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“You think Emilius the First’s curse was faked to end the rebellions?”
After I take the next sip, Dante empties the last of the carafe onto his tongue. “It’s not difficult to keep up the illusion of a dancing prince for a fortnight, and you can sing yourself hoarse after a night at the pub. Two hundred years later, who knows what the truth really was? So do I believe in true love? Do I believe in stories like this? The answer changes every day.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand why the Fates would meddle with us.”
“Balican stories give the Fates human qualities. They can be vindictive, impulsive, sympathetic….”
“They sure are.”
“You make it sound like you’ve talked to them directly.”
“Maybe I have.”
“Oho-ho,tell me your secrets, Sighted Mistress Violet.” His eyes are bright, his face flushed, as he leans in a little too close, and I wonder what it’d be like to press my lips to his.
It’s the wine. And a bit of curiosity that sparked when we danced. I’ve never kissed anyone before. I haven’t considered romance much at all. People don’t think of the Seer in that way, and, let’s face it, I’m inviting as a stinging nettle. Camilla may think I’m closed off and cynical and afraid of taking chances, but I see endings clearer than beginnings, and I don’t have a heart that could be devoted to anyone. Recognizing that is the most selfless thing I could do.
I believe in love as much as I believe in the scarcity of it. I believe in tolerance and habit and codependence. And that’s enough, I hope. While Dante with his fine bones and dimpled smile might tempt me for a diversion, I’d never bargain with his heart, not when he’s half of all the friends I have in the world.
Sitting up straight, I put my mask back on. “I’ll tell you secrets another night. I should head back to the tower.”
He looks a little disappointed, but he’s very tipsy too. “It’s nearly eleven. May as well stick around.” Dim light ripples over his cheeks like a tiger’s eye and twinkles in the black of his gaze.
“Already saw everything happen in my dream. Not exactly exciting.” I rise, night air shivering down my arm. A shortcut through the hedge maze is the best route to my tower. It’s dark, but I’ve run through it a hundred times during my first years here.
Unraveling a ribbon rose from my bodice, I kiss it and tiethe gray silk around Dante’s wrist. “Thanks for making the night worth it. I’ll see you when the city’s sober.”
I get lost in the damn hedge maze.
I should have expected this, but the alcohol told me I’d be fine. I canseemy tower over the hedge tops, I just can’t reach it.
I turn a corner. The noise of the palace fades behind another wall of leaves. Dead end. I backtrack, take the other turn—
“Oh!”
A white-suited gent knocks me into the bushes. Branches scratch my shoulders. Wine splashes onto my arm.
“Miss—” Plucking me by the elbows, he brushes off twigs caught on my gown and wipes off the wine with his free hand while balancing a goblet in the other. I squirm away in case he reaches for my bodice. This ball really can’t get worse. “I ardently apologize. Are you all right?”
The voice jerks something in my gut, familiar. My eyes fly up to his mask—and I nearly fall stumbling.
A beast’s likeness looks down on me, all too similar to the one from my dream. The snout of his mask is pointed and furred, like a deer’s. Delicate vines vein gold through his hair, and the deep russet locks are dusted with a shimmering powder. He seems born of summer’s glow. Completing his transformation is a set of crystal horns curling from his head. Roses bloom along its spiral, red as blood.
“I apologize, I was—there was no excusing that, is there?” A keen gaze roves over me through the false face. Glamours never alter the eyes; they’re too expressive, and magic dulls them to something strange and stiff.
They’re Cyrus’s eyes.
But he can’t be here. If he’s here, then the golden foxes everyone’s been swarming around—
“Miss?”
“What are you doing here? Why are you dressed as—?” My shock hasn’t diminished. What a coincidence—another one to add to the pile. Out of everyone I could have run into, I run into Cyrus, our cursed prince of the night.
The world seems to spin. I’m drunk. I’m seeing things. Turning away from him, I search the dark for a better landmark. Two steps later, I trip on my train and he catches me again. My mask goes askew.
“Violet?” The voice changes completely, now low and sharp. Itishim.
“Congratulations,” I mutter as a late spasm of embarrassment works its way through my body. I smooth back my mask’s silver feathers. “I made it easy, didn’t I? I don’t exactly have decoys flirting around the ballroom to throw you off.”
