As the two young men glared at each other, Nettle quickly smiled at Emeline. Only the smile was all wrong. It curled in a way that suggested she was something playing at being human. “Hawthorne was in love once too.” That smile turned into a slithering, snakelike thing. Lashing out to bite. “Weren’t you, Tithe Collector?”
A muscle jumped in Hawthorne’s jaw. He stared at the ceiling, like a wild creature suddenly realizing it was trapped in a cage.
The table went silent around them. Tension radiated off Hawthorne like steam as he gripped his glass tightly. To no one in particular, he said, “Excuse me.”
In one fluid motion, he rose from the bench, pushed away from the table, and left his empty cup behind. Emeline stared after him.
What the heck was that about?
Sable and Rooke exchanged glances.
“I’ll go,” said Rooke, a frown bending his mouth. Rising from the bench, he strode after the tithe collector weaving through the thickening mass of guests in the hall.
Nettle tutted sympathetically, watching them go. She leaned across the table towards Emeline. “They say it was a human who made him so horrible. Broke his heart right in half. He’s never been the same.”
“That’s enough.” Sable’s voice slashed the air like a knife, her golden eyes glowing brightly as she leaned in from her place by the fire. “Go spread your poison elsewhere, Nettle.”
The owlish courtier bristled. She looked ready to lash back when a shadow fell across the table. Sable glanced up, and whatever she saw made her soften like warm butter.
“Emeline?” said a feminine voice. “Emeline Lark?”
Emeline’s gaze shot upwards. Confusion clouded her mind at the familiar face looking down on her. For a moment, she didn’t understand who she was seeing.
And then: “Grace?”
Emeline rose to her feet.
Standing at the edge of the table was Grace Abel. The girl who’d left Edgewood two summers ago to study at Oxford.
Grace’s night-dark curls gleamed around her face and shoulders, luminous in the candlelight. Her hips were fuller and her nut-brown cheeks rosier than the last time Emeline had seen her. She wore a flowing silk shirt tucked into fitted cream trousers, and a simple iron ring adorned her finger.
What the hell are you doing here?said the look on Grace’s face.
The exact same question echoed through Emeline.
Stepping closer, Grace drew Emeline out and away from the table, then into a tight hug. She smelled like lavender. But her grip on Emeline was too tight, and her voice was a warning. “Come with me.Now.”
Before Emeline could react, Grace drew back. She smiled brightly at those still seated. Her voice was liquid sunlight with no hint of any secrets as she held her hand out to Emeline and said, “Care to dance?”
FIFTEEN
EMELINE BIT BACK Amultitude of questions and took Grace’s hand, leaving the table behind. Grace’s fingers tightened as she led them closer to the dancing.
“Stay away from Nettle,” she said sternly. “She’s a cat who likes to play with her prey before she kills it. She didn’t give you anything back there, did she? Like wine? Or whiskey?”
“No. Why?”
The air was much warmer here and the music beat loud, drowning out their voices. Grace slowed, leaning in closer so Emeline could hear her.
“It’s Nettle’s favorite game: she enchants her friends by spiking their drinks with spells. Last month she threw a party and everyone who attended fell in love with their worst enemy for a day.”
What?Emeline’s eyes widened. “She does that to herfriends?”
They entered the crowd of clapping, stomping dancers. Many of the faces around them were like Nettle’s: Features too askew to be precisely human. Eyes too big—or too small—for the faces they were set in. Smiles full of serrated teeth. Hair hiding tufted ears.
Grace didn’t stop walking. Just dodged and sidestepped the shiftling dancers, moving through the circle and out theother side. Taking Emeline with her as she strode towards the exit.
The hedgemen in their hammered bronze armor and helmets shaped like seed pods stared straight ahead as Emeline and Grace walked between them and out into the hall. When they were free of the ballroom, Grace let go of Emeline’s hand and kept walking.
