“Tesse was the last link of connection I had to my old life.” Becka dabbed tears from the corner of her eyes. “And maybe, just maybe, if I can help solve Tesse’s murder...then it’ll make that final loss feel less profound.”
He nodded, and the compassion in his gaze spoke volumes. “So, what do you think of your Aunt Astrid’s conviction that you are conspiring to ruin the festivities?”
Becka shrugged. “She saw something and I appeared the timely culprit, but we both know that’s impossible. Do you have any theories about what happened to the manor’s funerary shroud?”
Quinn shook his head. “I am convinced you did not sabotage the guild’s magic. I have been with you the entire time and I am secure in my powers of observation. However, the coincidence of the damage happening upon your arrival could point to someone trying to frame you for the act. Or, the timing might be completely unrelated.”
“You believe that?”
“Not at all. I do not believe in coincidences.”
Becka nodded. “I need to get down to the feast.”
He stepped close and raised a hand to her cheek, rubbing his thumb down the frame of her face. “Your makeup is a little smeared. Do you need a minute to clean up?”
His considerate suggestion warmed her. “Oh no, appearing to be late due to a crying fit will play well with this crowd.” Becka headed out the door, and again Quinn fell into step next to her. “Today has been overwhelming. Do you ever wish you could slow down time to give yourself the chance to process each beat? To give each trauma the energy and space it needs to do it justice. Do you know what I mean?”
“Sure, but life never works out that way. It’s messy and we do not get to pick the timing.”
“Tell me about it.”
Becka looked at herself in the mirror on the way out the door. She sighed. “I’m covered in tears, clots of cat hair, my hair looks like I haven’t combed it in days, and I’m wearing black. I’m good to go.”
“Do you recall that fae funerary garb is gray?”
“If you’re gonna be judged anyway, pick the fight.” Becka walked out the door.
Chapter 9
Despite her determination to not step into her sister’s shoes, Becka moved through the main hall feeling every bit the part of her twin’s ghost. Traversing the room evoked memories of her childhood. Everything here was the same. The same people. The same emphasis on custom. The same allegiance to politics and familial ties. And yet Becka’s experience of it was so different through her new perspective on the world. The human world.
Having Quinn near helped change the narrative in her mind. She didn’t feel as alone amongst a sea of familiar yet distant faces. In him, she had an ally, if only for this week of funerary observance.
As she entered the great hall, a ripple effect emanated everywhere she passed. Tradition required her inclusion, but did not dictate behavior beyond polite social graces. Some of the guests looked at her passively. Others with gentle curiosity. A few appeared shocked; perhaps at first mistaking her for her twin? And then there those who sneered, not even bothering to mask their disdain. Were their sneers focused on her clothing, her hair color, her ear piercings, or something else altogether?
Her telltale headache was already building, a vice across her brow.
Becka ambled over towards the head table, where her immediate family all sat. Many regarded her with sadness, grief plain upon their faces. Her brother Calder, who now sat in a position of eldest to the right of their mother, appeared especially troubled. What was that about? Becka didn’t recall him being prone to moodiness, but many years had passed. Her mother, Duchess Maura, had yet to meet her gaze or speak to her.
A newcomer sat at the table, his bearing regal and refined. His clothing was ornately embroidered in shades of gray, and his mane of platinum hair had not a strand out of place. He wept openly, avoiding food but partaking of the wine which was so liberally provided.
Speaking of wine, Becka helped herself to a glass of purple-tinged claret from a passing server’s tray. She took a sip of the tannic and earthy beverage before looking for a seat.
Her sisters, Ingrid and Sigfrid, sat across from her. Less than a year apart, they’d behaved nearly as twin-like as Tesse and Becka. Even now they murmured quietly to each other while shooting quick glances at her hair and pierced ears. When she smiled at them, they smiled in return, nervously giggling to each other. Her youngest brother, Gunnar, sat down the table openly gawking at her with large, round eyes.
Vott pointed to the end of the table, indicating Becka take the open seat. No one spoke to her as she sat and instead welcomed her with a hushed silence. Becka was a specter of a memory. Not only of her sister Tesse, but also of her own departure so many years ago.
Quinn wasn’t placed at the family table. This wasn’t surprising, given Vott’s earlier disdain of his presence and Quinn’s history with House Alder. He’d been offered an open seat at a table nearby, but instead he stood by the wall behind the head table near one of Vott’s shifter guards.
When a server stopped by the table and offered her squash blossoms filled with honey, pistachios, nutmeg, and goat cheese, Becka took three. Biting into the aromatic, sweet, and savory treat invoked a wealth of childhood memories feasting in this hall during better days. She’d yearned for the fae food of her childhood; it was the thing she’d missed most during her exile. These delicacies were designed by and for a species with more refined and sensitive palates than humans enjoyed.
This feast was a somber one, and tradition dictated little to no talking.
