Six pairs of eyes pinion me to the jewel-crusted marble. This feeling I know well. My mouth goes dry as my pulse kicks up. Dragon’s teeth, I was a fool to come here tonight. What was I thinking?
“I never—” I begin, ready to push him off.
But Rose tilts her head at me, drawing her fan through her fingers like a blade. “I don’t recognize you.”
Damn it all. Stupid, foolish me.
“Isn’t that the point?” The beehive Grace laughs. “It’s a masque.”
Rose’s face twists. Even a grimace looks lovely on her. Her tiny nose twitches, as if she can scent the deception, and the vise of my bodice seems to cinch. “But I would still like to know the lady who has captivated our dear Arnley.” She combs a jagged-edged gaze up and down my body. “You appear to be a Grace, but I don’t know you. Are you newly Bloomed? How many came out at the last Blooming Ceremony?”
The other Grace counts off on her fingers. “Ten, perhaps? I’ve lost track.”
“Yes, and the Grace Celebration was months ago. Why haven’t we seen you before?”
“I—” The edges of the eyeholes in my mask begin to darken. I feel a strong arm wind itself around my waist.
“Don’t be jealous, Rose.” Arnley waggles a finger at her. “It’s unbecoming. You know how much I adore surprises. Let this one linger awhile longer.” And with a dashing grin at me, the courtier steers me away.
* * *
—
Dancing with Arnley is equal parts terror and euphoria. As he navigates our place among the couples on the dance floor, I try to argue that I’m a horrible dancer. I’m unpracticed. Dancing with me will only make him look the worse for choosing me. Almost as idiotic as I am for coming to the palace in the first place. But he’s deaf to my protests. And it turns out it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d swallowed one of my own lead-feet elixirs.
Though clearly touched by the wine, Arnley glides me over the marble as easily as a ship skating across a calm sea. I find myself completing spins and twirls, dips and hops. Heat bursts where his broad hands land on the cobweb lacing at the back of my gown. Other couples watch us through the slits in their masks. But he pays them no mind. His Grace-gifted eyes never leave mine, their sapphire color depthless in the light of the hundreds of candles.
“Is this your first time at the palace?” he asks as he pulls me close. Under the floral headiness of the wine on his breath, I catch the scents of leather and spiced tobacco, not entirely unpleasant. “Aside from your Blooming Ceremony, of course.”
“No.” I immediately wish I could reel it back. I’m sometimes called to assist the dying, using my elixirs to ease their pain and make their passing swift. My least favorite kind of errand. But I’ve never been to this part of the royal residence. Never been welcomed inside as a guest. Only as a necessary evil.
“Really?” His grip tightens at my waist, lightning darting between my ribs as he hoists me into the air. No one has touched me like this before. Not willingly. “And yet we’ve never met. How curious. But you are a Grace.” His gaze flits to the Grace powder Lorne caked in my hair. “Which is your house—or are you staying here, at the palace? But I suppose you can’t be one of the Royal Graces. I’d definitely know you.”
“No.” I curse myself for not having thought of a lie. “House—”
We whirl past the royal dais, where a new figure watches the festivities with ill-concealed disdain. His skin appears peeled from the trunk of an oak tree, riddled with currents of bronze. His hair is neatly tied at his nape, the coarse strands—presently boasting the summer colors of dewed green leaves and jewel-bright berries—change with the seasons. But his eyes are steady. Always the stark, molten gold of a Grace. Yet he is not a Grace.
Endlewild. The Etherian ambassador to the Briar Court.
The light Fae live long, practically immortal lives. Endlewild is only the second ambassador to reside in the realm since Leythana’s reign began. But though his placement here might be considered by many to be a luxury, it’s clear that the Fae lord views his tenure a prison sentence. He’s dressed in Briar court fashion, but the sigil of the High Court of the Etheria—laurel leaves twined together around an iridescent orb—is embroidered on his doublet. And he stares down at the party guests as if they’re clusters of rodents. His spindly fingers curl around his staff, a rough-cut, unpolished birch branch. An orb like the one stitched in the High Court’s emblem pulses at the top, swirling with his magic. With hardly a word from Endlewild, that staff could erupt with power. Smash me to bits.