Chapter eighteen – The red widow's ball ii
The candlelight in Elira's room flickered low, shadows clinging to the corners like wary sentinels. Mirelle moved quietly, fingers nimble as she fastened the back of a deep garnet gown, the fabric pooling like spilled wine around Elira's ankles. It wasn't ostentatious, but elegant — a rich velvet with subtle black embroidery winding like thorns near the bodice.
"You don't have to lace it so tightly," Elira murmured.
Mirelle paused, her fingers hovering. "You'll want to look the part."
"The part of what?" Elira said sharply. "A caged songbird? A new bauble for their amusement?"
Mirelle didn't flinch. She resumed lacing, slower this time. "Of someone who doesn't give them more to talk about than they already do."
Silence laced between them as Elira glanced toward the mirror. The reflection startled her — the faint smudge of rouge, the softened sweep of her hair coiled into a low twist, the cold grace of her collar peeking from the neckline like a cruel ornament.
"You look like one of them," Mirelle said quietly, stepping back.
Elira turned to face her. "That's not a compliment."
"No," Mirelle said. "But it's armor."
Their eyes met for a beat longer than comfort allowed, and then Mirelle stepped away to retrieve a pair of black gloves and a sheer lace shawl.
"Lady Ravienne expects subtlety tonight," Mirelle said. "And silence."
"Then she'll be disappointed," Elira muttered, slipping the gloves on.
Mirelle hesitated, then added softly, "Elira… some of them—some of the women there—might say things. Don't rise to it. That's what they want."
Elira gave a thin smile. "Let them. I'm not here to please ghosts in silk."
Mirelle adjusted the final pin in Elira's hair, her fingers lingering at the nape of her neck. "There. Don't fidget."
Elira inhaled slowly, meeting her own eyes in the mirror. The girl staring back looked composed — poised, even. But the collar at her throat throbbed with unseen tension, and the hollows beneath her eyes betrayed what no dress could mask.
Mirelle stepped back. "They'll be watching. Not just the nobles. The servants talk more than you'd think."
"I hope they choke on the stories," Elira said quietly, standing.
She crossed the room with measured steps, velvet brushing against her ankles like shadows. At the threshold, she paused.
"Mirelle."
The maid looked up.
"Will you still be here when I come back?"
There was the briefest pause. Then Mirelle offered a small nod — one Elira couldn't quite trust. "I'll be here."
The doors opened with a groan that echoed down the stone corridor like a warning.
The scent of lilacs and dark wine clung to the air like perfume over rot.
When Elira stepped into the grand hall, the hush that followed was not unlike the moment before a blade strikes. It wasn't the same as the Crimson Feast. No trumpets, no fanfare, no Lord Vaelric to offer her an arm. Just a room full of wolves draped in velvet, their lips stained red and eyes already glittering with interest.
The chandelier above burned low, casting molten gold over the dark marble floors. Shadows curled in the corners like watching things. Candles floated in silver fixtures, flickering in time with the music—low, stringed, and winding like a predator through reeds.
The ballroom gleamed under hundreds of floating lights — glass orbs suspended midair like captive moons. Crimson and gold draped the walls, and dark figures moved in elegant patterns across the floor. The scent of wine, blood, and rare perfume curled into her lungs like smoke.
Conversations stuttered, then resumed in hushed flutters as she passed. She heard her name — not spoken, but exhaled like a blasphemy — the pet, the mortal, the girl he brought.
She moved into the room with quiet precision, the train of her gown trailing behind like a defiance stitched in red.
Eyes followed her. Whispers stirred.
She caught movement to her left—maids retreating quickly from the room, skirts sweeping like whispers. And at the center of it all stood Lady Ravienne, back straight, wine in hand, her smile too polished to be anything but rehearsed.
Elira did not look for Mirelle. She wouldn't find her tonight. Ravienne had dismissed the manor staff and hand-picked who would attend.
Instead, she moved forward alone, collar cool and quiet at her neck—for now.
A cluster of noblewomen near the center turned as she passed, their silks rustling like wings.
"Well, well," one cooed, her lips painted the shade of dried roses. "The little bird has come out of her cage."
"Or was dragged," said another, tone sweet with venom. "You never can tell with pets."
Their laughter was light, measured. Elira didn't slow.
"Careful," she said, voice even. "Speak too loudly and someone might think you're jealous of the leash."
The second woman blinked. A third let out a muffled, scandalized laugh.
"Charming," muttered the first.
But Elira had already passed.
She felt eyes follow her—the hungry ones and the cruel ones alike. One figure broke from the group by the wine table and stepped into her path, blocking her view of the dais.
Lady Viole Sarthienne. Elira remembered her from the Crimson Feast: tall, skeletal, beautiful in that way broken glass is beautiful—sharp and gleaming.
"I must admit," the woman said, stepping closer, "I didn't believe Lord Thorne would keep his little pet so long."
"And yet," Elira replied evenly, "here I am. Breathing."
A few nobles chuckled. The woman's smile tightened.
"Oh, I remember when he used to look at me that way," she said, voice edged with bitterness. "You must feel quite special. While it lasts."
Elira tilted her head. "You should thank me, then. For reminding you of better days."
The laughter was less polite this time.
The woman's hand twitched around her glass.
"Careful," Elira murmured. "It'd be terribly awkward if you spilled that on yourself. Again."
Gasps fluttered nearby. The vampire's eyes narrowed into slits.
"Watch your tongue, mortal—"
"Or what?" Elira asked, smile now sharp. "You'll tell him I bruised your pride?"
Before the woman could reply, another voice rose above the din.
"Elira."
It was soft, but unmistakably poised.
Lady Seliora stood near the far end of the room, one hand resting lightly on the arm of a carved settee, her white gown a stark contrast to the crimson around her. Pale, composed — as if she were carved from frost.
A summons, not a request.
Elira's spine straightened. She stepped past the still-fuming noblewoman, ignoring the stares.
If they wanted a performance, she'd give it to them.