“Oh, don’t be like that.” Margo’s hands found hers, fingers threading tight before she tugged her forward, pulling them both into the tide of moving bodies. “Not tonight! Let’s just have some fun.”
The music throbbed through the floor, winding around the bones, thick and alive with the blend of too many cultures to name. The deep, resonant percussion was unmistakably troll-forged, layered with the eerie, lilting harmonies of faery string instruments, while beneath it all, a slinking, serpentine bassline pulsed like the heartbeat of the club itself.
Margo swayed where she stood, hands lifting to her ruby-colored hair as she tilted her head back, lost for a moment in the sheer, intoxicating sound. “Goddess, this beat! What is it?”
She was stunning. And not just in the way most noble ladies were—poised, elegant, distant—but in the way of a wildfire. Untamed, burning bright, heedless of the destruction left in its wake. Her cherry-stained gown clung to her curves, the slit riding high on her thigh while the delicate gold chains at her waist winked in the low light with every turn of her hips.
Emmaline couldn’t help but admire her, as she always did. If the noble houses had any sense, they’d be throwing their sons at her feet.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
“Just how much did you have to drink before coming tonight?” Emmaline laughed, letting the music drag her into motion beside her.
“Just enough to drown out Mother’s voice.” Margo grinned, throwing her arms around Emmaline’s shoulders as they swayed together. “She’s on another crusade to see me married.”
“Oh, Margo.” Emmaline frowned, pulling her friend into a tight hug, though Margo only sighed, resting her chin on Emmaline’s shoulder for a brief second before spinning away.
Lady Tremaine was nothing if not persistent. Every couple of years, without fail, she paraded her daughter through ballrooms and tea parties, arranging carefully orchestrated meetings with eligible young lords.
“Let me guess,” Emmaline said, slipping back into step beside her. “She started with the charming artists and philosophers before moving on to the scholars and war heroes?”
“Naturally,” Margo huffed, twirling beneath Emmaline's arm before taking her hands again. “And when none of them caught my interest, she moved on to the ones who were just there.”
“The ones with land.”
“The ones with titles,” Margo corrected with a knowing smirk. “Because clearly, I am in desperate need of a man to help me exist in society.”
They both laughed, but the tension beneath it was real.
Margo could have had her pick of noble sons—kind, smart, and breathtaking as she was—but that would require honesty. And honesty would ruin her. Marriage among the nobility still followed archaic traditions. Strength of lineage was paramount, and brides were tested to ensure powerful magic passed to their children. If Margo’s secret ever came to light, if anyone discovered she was null, her family would be disgraced.
Not even her parents knew.
Sometime between the War and the migration to the New World, her magic had faded. She had only told Emmaline, Ursula, and Cassidy, swearing them all to silence, begging them to help keep the truth buried.
“You know, I could always sue one of your suitors. Lord Greymane always likes a good suing,” Emmaline teased, bumping her hip against Margo’s. “Just to get them off your back.”
Margo laughed, rich and full, before looping an arm around Emmaline’s shoulders. “If you really wanted to help, you’d marry me yourself.”
“Tempting,” Emmaline mused. “But your mother would never approve.”
“And that,” Margo spun away, grabbing a passing glass of faery wine, “is why I drink.” She tipped her glass toward Emmaline. “I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves, not cry over unsolvable problems!”
Emmaline opened her mouth to respond, but Margo was already disappearing, lifting her glass in a wordless toast before throwing her a wicked grin. “Go find that man of yours! Or I might take him myself!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Emmaline darted after Margo, laughter spilling past her lips, though she already knew it was pointless. Her friend was quick, a flicker of red silk vanishing into the gyrating mass of bodies.
She’d see her again before going home—probably.
When the sun began its slow ascent, Margo would eventually resurface, makeup smudged, hair in disarray, some beautiful man,or woman, tugging at her sleeve, pressing one last lingering kiss to Margo’s skin before she disappeared into her carriage. She would shake off whatever weight she carried tonight the way she always did, by burying it under fleeting pleasure and whispered vows she never intended to keep.
Emmaline let her go, turning her attention elsewhere. To him.
She let the music pull her back into motion, swaying as she moved through the crowd, the soft rush of her skirt brushing against her legs with every step. The dancers closed around her, hands reaching, eyes hinting, but she barely noticed.
Her hand hesitated over her silver belt, the cool metal of her speak-easy pressing against her skin. She hadn’t given him her contact information. She knew that. And yet, she pulled it out anyway. The runes flickered as she flicked it open, scanning for a message she already knew wouldn’t be there. The screen was empty, dark, impassive.
She exhaled, snapping it shut, irritated at herself for even checking. What was she even expecting? That he’d somehow found a way to reach her? That she’d see his name glowing against the dark glass like a promise he never made?
