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“Think what?” he asks. From the way his brows are knitted, I can see he genuinely doesn’t have a clue. “What’s the point of clothing if not to display yourself in the best possible way? Surely you can’t tell me you prefer that sack you’re wearing to this? Ruskin’s illusions on that thing won’t last forever. I think it’s very kind of him to offer you a replacement.”
So, Ruskin chose this dress for me? My cheeks heat at the thought of him wanting me in it, of having his eyes pass over my nearly bare skin with that probing stare of his.
“Even if I did like the dress, I’m not going to the ball.”
“Don’t be silly,” Destan scoffs. “Of course you’re going.”
I shake my head. “Ruskin’s only invited me because he feels bad about me nearly dying yesterday, or he wants to keep an eye on me or something.” I didn’t know exactly what his ulterior motive was, but I knew there had to be one.
Halima finishes sharpening her sword and puts it away.
“Dawnsong won’t be there,” she says, her tone giving away nothing.
This surprises me. “Why not?”
Destan and Halima exchange another one of their cryptic looks, the ones that drive me nuts.
“Stop looking at each other like that and tell me!”
“He doesn’t do so well at the harvest moon. It makes him…antsy,” says Destan.
“You mean impulsive,” Halima corrects him.
I step back, taking in this information.
“Then why would he want me at the ball?” I ask.
Halima shrugs, her armor clanking with the movement. “Dawnsong works in mysterious ways. He doesn’t explain himself—not even to us.”
“Maybe he thinks you’d enjoy it,” Destan offers, a hopeful look on his face.
“Yeah, like I enjoyed the last fae party I attended?”
I turn my back on them and the dress.
Ruskin is playing games with me, I’m sure of it, but I’m not here to entertain him. In fact, I’m bent on being just about the only thing in his life that doesn’t automatically fall in line when he crooks his finger.
Everyone has always given him what he wanted. That’s the only explanation I can find for how someone with so much power can abuse it so blatantly and with so little remorse. He’s so used to people looking out for him, it’s never occurred to him to do the same for others. How else could he justify making his deals? Or allowing a world where Fiona is punished by her mistress for the slightest infraction, and I’m chased through the forest like vermin? He could only sleep at night in the knowledge of all that if his privilege has driven all empathy from his body.
I look at the experiments in front of me, suddenly not in the mood to do anything that would please Ruskin, even if it would help me too.
“I’m going to take a break,” I say, pulling my apron off and throwing it down.
“Where are you going?” asks Halima. She’s obviously my shadow for the day and she falls in behind me as soon as I’m out of the workshop doors.
“I don’t know, somewhere I can actually be useful.”
To her credit, Halima seems to sense I’m not in the mood to have her right at my elbow, so she discreetly melts into the shadows as I stomp down the corridor. She’ll be nearby, I know. But despite her size she’s not always easy to spot and has a knack for blending in with plants and trees that envelop this place. I can see why she’s good at her job.
The palace servants are busy at work, decorating and preparing for the ball. I go to the dining hall, where I know some of the most intense preparation is taking place, and discover Kaline—the Low Fae who tends to my room—hanging large, delicate-looking orbs in some of the trees with the other servants. She introduces one with hair like coral as her brother, Falstir, and at my insistence they let me help hang the orbs. It turns out they’re fairy lights, dried globes of tightly woven spiders web, filled with fireflies.
“Wait until tonight,” Kaline promises with excitement. “They’ll wake up and it will be beautiful to see.”
When we’re done, I’m still itching to keep going—to make someone’s life easier that isn’t a ridiculously handsome fae with a penchant for cat eyes and claws. Remembering Fiona’s instructions from the court dinner, I decide to swing by the Sun Room in the north wing.
I’m a few yards from the entrance—a golden arch with a bright, many-rayed sun carved above it—when I hear the screams.
“I want the silks,” a familiar voice snarls. There’s a whistle of air, followed by a cracking noise and another cry. “How stupid does a servant have to be to forget that!?”
