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Still holding the mirror, Margaret took in the smug curl of the Saxon king’s lips...and understood.

The Viennese might pretend that their aristocracy included no undead members, but the Saxon king had shattered that particular illusion with his choice of ‘gift’...and the sneer on his face, as his gaze shifted to her husband, made it clear exactly how he felt about the presence of vampires at his ball.

Margaret’s jaw set and her back stiffened, but Lord Riven put one gentle hand on the base of her spine. “Remember the mission,” he murmured under his breath, and gave the king an exquisite bow.

Ugh. Margaret dropped her own requisite curtsy with deep reluctance and kept her jaw clamped tightly shut as she moved past.

The Saxon king’s pointed gift was an insult not only to his vampiric guests but also to the Habsburg emperor who had lent the use of this ballroom in the first place. However, Emperor Florian’s own expression was as coolly distant tonight as it had been the last time she’d seen him. As she curtsied before him, he murmured a welcoming platitude as indifferently as if she were a stranger he had never even heard of before, rather than a woman he’d banned from his court library and forcibly sidetracked via equerry from her mission at the last ball.

It was only when they reached King Thomas at the far end that the hollow repetition finally broke. As their own ruler nodded to them, his nose twitched...and then his bloodshot eyes widened. “Have you—?” he began, then caught himself and leaned forward to ask his questions more discreetly. “Good God. Have you by any chance been consorting with Amalie, Lady Riven?” Even at a whisper, his tone was a grating mixture of shock and glee. “And here I thought you were meant to be a respectable lady, despite that scandalous article! So much for all your staid lectures, eh, minx? Frankly, I’m amazed Riven allowed it.”

Margaret could have summoned up a wide variety of tart responses to that stream of inanity, but she felt the tension in the air beside her as Amalie listened to everything that passed. So instead, she merely stretched her lips into an empty courtier’s smile, murmured, “Your Majesty,” and swept past him with her head held high.

Once they emerged into the safety of the ballroom, with its heavy conglomeration of scents ready to mask Amalie’s perfume, she let out a sigh of relief. “There,” she murmured under her breath. “The worst is behind us.”

“Not for you.” Amalie’s low whisper was a brush against her ear. “You’ve scandalized your king.”

“My king is a hypocrite,” Margaret muttered back. She was careful to half-turn as she spoke, so that any onlookers would think she was aiming her low-voiced words at her husband, who had hung behind a moment with their king.

“That he certainly is.” As Lord Riven caught up, he wore his usual public smile, but a telltale crease cut between his fair eyebrows. “May I ask what it was, exactly, that he whispered into your ear just then to remind you of that fact?”

Recognizing the protective edge to her husband’s tone, Margaret shook her head. “It’s not worth worrying about at the moment,” she assured him. “I’ll share all the foolish details later, I promise. In the meantime, why don’t you begin your own mission for the night? I’ll find you”—she consulted the dance card she’d been handed with her Damenspende gift—“in plenty of time for the first waltz.”

“Very well, but we will be having that conversation later,” he said. “I won’t forget.”

“I know, I know.” Sighing, she waved him off.

As he folded himself smoothly into a nearby group of chatting French nobles—all of whom greeted him with visible pleasure—Margaret raised one gloved hand to her mouth as if to hide a cough. Under her breath, she whispered, “Shall we plan to meet and confer after the waltz takes place? Or would you prefer to wait until the ball is over?”

“Actually...” As even more nobles pressed past on their way to the refreshments, fabric brushed lightly against the back of Margaret’s gown and Amalie’s whisper sounded from just behind her. “If you wouldn’t mind acting as my shield until we reach the back of the room, to avoid any collisions?”

“Of course.” Without her husband or the Imperial equerry by her side, Margaret couldn’t clear a broad path for their journey, but she charted her course across the ballroom with unflinching determination, clearing her throat pointedly at those who did not make enough space for both her and her invisible companion and ignoring every sidelong glance and low-voiced comment along the way.

Unfortunately, even her most imperative throat-clearing had no impact on the final four older Austrian gentlemen who stood huddled in a muttering group between her and the back wall, with no space left to maneuver around them.

“...If the empress were still in power...”

“...Would never allow such mealy-mouthed weakness! Letting go of the lands that make all of us wealthy, when a simple show of force... She was never afraid to fight or...”

“You’d think Bonaparte’s own grandson..."

“Metternich would have come up with cunning strategies to enforce her will, and she would have⁠—”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen!” Margaret directed at them the steely glare that had won her seats in unwelcoming classrooms through years of study. “If you would allow me to pass?”

With harrumphs and half-hearted apologies, they finally made way—but not quite enough. As Margaret stepped safely past, a physical force hit her back and made her stumble forward.

“Forgive me!” Amalie’s voice was a soft whisper as she freed herself from Margaret’s back. “I had to hurry to get through.”

“I understand.” Margaret caught herself just before she could tumble into the wall itself. Here, at least, there was enough space to breathe. An open—albeit narrow—path along the wall led to the orchestra on the right. “You should be safe from here onwards,” she murmured, keeping her face pointed at the wall. “Just⁠—”

“Lady Riven.” The voice that rapped out her name was masculine, commanding, and aggravatingly familiar. “If you’ll follow me, please?” The imperial equerry loomed over her once more, looking even more bored and annoyed by the task than he had at the last ball.

Margaret suppressed an eye-roll with great effort. “I’m afraid,” she said coolly, “that won’t be possible tonight. If the emperor really wishes to speak to me⁠—”

“The emperor commands.” One large hand clamped around the bare skin of her arm, between the cuff of her short sleeve and her long white gloves.

“I beg your pardon.” Margaret’s mouth dropped open. Regardless of any Imperial desires, this behavior was far more inappropriate and socially forbidden than any faux pas she’d ever committed. “Unhand me, sir!”