Evangeline’s mouth screwed into a frown. She didn’t disagree, but she also couldn’t understand why a Fate would give her this warning.
“I’ll never comprehend humans.” Poison sighed. “All of you seem to welcome our lies, but you never like it when we tell the truth.”
“Maybe it’s difficult to believe a Fate would want to help a human out of the goodness of their heart?”
“What if I told you I’m being self-serving?” Poison took a sip from his goblet. “Valenda is my home. I’d rather not be forced to flee to the North for misbehaving like the others—I don’t like what the magic there does to my abilities, and it’s too cold. So I’m trying to be helpful to the crown. Now go on, there are others waiting in the great room to see you.”
Poison turned her toward a set of spiral stairs, where Evangeline got a whiff of one of the most delicious scents: pink sugarbelle cake.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t realized how famished she was.
After thanking Poison, she climbed the steps.
Within seconds, the air grew even sweeter, and the world turned bright in a way that made her feel as if her life before now had been dull. The great room appeared to be made of glimmer and light; golden chandeliers shaped like crowns reigned over gilded tables, harps, and grand pianos with golden keys. Yet it was the sight of all the people that made her forget how to breathe.
So many people. All clapping and smiling and grinning at her.
Evangeline was friendly with many from her father’s curiosity shop, and it seemed as if every one of them was there to welcome her back. It was touching and warming, but also a little odd that so many people were present.
“Hello, lovely!” called Ms. Mallory, who collected maps of fictional places. “I have so much to tell you about my grandson.”
“I can’t wait to hear,” Evangeline replied before accepting a handshake from a gentleman who always ordered obscure foreign cookbooks.
“I’m so proud of you!” called Lady Vane, who favored pots of disappearing ink.
After weeks of endless nothing, Evangeline was cocooned in hugs and kisses on cheeks. And yet her heart dipped as she failed to find Luc among the crowd.
Her stepsister stood somewhat to the side, and Luc wasn’t with her either. But Evangeline didn’t feel the relief that she would have expected at not finding them together. Did he not know about this gathering? Or was there another reason Luc had chosen not to attend?
Marisol’s expression was difficult to read. She was wobbling on her feet and trying to keep a fly from landing on the sparkling pink sugarbelle cake in her hands. But as soon as Marisol spied Evangeline, her grin widened until it was as bright as the beautiful cake.
Agnes disdained her daughter’s love of baking—she wanted great things for Marisol and said that cooking was too common a hobby—but Evangeline wondered if she’d let Marisol make this treat for today. There were four tiers of fluffy pink cake, alternate layers of sugarbelle cream, a frosting bow, and an oversize shortbread gift tag that read: Welcome back, sister!
Guilt, thick and heavy, mingled with Evangeline’s unease. She would never have expected such a gesture from her stepsister, and she certainly didn’t deserve it.
“Oh, there’s my precious, lovely girl!” Agnes approached and threw both arms around Evangeline. “We were all desperately worried. It was such a relief to hear there was someone who could fix you.” Agnes squeezed Evangeline tighter and whispered, “So many suitors have been inquiring about you. Now that you’re back, I’ll arrange for the richest ones to visit.”
Evangeline wasn’t sure how to respond—to what Agnes had just said or to this version of her stepmother who believed in hugging. Even when Agnes had first married Evangeline’s father, she’d never embraced Evangeline. Agnes had married Maximilian for the same reason he’d married her—to make sure her daughter was provided for. Maximilian Fox had not been rich—his business ventures failed nearly as often as they succeeded—but he was a respectable match for a widow with a daughter.
Agnes released Evangeline from the embrace, only to turn her toward a gentleman that Evangeline hoped was not a suitor.
He wore a flowing white silk shirt with a lacy jabot that cascaded down to a pair of black leather pants so tight she was surprised he could move.
“Evangeline,” said Agnes, “this is Mr. Kutlass Knightlinger of The Whisper Gazette.”
“You write for those scandal sheets?”