she leaned over and saw Athua squished between Eraughn and the Financier Elect. She was handling it like an absolute peach with the very essence of Empress-like propriety. She made Rocha look like a garden troll.

Athua was the type that held the attention and adoration of every single person in every room she entered. The jealousy on Rocha's face during those times was enough to keep Cetlali's bitter little heart beating on pettiness alone. If Athua could muster a convincing laugh at Jonatan's haughty self aggrandizing, she could handle Ezren's iciness and Caran's attempts at getting a rise out of his father. By the end of the

meal, Cetlali was exhausted and thought Athua was a witch — or an extrovert.

When the meal finished and drinks flowed, the attendees pushed the tables out of the center of the hall. Musicians and singers came in with many instruments to set themselves up for playing. Since the first time she left Athua's rooms, Cetlali felt thrilled, remembering all the promises of frivolity with her friends. She hazarded a glance at the sisters. They both seemed equal amounts relieved by the signal to the end of the meal and the chance at some true revelry. Much to Cetlali's dismay, Ezren retired early and demanded her company. She had wanted to cry and beg. The harsh gleam in his eyes made her button up her mouth and follow with her usual obedience.

Lovou trailed after her, quiet until they were in the hall. He closed the distance between them, stepping up right behind her shoulder.

She looked up at him with a confused frown and a silent question in her eyes about his proximity. Xocthl was walking behind them, looking smug and knowing as per usual. His

response was a curt scowl before he fell back a few steps. Fortuitous, because the second after, Ezren grabbed onto Cetlali's opposite elbow.

He tugged her to him, tucking her hand around his arm, settling her at his side, their bodies flush against one another.

She remained quiet as they walked back to the Vassour Elect's Complex. A distance far too long to spend even in a comfortable silence. Let alone one made uncomfortable with the way Ezren seethed. Cetlali held herself rigid as a corpse, especially in the damned dress. Her body felt painfully jarred every single time his arm or leg or shoulder or fingers brushed against her.