“Faery farts!” The whisper-shriek cracked through the speak-easy.
“It’s fine,” Ursula said, more to herself than anyone else, dragging her fingers down her face. “He’ll never notice. First sip will drop him. It’s fine.”
Margo scurried back to her chair, smoothing her skirts just as Caelith stepped back into the room.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he said, voice dripping with the practiced charm of a man used to apologizing without ever meaning it. “But you’ll have to wait until dessert. Deyric will return with berries before you leave for the night—enough to take some home, too, as a gift from Greymane’s finest fields.”
“That’s far too generous, my Lord.” Margo dipped her chin. “But a most thoughtful gesture. You honor me.”
Caelith reached for his glass.
“Here we go.” Emmaline leaned in. Aeren’s hand found hers, while Ursula’s palm settled firm over Emmaline’s other hand, a silent chain linking them all together.
On the projection, Margo’s fingers flattened against the tablecloth, every muscle in her hand rigid despite the calm Emmaline knew would be painted across her face.
“This is…” Caelith lifted the glass, rolling the stem between his fingers as he brought the wine beneath his nose. “Ah. Le Sang des Étoiles. It is impossible to acquire outside the vaults of the oldest houses.” He drew in a slow breath like it held secrets only he could unlock, then his mouth pursed—just slightly—but the shift was enough to set Emmaline’s pulse hammering.
“Shite,” she whispered. “He knows.”
“Calm the fuck down.” Ursula swatted the back of her head hard enough to make her blink.
“Another thoughtful gesture, my Lord.” Margo’s voice floated through the projection, soft and sweet, her glass rising gracefully in front of the necklace. “Shall we toast?”
Caelith’s smile held, but something behind his expression sharpened, a tiny tightening at the corners of his eyes, like a door easing closed. “And what are we toasting, Lady Margo?”
Margo hummed, pretending to think it over, though the slight tremor in her hand wasn’t lost on any of them. “To old friends, reunited.”
The smile Caelith gave her then was nothing like the easy charm from before. It was colder, polite and almost absent, the kind of smile meant for servants or furniture or…
Emmaline’s fist hit the nearest wine rack with a sharp crack. It was the same smile he gave her that night.
“I think…” Caelith swirled the wine. “That I’m going to have a very good night.”
“Ursula!” Emmaline grabbed her friend’s face between both hands, breath sharp. “He knows. What do we do? He’s going to hurt her!”
“How the hell can you tell?” Ursula shoved her off. “That was a little creepy, yeah, butnothing—”
“That’s how he works!” Emmaline was already halfway to the cellar stairs. “We have to stop him!”
In the projection, Caelith set the glass down with deliberate care and stood, his movements unhurried.
“Caelith?” Margo’s voice stayed soft, but the slight hitch betrayed her nerves. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s right,” Aeren said, already beside Emmaline at the base of the stairs. “We need to go. Now.”
Caelith took a step, then another, trailing his fingertips along the glimmering tabletop. “My sweet, dear Margo.”
“Shite, you’re right.” Ursula shoved past them both, taking the lead. At the door, she turned, face set. “Listen to me. I love this vicious streak of yours, Ems, but Caelith isn’t just some pompous asshole playing at magic. He’s a trained, decorated duelist. He’s never lost an official bout. If you go up there, you’ll be more of a liability than a weapon.”
Emmaline’s fist slammed into the stone wall, breath hissing between her teeth. She hated it, but Ursula was right. “You can take him?”
“Why the hell do you think I’m here?” Ursula sneered. “Besides, he’s only used to opponents that can’t fight back or are controlled by propriety and rules.” She locked eyes with Emmaline. “It will be over quickly.”
“Fuck! Fine. Just—just get her out of there.” She pulled back toward the projection, eyes glued to the scene where she could tell that Caelith stood directly behind Margo now, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.
“I suggest you take your hands off me, friend.” Margo’s voice was clipped.
Caelith bent at the waist, his hair falling into the projection like a pale curtain. “Or what?” His voice was all silken mockery. “Will you… drug me?”
