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Life in the palace made me cold, but I made that choice on my own.
His gaze is stormy. “So proud of being heartless.”
“I know the consequences of being who I am. Do you?”
The ball, the city, and the stars have never felt so far away as the prince eyes me like I’m something dangerous. I’ll cut to the heart of him.
“You think you aren’t just as resentful?” I take a step closer. I relish this too much to ever pretend that I don’t. “Every day that I walk beside you, I remind you I’m not the girl you thought I was. That I stole your father’s affections and made a life here without you.”
I take another step. In the heaving of our chests, our bodies brush. I can feel his heartbeat under his shirt. Or maybe it’s my own. We’re older now—not like the still-growing children we were years ago, who could shout and shove to our liking, so long as we ran away fast enough to avoid capture. Our worlds have grown large and dark, clouded by ambition.
By desire.
His lips are so close I might taste the wine. His hand collars the hollow of my throat, as if to stop my advance, or maybe—as his thumb traces up my throat—to tip me closer.
A bell tolls. The clock is striking eleven.
“Go meet your fate,” I hiss.
Mouth curled in disgust, Cyrus lets me go.
I’ve changed my mind. I want to witness the tale I’ve spun. I want to know whose arms I sent Cyrus into.
And I need to get out of this damn maze.
I follow Cyrus back to the palace. He ignores me all the way there. The noise in the ballroom has quieted. People are sleepy with drink. Even the flocks around the golden foxes have thinned.
Shocked gasps bubble through crowds as the prince moves through them. A beast is frightening, even in costume, even in a rose-covered mask as beautiful as the one he wears. He’s tempting the Fates, but maybe he wants to.
I don’t see the girl yet. I’m about to head to a higher vantage when a feeling in the back of my skull tugs my attention. I turn toward the ballroom entrance.
Under an arched statue of two Fates stands a figure alone in silhouette. I don’t remember seeing her before.
The girl steps out of the shadow. Her face is half-hidden behind a butterfly mask, her visible features delicate as a dollmaker’s finest work. The dress—it’s the kind made ofchildhood dreams and grown-up envy. Green fabric swaths her as if she were something bloomed from the Fairywood, shedding petals and leaves that shift from spring-green to autumn-gold as they dissolve into glimmering vapor. A fortune of golden, fairy-coveted fayflowers drips from her skirts.
It should be gaudy. Even Camilla would call out this dress for being too much. But the girl looks beautiful, and I don’t understand how. I can’t describe her as anything less than a prince’s destined match.Someone’sdestiny, at least.
It’s her. It has to be her.
Heads begin to turn. A sweetness floods the air. When I spot the beast prince at the edge of the crowd, he’s still as a stag, enraptured. They make a pair: rose-horned beast and fairy-blessed bride.
Camilla is waving at me from the corner of my eye, but I can’t tear my gaze away yet. I have to see this tale to its end.
Eight gents in fox masks saunter up to the girl. No one protests; they’re probably more jealous of the foxes than of her. They each extend a hand and chorus, “May I have the first dance?”
The girl considers them. A collective breath waits: will she choose the right one?
“I want to dance with him.” She points past them, toward the beast.
A tide of murmurs. Those who are sober are slowly realizing the deception with the foxes. The real Prince Cyrus hesitantly takes her hand, as if awed that the girl exists—and exists for him, as far as he imagines. That at last, a future foretold for him came true.
The music resumes. The crowd quickly seals them off. Ilose sight of the couple except for the tips of Cyrus’s crystal horns.
Someone grabs my wrist.
I stumble and whirl around. A terrifying peacock stares down at me with her hand raised. “Camilla?”
“Who’s the most beautiful girl in the room?” she thunders. There’s a sharp pin in her hand, ready to strike.
