A teacup slipped from my unsteady grasp, knocking against its neighbors with a quiet clink.
Lark minced over from where she’d been standing next to Gadfly, half hidden by the throne’s flowering branches. Her face was impassive as she sank into a deep curtsy in front of me. Then, to my surprise, she burst into tears.
“I’m—I’m s-sorry I turned you into a hare, Isobel,” she stuttered out between gasps. Huge, woeful droplets dripped down her cheeks and off her chin. She sniffled noisily. Disquieted, I wondered if she was imitating me, the only example of weeping she’d ever witnessed. It wasn’t a flattering impression. “I only—I only wanted someone to play with.”
Was Hellebore still laughing? Was Foxglove still watching me? Had anyone else noticed? I couldn’t risk looking. With an effort, I forced my attention to remain solely focused on Lark. Despite what she’d done, I really did feel sorry for her. “I forgive you, Lark.”
“Can we still be friends?” she wrung out piteously.
“Yes, of course we can.” I added for appearances’ sake, “But please don’t play any more tricks on me.”
“Oh, good!” Her messy tears vanished instantly, leaving no trace of wetness or splotchiness on her porcelain doll face. Because, of course, she hadn’t specifically said she was sorry because she had almost hurt me, or because she had frightened me. More likely she was only sorry for turning me into a hare because she’d been caught and punished for it.
“Come along, then,” she said. “The ball’s starting soon, and you need a costume. I already have one picked out. You’ll adore it. It’s—”
Someone slapped away the hand she’d reached out to me. At first I thought it was Rook. But instead Foxglove stood beside us, wearing her frigid, strangled smile. Lark’s expression went blank. She swiftly pulled her hand to her chest, but not before I spied a long, thin cut, like the swipe of an animal’s razor-sharp claw, fading from the backs of her knuckles.
“I think you’ve spent quite enough time with our dear Isobel. Don’t you agree, darling?” Foxglove’s smile thawed unconvincingly as she turned it on me. “Lark’s so young. She means well, but she isn’t the best company for a mortal girl. I, on the other hand, have dealt with humans many times. And I have an extensive wardrobe, filled with hundreds of dresses accumulated over a long, long lifetime.” Her eyes flicked back to Lark, relishing the fruits of her well-aimed blow. “Do come with me instead.”
My stomach churned at the thought of being alone with Foxglove. I’d have better chances locked in a room with a starving tiger. But what would she say if I denied her in front of the whole court?
“No.” Nettle stepped forward. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ve only just started visiting Whimsy, but everyone’s already talking about my enchantments.”
So fleetingly and savagely I almost missed it, Foxglove’s face contorted into a hideous frown.
More fair folk joined in. Soon I stood in the middle of a loud, grasping throng, over a score of immortal women vying for the privilege of lending me a mask and gown, like greedy children arguing over a toy they would sooner tear apart than share. I searched for Rook, but when I caught a glimpse of him between two fair folk’s bodies, he had already taken his leave and was halfway across the clearing. Gadfly walked beside him with a fatherly hand on his back, the other brandishing a cravat in the air.
We had arranged the ensorcellment for situations just like this one. I was immune to all fairy magic but Rook’s, and if anyone attempted to harm me physically, he would sense it. But faced with the claustrophobic press of so many people clawing at me at once, I couldn’t quell my rising panic with logic.
Why was this only happening now? Lark had laid claim to me without any competition whatsoever on my first day in court. I glanced toward her, only to find her missing. Unlike Rook, she was nowhere to be seen.
My breath caught in my throat. I did know the answer: Lark had shown weakness. Like predators, the fair folk had seen her stumble, and they had pounced. Now it was simply a matter of who would take her place.
High overhead, between the fair folk bending over me, a branch bounced as something landed in the canopy. I glimpsed a scrap of shiny black before the heads closed in again. Had that been a raven’s feathers, or just a flash of the blood-dark garnets studding Foxglove’s hair? I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear. And I wasn’t getting enough air—their feral animal perfume was suffocating. Light-headed, I tensed my muscles to charge through the mob, to escape the cramped onslaught of smell and noise and unwanted touch no matter the consequences.