But if this king posed a danger to her, Hawthorne didn’t have a choice. He had to go.
“YOUR NAME ISN’T ONthe list.”
Hawthorne stepped aside so other guests—those whose nameswereon the list—could enter the ballroom’s doors. Ivy climbed up the walls, creating an arch over the entranceway.
“But I have an invitation. See?”
He held out the envelope for the Wood King’s assistant to take.
The young woman didn’t even look at it. Only tapped the long scroll in her hand.
“You need to be on thelist.”
“Yes, and I would be if I’d—”
One of the hedgemen guarding the doors—a burly man whose helmet shadowed his eyes—tapped his spear against the floor in warning.
“… if I’d RSVP’d.”
The assistant rose to her full height. Her birchbark dress rustled with the movement. “Listen, sir: this is the last time I’ll address you. You’re not on the list, so I can’t let you in. If you don’t leave, you’ll be—”
“He’s with me,” said a voice.
They both turned to find a slender shiftling dressed in agown of owl feathers standing behind him. Her amber eyes were enormous, and her wrists were ringed in bands of gold.
She smiled eerily up at them.
Do I know you?he wanted to ask, but didn’t dare. If this was his only chance to get in, he wouldn’t sabotage it with questions that gave him away.
“He’s my escort for the evening,” said the shiftling, who was nearly two heads shorter than Hawthorne. “Right, dear?”
He looked to the assistant, praying this worked. “Yes, that’s right.”
“If you look, you’ll see I have a plus-one beside my name.”
The young woman narrowed her eyes and glanced down at her scroll. Whatever she found there seemed to confirm the shiftling’s statement. Annoyed, she waved them both in.
Hawthorne let out a relieved breath as he followed the owlish young woman into the busy ballroom, where she made a straight line for the bar. While she ordered drinks, he scanned the guests.
“Let me buy those,” said Hawthorne as his gaze sought one person in particular. It was after dark, and the only light came from the candles burning in sconces along the walls. The dimness gave the event an air of intimacy but made it difficult to see faces. “It’s the least I can do to repay you.”
“Nonsense.” The shiftling turned away from the bar, a glass of whiskey in both hands, and gave him one. “I’m happy to help.”
Hawthorne didn’t want to be rude, so he took the whiskey and drank it.
As it burned down his throat, the shiftling grinned that eerie grin, and for a moment, Hawthorne felt light-headed—and a little sick. The drink was somehow too spicy and too sweet, making him wonder if it was even whiskey at all.
“Good luck.” She winked before disappearing into the crowd of guests.
Which was when he realized he hadn’t asked her name.
Setting the empty glass on the bar, Hawthorne put the shiftling out of his mind and returned to searching the room.
He sensed Emeline before he saw her. Like a fire in the darkness.
She stood on the other side of the ballroom. Dressed in silver. Black hair pinned up in an elegant bun.
As usual, the sight of her sent a whirlwind of feelings swirling through him: he wanted to go to her but didn’t know why. He needed to stay away from her, because of what he’d done.
