When Spring Died

Chapter Nine

Ivette stood in front of her mirror, dressed in a blue satin ball gown with full skirts embroidered with gold thread and pearls, a cascade of rouched tucks flowing down the back. The neckline swept low, exposing much of her sun-kissed collarbone and shoulders in smooth, flawless temptation. The tight-fitting bodice pinched her waist. She fought to breathe shallowly against the confines of her corset.

Her dark curls were swept up in a delicate style that framed her face in a striking kind of way that set off the structure of her cheekbones and the angles of her deep blue eyes.

Whenever she shifted, the light caught the sapphire necklace draped over her neck. Years ago she'd swiped it from her mother's collection years ago in a fit of childish anger. Even though now all her mother's jewels were hers, her affinity for this particular piece was most likely attributed to the moment of defiance that enabled her to take it--an instance of perfect disobedience.

"You look lovely, Your Majesty," Therese said.

"Like some sort of gemstone," Camille added.

Genevieve was too awestruck to utter a single word.

Ivette frowned slightly and adjusted the golden tiara set carefully in her hair before she tugged a few curls loose from the updo, letting them fall gently against her cheeks. Étienne liked it when she did that. And she would see him tonight.

Her heart cramped and locked when she thought of him, and she couldn't speak, breathe, or move for a moment after doing so. Everything inside her screamed with misery, like she was wrenching her joints out of place. She couldn't be certain that he was avoiding her, but the thought was there, leaving her miserable. At least she would see him tonight and he would be by her side the whole evening. She took as deep a breath as the stays of her corset would allow. The feeling eased.

For tonight was the Vernal Fête. It was hard to believe it came upon them so quickly. The palace had been in a frenzy of preparation, invitations to be sent, foods to be chosen for the banquet, what to wear, what to wear, what to wear. It shouldn't have exhausted Ivette as much as it did. But it did exhaust her, because she knew it was all for the sake of a lie.

She had none of the excitement she normally possessed in the past years for the ball. That was replaced by the weariness and anticipation for it to just end.

Her gaze fell on an envelope lying on a nearby table. A letter from Norvége, agreeing to send an embassy to Frantsiya. She let the shockwaves of excitement and anxiety roll over her again, setting her heart to beating much too fast, just as it had when first she'd read it.

As of yet, she'd had no word from Ryssland, and she wasn't sure if she should be relieved or worried. If they chose not to accept, she wouldn't have to face the dissent from her own people. At the same time, it meant Frantsiya would still be locked in a stalemate of fright, wondering what Ryssland would do to them.

But at least she was halfway to her goal. Between the two, she was pleased that it was Norvége who'd responded. The week she'd allotted to Ryssland for a response was almost up. She would know before too long where their tsar stood.

"Won't you try the mask on?" Genevieve said, overcoming her awe. She offered up the astutely detailed mask decorated with gold filigree and blue gemstones. It was thin, meant to fit like a second skin over Ivette's face.

"Oh, I...I think I'll wait till the last minute," she said, taking it from Genevieve anyway.

A knock came at the door, and Camille went to see who it was. Upon opening the door, she was met with an attendant who gave a hasty curtsy before thrusting a small box in her hands.