“Understood?”
She nodded, her head dipping in something close to a bow.
He let go, then, just like that. No urgency, no care. She was just an afterthought, not even worth the tension in his grip.
“Good.” He dusted off his sleeve as his eyes slid past her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have far more important matters to attend to.” He was already walking away.
And then hewas gone.
Emmaline stood frozen in place, a sick, sinking weight pulling in her stomach, dragging her down, down, down. Slow, sinking humiliation soured in her stomach, clawing its way up her throat. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the fabric, the dress that, for one fleeting second, had almost made him see her.
She stared at the cold marble under her feet before finally sucking in a breath. Turning stiffly, she lifted her head high and squared her shoulders.
He hadn’t recognized her—that was all. The lighting in the corridor had been dim, her hair slightly out of place, her appearance not quite as refined as it should have been. Next time, she’d make sure everything was perfect. The right setting, the right moment.
He had looked at her. Noticed her dress. Smiled. That meant something. It had to.
Shewouldbe his intended. Shewouldmake him see her. And next time, when he looked at her, he wouldn’t look away.
And if he did?
No. No, she wouldn’t think about that. Because he wouldn’t. Because he was hers.
Chapter seven
“Well,it’sabitoutdated.” Margo pinched the dress sleeve between two fingers, turning it like a crime scene clue, waiting for it to confess its sins. “But…”
“Will it work?” Emmaline perched on an extravagant chair upholstered in deep sapphire velvet. The frame was gilded in delicate filigree, its curved arms shaped like woven vines.
She had come straight from Greymane Castle to Margo’s family estate, nestled deep within the Golden Boughs. It was where the Vale’s wealthiest families lived in towering homes carved into ancient silver-barked trees. The streets were quiet here, the bustle of the lower districts nothing but a distant hum.
Margo examined the embroidery circling the wrists of the gown—fine silver moons woven between dancing blooms. Then, with an appraising look, she lifted the fabric to her nose and inhaled.
“Is this truly spider silk?” Her brow arched. “No one has seen a fae spider since before the War. I thought they were all pulled to Hell when the Imps were defeated.”
“Yes.” Emmaline adjusted her posture, carefully arranging her limbs in the cushioned chair. She lifted a crystal goblet from the side table, taking a slow, measured sip of the expensive honeyedduskwine. It was richer than anything she could afford, the golden liquid clinging to her tongue, smooth and decadent. A Lady’s drink.
“My mother had two gowns made from the stuff,” she continued. “They were her pride and joy before… well, you know.”
Margo stilled. Her grip on the fabric softened, fingers tracing the moons once more. And when she finally looked up, she didn’t speak right away. The amusement had dulled, replaced by something warmer, something Emmaline usually tried to avoid.
“Oh, Ems.” Margo’s voice was softer now. “I’m sorry for the reminder.”
“It’s fine.” Emmaline set the glass down with a quiet clink. “Just tell me they were worth keeping instead of selling years ago. I could have gotten a much nicer apartment—closer to all of you—with that kind of money.”
Margo ran a fingertip along the delicate embroidery. “Yes, with a few alterations, you’ll look like any other Lady at the ball. Better, even. Very few will have the luxury of wearing something this rare.” She glanced around the room, pursing her lips.
Despite the grandeur of Margo’s estate, her chambers were anything but pristine. Expensive gowns draped haphazardly over the edges of chairs, silken scarves pooled on the floor where they’d been discarded, and stacks of books—many half-open—teetered precariously on every available surface.
“Of course, you’ll need the right shoes, accessories, and a proper hairstyle,” Margo continued, stepping over a pile of lace-trimmed chemises as if she hadn’t just tripped on them earlier. “I should have something…”
“I don’t know how you find anything in here.” Emmaline lifted a discarded velvet glove from a side table and tossed it onto a pile of flowery shawls. “For someone so put together in public, you’re even messier than me in your own space.”
Margo straightened, leveling her with a pointed stare. “A secret I trust you will take to your grave, Emmaline.” She held the look, eyes narrowed, the weight of noble-born menace behind them. But then, just as the tension stretched, she laughed. “Even Ursula is afraid to brave my mess.”
“She’d take on armies of assassins with a smile on her face and song in her heart.” Emmaline shook her head. “But she draws the line at your living quarters? That says something.”
“And look. You’re here! Completely at ease. You’re truly the bravest of us all,” Margo declared, flashing a bright smile before practically diving into the crumpled gowns and accessories near her enormous walk-in closet.
