I force myself to look away.
The king drones on, but his words are warped and run together. Something about the excitement of the curse breaking and the new royal family soon to be. And then there is another crack on the marble floor, loud enough to jar my attention back to the present.
“Prince Elias of Ryna.”
Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same colors I saw flapping on his standards—navy and bronze—is the star-chosen prince. The room is quiet enough that I can hear every thump of his boots like a hammer against my breastbone. He is handsome. Several nearby courtiers comment on his brushed copper skin and strong jaw. And he does not have the cruel look of the Briar King. The corners of Elias’s lips turn up in a soft smile. His brown eyes are kind. He stops two steps below where Aurora waits and sweeps into a low, effortless bow. Waits until she offers her hand before he takes it.
When their fingers meet, recognition eddies between them. This is not some stranger Aurora’s parents flung at her head. She knows this man. Anticipated his arrival.
And she is radiant.
Light glows from beneath her skin, more than any Grace could have gifted her. Her expression filled with something that makes the floor tip beneath my slippers—hope. She wants this, I realize miserably. Wants his kiss to break the curse. One by one, every moment we shared together wilts. Every promise she made crumbles to ash.
The room holds its breath as Prince Elias rises to Aurora’s level and asks her permission to kiss her. She agrees—blushes, damn it all—and then he bends. Closer and closer, driving knives into my belly with each inch. Aurora’s eyes close. Her chin lifts. And then the prince brushes a chaste kiss on her parted lips.
Nothing happens.
Tarkin’s mustache jumps. He whispers something to the queen, who inserts herself between the couple and jerks Aurora’s sleeve up her forearm.
Mariel’s jaw sets. She shakes her head.
A chorus of disappointment begins to swell, the court launching into motion once again. Aurora’s expression slackens. And though I should feel some measure of satisfaction in the way she blinks away tears, in the defeated slump of her shoulders, all I feel is pain. I want to go to her. Comfort her. And I hate myself for it.
What happens next is a blur. The king calls for order, trying to piece together a half-baked speech about hope and perseverance. The apparently not-so-star-chosen Prince Elias offers another bow and leaves, Aurora close behind him.
Is she chasing him? Consoling him?
I am quick on her heels, dodging clusters of courtiers and harried servants. Ducking under arms and narrowly missing dancers. I catch a glimpse of Rose, gossiping madly with some other Graces. Laurel, who takes a second look at me as I fly past.
The door behind the dais slams shut as Aurora’s plum train swishes into darkness. And the two men guarding it, each of whom boast tree trunks for arms, don’t look particularly inclined to let me through.
Summoning my courage, I veer around a pair of women who seem much more concerned about the taste of each other’s necks than what happened with the princess, and huddle behind an opal-veined pedestal. A huge, heavy vase rests on top. Peonies and roses and dahlias overflow from the rim, petals brightening and dimming in every imaginable hue as the seconds tick by. What I need is a distraction.
I press my palms into the stone and send my power to search for the magic there. I think I find it, but the pedestal’s drowsy heart is buried too deeply for me to command properly. And so I venture elsewhere, seeking instead the slippery current of magic in the water in the vase. That is simple to manipulate. It swells under my power, almost willing as I tighten my darkness around it and push through my command. The water churns. Steam rises from the lip of the vase, porcelain groaning as it heats. There’s a rumbling gurgle. A scalding droplet leaps out and sizzles on the cold marble. A fissure races up from the rounded base of the vase. The colossal thing wobbles. Moans.
And then bursts in a deafening explosion of glass and porcelain. An answering scream ricochets around the chamber as shards of vase and blistering water find gowns and exposed skin. The guards scatter toward the conflicting cries, swords drawn.
And in the commotion, for the first time and fueled by my overwhelming need, I Shift myself to complete invisibility and slip into the torch-lit corridor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My feet are too slow.
Sweat tracks through the Grace powder on my face and neck with the effort of maintaining my Shift. My muscles are stretched tight enough to tear. One advantage the corridor affords me is its uniform walls, far easier to project onto my body than a more complicated landscape. Even so, a few times, a green-veined hand pops into view. The flutter of a gold-embroidered hem. I will not be able to hold the illusion long.