Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 257

257 A Friend In Blackbirth

Arya’s POVO

I did not know how many gowns a woman could be expected to try before she lost the will to live, but by the time the fourth one went over my head, I was beginning to suspect the answer was a cruel number designed by rich people with too much time. It was absurd to be trying on gowns now for a

dinner that wasn’t even tonight.

The room looked like silk had exploded in it. Dresses in pale blue, deep wine, silver-grey, soft cream, and one ridiculous pink thing that looked like it belonged on a girl who giggled for sport. Shoes lined the carpet. Ribbons sat in little boxes. Gloves had been laid out with the kind of care one usually reserved for weapons or corpses. The maids moved around me with soft feet and lowered eyes, pinning, tugging, smoothing, stepping back, whispering to one another in careful tones that said they were trying not to offend me while also deciding what sort of woman Blackbirth wanted me to look

like.

That was the part that made my skin itch.

Not the dresses. Not the attention. Not even the fact that I had been standing still so long my back was beginning to complain. It was what all this meant.

Countess Vanessa Valemonte.

The title sat in my mind like something borrowed and dangerous. Something too fine to trust. I had been called many things in my life. Rogue. Luna. Stray. Problem. James’s mate. A woman men could underestimate and regret later. But Countess was something else. It was polished. It belonged to halls like this and houses like Blackbirth and women raised to sip tea with straight backs while deciding who should be ruined by supper. It did not belong to a woman who had spent years fighting for land with blood on her hands and dirt under her nails. It did not belong to me.

At least that was what I kept telling myself.

Ria did not agree.

You look good in power, she said, sounding smug under my skin. Better than you ever looked in pain.

I ignored her.

One of the older maids stepped back after adjusting the sleeve of the dark green dress currently

hanging on my body and pressed her fingers together with a thoughtful look. The gown fit better than

the others had. It held at the waist, fell clean over my hips, and made my skin look warmer instead of drained. The neckline was not too high and not low enough to look like I was begging for anyone’s

attention. It looked expensive without screaming. It looked calm. Dangerous. The kind of dress a

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woman wore when she did not need to beg a room to see her.

I liked it immediately, which of course made me suspicious of it.

“It suits you, my lady,” the maid said quietly.

I nearly corrected her.

→ Gut &

Not because I did not know that was how they spoke here. I knew. I had been in Blackbirth long enough now to understand the language of houses like this. My lady. My lord. Your Grace. Countess. Regent. Heir. Every word carried a chain of rank behind it. Still, part of me kept waiting for someone to laugh and say they had made a mistake. That they had draped me in silk for amusement. That at the end of it all I would still be the same woman people wanted to put in a corner until she stopped being

inconvenient.

I turned and looked at myself properly in the mirror.

The woman looking back at me did not look cornered.

That unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

My hair had been brushed until it spilled down my back in dark waves. My face was bare except for the faint tint one of the girls had tried to add to my lips before I stopped her from doing too much. My mark was visible above the gown, though faintly. I had noticed the maids glance at it when they thought I was not looking. Some with curiosity. Some with pity. Some with calculation. A mark like mine did not disappear because a woman changed houses. It remained. A wound and a fact. A reminder that men could ruin a life and the body would still carry his name for a while after the heart stopped wanting him.

I reached up and touched it lightly.

The old maid lowered her gaze at once, pretending not to notice.

Good.

Let them pretend.

A soft knock came at the door, followed by a burst of energy that did not wait for permission. The door opened before anyone answered, and a woman swept in like the room had been built to receive her. She was young, maybe a little younger than me, with bright eyes, dark hair pinned badly because she had likely done it in a hurry, and the sort of face that made it obvious she did not suffer fools quietly. She looked around once, took in the dresses, the shoes, the women, then landed on me and went still.

For one heartbeat she just stared.

Then she grinned.

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“Oh thank the moon,” she said, hand going to her chest dramatically. “You’re beautiful. He actually has taste.”

The maids froze.

I blinked.

The woman strode closer like we already knew each other. “I’m Tamara,” she said, almost breathless with excitement. “Lev’s cousin. Mother’s side. I have been dying to meet you, and I swear to the moon if he ended up with Mary I would have had to poison somebody.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

It came quick and real and surprised both of us.

Tamara pointed at me at once. “Yes. That. Keep that. I like you already.”

I should have been more cautious. I knew that. Women in places like this often came smiling and left with information. I had learned that lesson too many times and too painfully to forget it now. But Tamara did not feel like a smile with a knife behind it. She felt like trouble in a more honest form. Loud. Sharp. Warm. The kind of woman who would insult you to your face and defend you five minutes later if someone else tried it.

And maybe I was too tired of cold women with pretty manners.

Maybe I was too tired of trying to breathe around people like Diana and Mary and Rebecca, all of them polished and poisonous in their own ways.

Maybe I simply wanted one person in this place who did not look at me like I was an inconvenience Lev had chosen to make complicated.

Whatever the reason, I found myself smiling.

“I’m Arya,” I said.

Tamara snorted. “I know who you are.”

She came to stand beside me in front of the mirror and made a face at the pink dress lying on the chair. “Who picked that abomination?”

No one answered.

Tamara swung around to the maids and softened her tone only slightly. “No, tell me. I want names.”

One of the younger girls almost looked frightened.

I shook my head, fighting another smile. “Leave them alive. They’ve done nothing but torture me with

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fabric.”

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Tamara gasped like I had said something shocking. “Fabric torture is still torture.” Then she turned back to me and lowered her voice. “And for the record, that green one wins. It makes you look like you

could ruin a man without raising your voice.”

I stared at her.

Then I laughed again.

That did it.

Something easy settled between us so fast it felt strange, almost suspicious, but I knew real things when I felt them. Not all real things were soft. Some arrived bright and immediate and sat down like they had always belonged in your life. Tamara felt like that. Like the annoying cousin fate forgot to

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