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I turn and realize the blonde’s not speaking to me but to a man beside her.
“Lies,” he replies, keeping his face forward. “They’re always here. Somewhere. At least for the pageant.”
“I also heard they don’t sponsor a protégé because their dragon is dead.”
“Who knows? I’m still convinced this is all a dream, and I’ll wake up in my Soho apartment covered in biscuits. God, I miss the jam my aunt made.”
“Shh,” someone ahead hisses.
I return to studying the aristocracy, particularly Goodfellow, as he presides over this event from the queen’s royal loge. But instead of his strange, eyebrowless face, I’m drawn to another’s beside him. His beauty is a masterpiece of contradiction. Cruel, handsome lines mix with lush features. Devilish yet angelic. Short, white hair offsets his black, angular brows. His porcelain skin appears carved from marble, yet his rosy, wide lips look soft.Emrys. A jolt of recognition slices through me.
His portrait sketch is an accurate representation. Fiery menace bleeds from his pores, infecting his black coat with an edge of danger. The mandarin collar is cut extra sharp, and the military tailoring is harsh against his athletic physique. It’s hard to see his tattoos behind all that pretty fabric and gloves, but they must be there. Apart from his lips and eyes, the only other color daring to touch him is the blue glowing Guardian teardrop beneath his left eye.
He’s staring at me. Wait. Does he recognize me?
I briefly touch my face. The knotted scars and knobby bulges are still there.
He lends an ear to Goodfellow, who also looks at me. This can’t be good. I thought Emrys was menacing, but the seething disgust in Goodfellow’s gaze makes my hand drop to my dagger.
My fingers graze my beltless hip. I left my dagger in Alfie’s room.Fuck.His warning comes back to me—don’t look them in the eyes. Heart racing, I quickly glance down and count to three.
The gathering crowd is becoming impatient. Their conversations grow louder, eclipsing the music. The higher up the tiers, the less adorned and more wild looking. I’m sure some smaller faeries are playing a ball game with what might be another faerie as the ball. Green-cloaked guards bark orders to ensure everyone behaves.
Casting a glance over my shoulder, I search for Alfie. His ginger hair is a flag I immediately lock onto. He sends me a reproachful glare, then faces to the front of the procession.
Pay attention. Don’t mess up. Do something useful with yourself.
But my heart pounds horridly in my chest. Sweat prickles under my arms. My face burns as though someone is staring at me, cataloging every ugly mistake I make.
What am I doing here?
I should be home, in my room, organizing a funeral for Tinger.
I place my palm over the pendant’s bulk beneath my shirt. The action grounds me, calms my heart, and centers my soul. Like me, he was a victim of High Fae whims. He was overlooked, unheard, and misjudged. But he was loved, and he loved in return. He was brave, he fought, he sacrificed.
He was the spider.
I refuse to spend the brief days of my new mortal life waiting to be taken seriously, only to have it cut short through someone else’s mistake. My throat closes as guilt threatens to suffocate me, but I use my anger to push it back down.
Steeling my spine, I glance at the Court of Dreams loge, but Emrys is gone, and Goodfellow now speaks with a female dressed like Peablossom but with powder-pink hair.
“This is taking forever,” the woman beside me whines.
Her companion replies, “Be grateful the march isn’t through the city. I heard they did that one year.”
She groans. “Fuck me.”
“Stop cussing. You’ll get us in trouble,” another complains from the front of our unit.
A whiff of tobacco, absinthe, and something heady filters in on a breeze. The woman beside me freezes, her eyes widening atsomething over my shoulder. She curtseys and drops her gaze to the ground. “Knight Inquisitor, please forgive me.”
Chapter
Ten
WILLOW
“You will address your sovereigns with groveling respect.” A smokey male voice drips with disdain. “Or forfeit the tongue that sputtered offense.”
