Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

I’m not sure how long I watch the snow, but my feet twinge, as if I’ve been standing for a long time. A movement reflected in the glass has me turning around, finding Polly walking over to the door and opening it. She’s talking to a guard, but I don’t comprehend the words.

Instead, my attention snags onto her blond tresses piled atop her head with a strip of gold silk. Something taps against my fuzzy mind as I stare at her tied bow, at the end of the strand that dangles down the side of her neck.

For reasons lost on me, I feel my hand lift, feel myself reaching behind me.

My fingers bump against the fabric of my closed-back dress, but something seems off. Instead of layers of ribbons beneath, there’s just pain.

A frown splits between my brows, drawing a line of confusion. Something is wrong. Something is missing.

But it’s like trying to catch the seeds of a dandelion in the wind. Every time I get closer to the blowing puff, it twirls just out of my reach.

I blink, and Polly is suddenly in front of me. Her cheeks are dusted with rouge that matches the red bloodshot of her lined eyes, while the gray daylight casts a gloom against her beauty. “Time to go to the ball,” she says, motioning me forward.

The frown doesn’t leave my face, but I take a step forward, and before I know it, I’m following her out and gliding down the hall.

Blinks and steps.

Steps and blinks.

Something is wrong.

Something is missing.

I stumble on the stairs, my gloved hand gripping the railing to catch myself. Polly whirls, though she doesn’t look at me. “Don’t touch her,” she hisses—at the guards I think, though I’m too dazed to look.

“Something’s wrong,” I mumble, and for a second, memory zings.

Have I said that before?

Polly glances back at me and scoffs with contempt. “You don’t deserve dew. It’s wasted on you.”

Dew?

When she turns to walk again, I’m distracted by that dangling ribbon once more as it sways from her hair.

Ribbon...

A hand plucks a stem. A mouth blows dandelion seeds.

“Up here, miss.”

Polly gathers her skirts in her hands, and then we’re walking up again, on a different set of stairs this time. Passing through the narrow door, I immediately squint at the barrage I’m hit with.

Music amidst a backdrop of hundreds of voices. The warmth of bodies, of candlelight dripping from the icicle chandeliers gilt with gold. I step forward, realizing that I’m standing atop the mezzanine of the ballroom, the small indoor balcony overlooking the space below.

“You’re supposed to sit in this chair over here and wait,” Polly tells me, but her voice goes in one ear and out the other. My senses are caught up in the sway of bodies dancing below, the instruments thickening the air with its melody, perfumes lilting alongside. Yet I’m searching, looking through the crowd before I even can grasp who I’m looking for.

When my search is fruitless, my attention snags at the long drapes of golden tapestry hanging from behind the dais where four throne-like chairs have been brought in.

I stare at the huge strips of fabric, remembering...remembering...

My fist closes at my side, clutching a clump of those slippery dandelion memories.

This time when my hand goes behind me, my fingers feel along my spine.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s missing.