Irenya awoke with a start. The light of a full moon rinsed her room with a grey wash. She stared at the window, uncertain if a noise or a dream had woken her, and if she had been asleep for a minute or an hour.
Dinner had been late, delayed while the crowd drifted reluctantly away, many of them anxious for another glimpse of the reassuring magnificence of their archprince. In a private salon, Irenya had observed Elaaron, as though he might betray the reason for his strange promise. While she watched him, Aldine described the wedding rituals of Ishter.
‘The wedding masks are elaborate, they say, often trimmed with painted feathers, gold leaf, and studded with jewels. Irenya, are you listening? Lendel says that these days some are masks on masks.’
‘Won’t they be hot to wear?’ Irenya withd
