Trace of Arcane - Book 1

Chapter Three

Mom takes a deep breath and strokes my hair. "Eden," she says, her voice heavy, "please behave tonight."

We walk towards the festival, my hand clutching the bag tightly and the other intertwined with hers. The past few weeks have been filled with Norah and everyone else buzzing with excitement, each chat fueling a sense of impending exhaustion. I can't help but think, without all this forced anticipation, it might have been...enjoyable. Maybe. But then again, doesn't that apply to everything around here? Expectations steal the genuineness from experience.

"Eden, listen to me," Mom's voice rises, laced with concern. "You know how things are. Our position is precarious, rumors are swirling."

A familiar defensiveness prickles within me. "But you always say gossip is just that, gossip."

"There's a time for defiance and a time for strategy," she says, her eyes boring into mine. "You need to be smart about these things." Her hands cup my face, the seriousness of the situation evident. Does she suspect the council's plan for her? Now isn't the moment for flippancy.

"Yes, Mom," I concede. "I'll be smart."

"You look so beautiful." She kisses me on the forehead while my entire body cringes from the affection. I hate it, but I promise I love her.

The festival has transformed the drab hall into a riot of color. It's hard to believe a drought is choking our planet right now. But nothing is too good for the Lady, the founder of our society. Roses in every shade imaginable sprawl across the circular wall, reaching for the ceiling's corners. In the center, a magnificent chandelier – a gift from Lux, the heathen – glitters like a defiant jewel. The purists, who see anything foreign as betrayal, would have a fit. They hold their own festival, of course, but their numbers are dwindling. Here, the disapproval of some lingers in the traditional dandelions woven around the chandelier – a subtle protest against the foreign invasion.

A melody washes over the hall, weaving its way through the crowd. Traditional instruments create a sound that's both familiar and mesmerizing. It's undeniably charming, this festival. A celebration of the Lady, a day when women take center stage. Femininity is applauded, even if it's a version twisted by men's desires. Yet, the joy radiating from the others seems oblivious to the undercurrent.

I feel exposed in my long, colorful dress. Not the kind of exposure that celebrates my depths, my talents. This is about display, about being judged, compared to the others. An artwork, yes, but not one admired for its complexity. More like a possession to be admired, then forgotten. A "shitshow," I decide, a performance where I'm the only one watching with a cynical eye.

Tradition dictates that men offer flower necklaces to invite women to dance. I have no respect for it, but I don't want to disappear into the background either. My simple yet striking dress draws stares – a calculated contrast. Ironically, the notoriety my reputation brings is a strange comfort. It's a validation, even if I have no intention of playing their game.

But one figure cuts through the crowd. Zig. He's blatantly trying to catch my eye. With a subtle nod, I signal him to follow, keeping a careful distance. We can't afford to be seen together yet.

We slip out a back door, entering a meticulously kept garden. A vast lawn stretches before us, a weeping willow droops with silvery catkins. Flower beds border the green expanse, daffodils fading as tulips unfurl their vibrant cups. The red blooms deepen to a crimson near the stem, as if wounded and beginning to heal.

"Do you have it?" I ask, my voice tight.

"Of course," he replies, reaching into his pants.

Uncertainty coils in my gut. "What are you doing?"

"Where else am I supposed to keep it?" He retrieves the pouch and extends it towards me. Relief washes over me.