Read Online Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches by Barb Hendee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barb Hendee
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agreed to take their mother’s surname.
* * *
Just past sunset, Céline and Amelie walked into the great dining hall—after stopping twice to ask for directions.
Céline was feeling much more alert after having eaten and then slept for most of the afternoon, but she did not quite feel herself. From the moment Inna had delivered those gowns, Céline knew she was going to try on the one of rich amber and then look at herself in the full-length mirror. So she had.
She was still wearing the gown.
The square neckline was cut just above the tops of her breasts, with a point at each shoulder. The sleeves were narrow, and the slender waistline fit her perfectly. The skirt was full, draping about her in yards of fabric, and the color reflected just a hint of gold. It suited her dark blond hair, making the lighter tones glint under the braziers on the walls. She’d worn her hair loose, with its waves falling down her back.
She knew she had a part to play tonight, and somehow, this gown made her feel more like a seer who’d been hired by the likes of Prince Anton.
Amelie was still dressed her breeches, shirt, and canvas jacket. She wore her dagger but had thankfully left her short sword in their room. However, her breeches and jacket were dusty and covered in horsehair from a long night’s ride.
“By the gods,” Amelie whispered, looking around.
There were at least a hundred well-dressed people in the dining hall, perhaps more, milling around and visiting with one another with goblets in their hands.
Servants were preparing five long tables while the guests ignored their labors. At the top of the hall, near a dais, stood Prince Anton, surrounded by an assorted entourage. Jaromir and Pavel were just to his right, both having traded their chain armor and tabards for more comfortable-lookingtunics. Jaromir’s aging wolfhound, Lizzie, kept close to his leg.
Directly to Anton’s left was a beautiful woman in her late twenties with ivory skin and chestnut hair piled high on her head. She wore a gown of light green satin that matched her eyes, and there was something vaguely familiar about her.
Next to her stood a slender man with a long, thin mustache, wearing a black silk tunic that would probably cost a peasant’s yearly income.
“Oh, there’s that woman,” Amelie groaned quietly, and right away, Céline knew who she meant.
Inna, in her gray wool dress, hovered behind Anton with an eager, anxious expression, appearing for all practical purposes like a dog waiting for an order from its master, but she was still distinguished as neither a servant nor a lady of the castle.
A brief moment of panic coursed through Céline. Who were all these people? If she was to play a convincing seer here, she needed to know with whom she was dealing.
However, all of this noticing and pondering took place in the few moments when she and Amelie walked into the great dining hall, and then Prince Anton’s eyes locked on Céline, drinking in the sight of her gown and moving up to her face and hair.
She fully expected him to look away after a second or two—out of sheer good manners—but he didn’t.
Perhaps, for all his apparent breeding, no onehad taught him not to stare. With little idea what to do, she led the way toward him, with Amelie close behind.
They made their way easily through the throngs of guests, and on impulse, Céline made a small bow when they reached Anton. He looked even paler tonight than he had that morning, and the circles under his eyes held a hint of purple. She wondered if he wasn’t well.
“My lord,” she said.
He was still staring.
Thankfully, or perhaps not, Jaromir broke the moment with a single laugh as he turned to Amelie. “Seven hells,” he said, looking at her dusty, horsehair-covered attire. “Couldn’t Inna at least have found some boy with a set of clean clothes to loan you?”
Amelie’s mouth tightened and her fist clenched, sending Céline into a state of
* * *
Just past sunset, Céline and Amelie walked into the great dining hall—after stopping twice to ask for directions.
Céline was feeling much more alert after having eaten and then slept for most of the afternoon, but she did not quite feel herself. From the moment Inna had delivered those gowns, Céline knew she was going to try on the one of rich amber and then look at herself in the full-length mirror. So she had.
She was still wearing the gown.
The square neckline was cut just above the tops of her breasts, with a point at each shoulder. The sleeves were narrow, and the slender waistline fit her perfectly. The skirt was full, draping about her in yards of fabric, and the color reflected just a hint of gold. It suited her dark blond hair, making the lighter tones glint under the braziers on the walls. She’d worn her hair loose, with its waves falling down her back.
She knew she had a part to play tonight, and somehow, this gown made her feel more like a seer who’d been hired by the likes of Prince Anton.
Amelie was still dressed her breeches, shirt, and canvas jacket. She wore her dagger but had thankfully left her short sword in their room. However, her breeches and jacket were dusty and covered in horsehair from a long night’s ride.
“By the gods,” Amelie whispered, looking around.
There were at least a hundred well-dressed people in the dining hall, perhaps more, milling around and visiting with one another with goblets in their hands.
Servants were preparing five long tables while the guests ignored their labors. At the top of the hall, near a dais, stood Prince Anton, surrounded by an assorted entourage. Jaromir and Pavel were just to his right, both having traded their chain armor and tabards for more comfortable-lookingtunics. Jaromir’s aging wolfhound, Lizzie, kept close to his leg.
Directly to Anton’s left was a beautiful woman in her late twenties with ivory skin and chestnut hair piled high on her head. She wore a gown of light green satin that matched her eyes, and there was something vaguely familiar about her.
Next to her stood a slender man with a long, thin mustache, wearing a black silk tunic that would probably cost a peasant’s yearly income.
“Oh, there’s that woman,” Amelie groaned quietly, and right away, Céline knew who she meant.
Inna, in her gray wool dress, hovered behind Anton with an eager, anxious expression, appearing for all practical purposes like a dog waiting for an order from its master, but she was still distinguished as neither a servant nor a lady of the castle.
A brief moment of panic coursed through Céline. Who were all these people? If she was to play a convincing seer here, she needed to know with whom she was dealing.
However, all of this noticing and pondering took place in the few moments when she and Amelie walked into the great dining hall, and then Prince Anton’s eyes locked on Céline, drinking in the sight of her gown and moving up to her face and hair.
She fully expected him to look away after a second or two—out of sheer good manners—but he didn’t.
Perhaps, for all his apparent breeding, no onehad taught him not to stare. With little idea what to do, she led the way toward him, with Amelie close behind.
They made their way easily through the throngs of guests, and on impulse, Céline made a small bow when they reached Anton. He looked even paler tonight than he had that morning, and the circles under his eyes held a hint of purple. She wondered if he wasn’t well.
“My lord,” she said.
He was still staring.
Thankfully, or perhaps not, Jaromir broke the moment with a single laugh as he turned to Amelie. “Seven hells,” he said, looking at her dusty, horsehair-covered attire. “Couldn’t Inna at least have found some boy with a set of clean clothes to loan you?”
Amelie’s mouth tightened and her fist clenched, sending Céline into a state of
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