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Shame heats my cheeks. I try to shrink away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight. “She was an excellent Reaper who taught you well. Which is why I know you’ll survive the exhibition. We need to go.”
He extricates himself from my embrace and opens the door. When I look affronted at his cold demeanor, he quickly closes it and says, “It’s not personal, Willow. But your face makes you a Nothing—a Nightmare. It’s better if we don’t appear as allies for now. I’ll find you after the pageant. You trust me, don’t you?”
Whether there’s anything of the young man I used to know, I can’t tell anymore. We used to play games under the tables in the grand dining hall. We used to dig up worms in the garden. He valiantly came to my rescue whenever humanity made fun of my ears. He stole away with me to the bunker, where we became lost in the memorabilia, especially the ancient pirate lore. We even started a secret explorer’s club and vowed that one day, we’d break out of our tower prison, sail the seven seas, and claim all the treasure.
But that Alfie is gone.
At my hesitation, he tugs my braid. “I have a good chance of being sponsored this year. When I do, I’ll have an in with one of the Radiants. But if they see me colluding with a Nightmare, we’re both screwed.”
It hurts that he keeps calling me that. “That makes sense.”
“Come on,” he croons. “What did we always say in the Gilded Buccaneers?”
He remembers—my heart flutters.
“For the Gold,” I whisper.
A smirk touches his lips, and I am again struck by how handsome he’s become. He grips my hand, then prompts me to finish our secret handshake with a back-handed slap and a tweak of our pinky fingers. He returns my whisper with a glint in his eye, “For the Gold.”
I laugh. It’s stupid. We’re both adults, but those three childish words make me feel less alone. I hang back when he enters the hall to give him space. He’s probably right. I just arrived in Avorlorna. I know nothing about how this civilization works or why the Well flows differently for them. I’m bound to fuck things up eventually. Pressing my hand against Tinger’s pendant, I push into the room.
His strong, determined steps cut a line through the room like a shark. His magnetic command me with pride. He grins easilyat a table of Chasers, clapping a few on their backs, tinkling their charms. Some glance at me curiously. Others with scorn when they take in my face. Alfie says something that makes them laugh, and a traitorous urge to retreat washes through me.
I’m sure he wasn’t talking about me. He wouldn’t do that.
Peggy and Bob are gone. Half the room has cleared out. Everyone left in the hall wears silver chains and charms. They’re my real competition. I’ll ask more questions about this exhibition when I see Alfie again tonight.
As I walk through the room, I notice alliances are already formed.
I’m reminded this is a return attempt for Alfie. No wonder he has friends. Bonds would strengthen during the war in warmer months. That kind of friendship is like steel.
My palm hits the wooden exit door, and it swings open. A chilly breeze bathes me with the smell of pine and ice. I follow other exhibitors down a winding pathway leading deeper into the woods. The music starts softly at first—a rhythmic beating of drums, delicate lyrical bells, then the hollow haunt of a flute.
After a few minutes, we arrive at a large, round stone structure built into more tall, dense trees. This must be the fort. It’s multiple stories high and curves away until it disappears into the mist and shadows of the surrounding forest. Arched windows repeat irregularly around the curved wall. The music and revelry are inside. It’s impossible to distinguish individual voices. My goodness, how big is the gathering crowd?
When I enter the building through a large open arch, I’m yanked to the side of the hallway by a dainty hand.
“I feared you’d vanished like a pooka in the night,” Peablossom admonishes.
Somehow, she managed a complete outfit change. Her powder-blue hair is now coiffed into a French knot featuring strings of pearls and artfully twisted holly.
Her dress is tailored and serious. No gauzy fabric or tinkling charms. The gray-and-black brocade is thick, with holly leaves embroidered on the sleeves and hem. She’s the epitome of class.
Except for that one painted eyebrow.
She flicks lint from my shoulders. Her brows pucker, and she lifts the too-big sleeves from my shoulders and drops them with disdain. “This is not the size I gave you, my sweet.”
“I—”
“Tut-tut.” She smooshes a finger to my lips. “Mortals wrap themselves in excuses as if donning armor against consequence. Such armor only exists in dreams, does it not?”
She gives me a warning look, then lowers her finger.
“It won’t happen again,” I apologize.
“Finally. Some sense. At the very least, your tresses are arranged with some semblance of grace. Your ears will confuse the gentry, but nothing can be done for that.” She casts a nervous glance over her shoulder. “As long as you’re here and clothed in appropriate attire, my amendments are finished. Puck cannot complain I’ve failed my duty.”
