CAMILLA’S MAID CINCHED her stays tight enough to elicit a wince, then helped her into the most magnificent garment she’d ever seen, let alone owned before going to fetch her slippers.
After her father died, she’d used all her earnings from the gallery to
keep the staff on. The gallery had come a long way already, earning a nice income for her, but she couldn’t replace her entire wardrobe each season like she used to.
It was either pretty dresses and half the staff, or half the dresses and supporting those she’d known her whole life. The choice was easy.
The gown she wore now was beyond anything she’d dreamed of owning again. Indeed, it was a work of art—lavish, decadent, and undeniably stunning. Camilla felt like a princess in it, not just because the gown must have cost a small fortune, but because wearing it made her feel powerful. It had been a long while since she’d truly felt that.
She twisted one way, then the other in front of her full-length mirror, admiring the flow of the material.
The skirts were ethereal layers of fluffy white tulle, with silver sparkles scattered like glittering stars across the fabric. The bodice was made of diamonds encrusted with silver beads and downy white feathers. She looked like a moon goddess, ethereal, tempting, and completely out of any mortal’s reach.
The gown had mysteriously shown up two hours before Synton’s ball, along with a matching silver filigree mask. No note accompanied the
package, but a beautiful new paintbrush was nestled on top of the dress.
Though calling it a paintbrush hardly did it justice—the handle was a solid piece of carved emerald, the exact shade of Synton’s eyes, leaving no room for Camilla to mistake where the gifts had originated.
Surprisingly enough, though made from a gemstone, the brush wasn’t heavy or hard to handle—it fit her palm perfectly, making her long for a few moments to sit at an easel.
Camilla often wondered if paint ran through her veins instead of blood. When she created, it was as if she made new realms, fantastical and beautiful and exactly where she wished she could escape to. With her art, somehow she was connected to the universe far beyond her small gallery. She could live a thousand and one lives, each more magical than the last.
Synton had chosen his temptation well.
The paintbrush was a cunning gift. It made Camilla seriously consider painting the Hexed Throne for him, consequences be damned.
She laid the paintbrush back on the crushed velvet, emotions churning.
She needed to give him an answer about his proposed deal tonight.
She wished this decision didn’t feel so much like a betrayal. She recalled the night before her father had died—he’d tried to draw her near, his arms shaking with the effort.
“Darkness… will… not… win.”
“I don’t understand,” she’d said, tears stinging her eyes. Had he known?
She remembered thinking, had he always known?
“You… are… good, sweet girl. Never… doubt.”
It was the last thing he’d ever said to her, and Pierre had always been clear about his feelings on cursed objects—dangerous things best avoided.
With Camilla’s rare… talent… if she were to paint the Hexed Throne, it might very well manifest. Stories about it varied widely: some claimed it could grant eternal power and immortality, while others warned it would curse all rulers and even destroy immortals. Camilla doubted any version would bring about anything good.
What did Synton want with the throne’s painting?
He’d insisted it was merely for his personal gallery, but Camilla didn’t need his unsettling knack for deception to sense he wasn’t being honest.
Could she really risk giving someone like Synton access to an object that could unleash unspeakable darkness? Her father had taught her time and again that power could corrupt even the purest soul, and Synton didn’t seem to possess any purity to begin with.
If she painted the Hexed Throne, she would bear the weight of whatever came next. Perhaps Synton wouldn’t misuse it, but it could just as easily fall into the hands of someone far worse.
A gentle knock pulled her back to the present. “Come in.”
Her maid entered with a polite curtsy and helped Camilla into her slippers. “The Lord and Lady Edwards have arrived.”
Camilla took one last look at her reflection before slipping on her mask.
One way or another, the woman who returned to this home would be forever changed—for better or worse.
Given her recent luck, she didn’t feel particularly hopeful.
“Please, Father. Help.” She tried to summon his memory, seeking comfort in his voice, but whatever entity heard her plea in the Great Beyond only laughed darkly, the chilling echo resonating through her bones.
Camilla hurried from her bedchamber, hoping that haunting laugh wasn’t a sign of worse things to come.
