filth teaches filth.
Pilate is throwing another stupid party.
Like an aneurysm, I only know it’s happening once I’m in the middle of it. I wake up from a nap, bleary-eyed, and look outside my window to check the time: but instead of just seeing the sun as it sets on the horizon, I see crowds of people in the eastern courtyard, and a band set up by the fig trees, and servants wearing the all-black outfits that mean we are having guests over.
I push open my window. A cold breeze rushes in, and it smells like money—the sharply alcoholic perfume I hate with a passion. It blows into my room hand in hand with the thin, reedy sound of a flute playing something unbearably cheerful; and for a moment I can only stare at them. All the laughing bodies, the rich cloaks, the lavish jewelry, the glitter of wine glasses in candlelight, the sound of the world turning without me, and not only that, turning with joy.
My mouth tastes like acid. I lick my teeth. I ring the bell by my bedside, and almost instantly Hadja pokes her head in, her dark eyes wide and expectant.
“What—“
My voice cracks. It is far rougher than I’d realized, still hoarse from sleep. It is the voice of someone unprepared—a voice shameful for a princess. My cheeks flash-burn. Hadja lowers her eyes, and finally I clear my throat and croak: “What is this?”
“Prince Pilate is throwing a winter’s eve party,” Hadja says; and still she does not look me in the eyes. Her voice wavers when she asks, “Would you like me to do your hair?”
I plod downstairs resentfully. Pilate has strung our spiral staircases with boughs of thickly-leafed holly; out of the corner of my eye their bright-red berries look like poison. Though this part of the mansion is empty, I can hear a soft, rich violin suite bleeding in from the courtyard. And in the foyer he’s set up tall, skeletally bare white oak trees, their boughs swathed in silver tinsel and decorated with glass baubles, which he’s filled with snow enchanted never to melt.
I have to hand it to him. I hate these damn parties, but they never fail to impress me.
A servant passes me with a tray of shots. Without stopping him, I snatch two, not bothering to figure out exactly what they are, and down one right after the other. A sharp, bitter heat flashes down my throat and through my chest: I cough and shake my head violently, just for a second, until the feeling subsides. The servant doesn’t even notice. I wonder for a moment whether I should chastise him for being so distracted, and then realize I don’t care at all.
It seems most of the attendees are in the kitchen—which has been turned into a bar, I realize as I pass it, and is crowded from wall to wall—or the courtyard, where the band has picked up pace and guests have begun to dance.
But when I duck my head into our hall of statues, I realize the gallery must have been opened up too. It’s not nearly as crowded as the other rooms, but a few strangers still loiter there, admiring the sculptures and, to a lesser extent—my brother.
I slink toward him. The alcohol is already starting to make me feel fuzzy and warm, and a smile even flashes over my face, briefly, as I drawl: “I thought parties were for when things are going well.”
