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20
Meeting the real Prince Albert in person is much like being presented with what appears to be a designer gown, but upon further scrutiny, is a poorly constructed knockoff. It’s ironic, of course, because the man sitting beside me in the backseat of the automobile is supposed to be the authentic version. Yet I can’t look at him, can’t so much as breathe the same air as him, without comparing him to Dante.
I glance over at the prince. My heart stutters at how similar he looks to Dante. It’s clear now why the spy was recruited as the prince’s decoy. While they certainly don’t look like twins by any means, their similarities are uncanny. Both have sharp bone structures, blue eyes, and golden hair that falls haphazardly in the same roguish fashion. Their heights and lean builds are nearly identical.
I’m reminded of two young women who lived in Sableton—the town I grew up in. They too held such strong similarities that I couldn’t help but confuse them. If they were ever in the same room or standing side by side, I could clearly decipher that they were different people, but should I encounter either of them alone, I couldn’t help getting them confused. I got into the habit of evading any attempt at greeting either woman by name, should I be mistaken, and I later found out I wasn’t the only one. Despite identifiable differences, they were simply two people who were constantly getting mistaken for the other.
I imagine the same phenomenon applies to Dante and the prince. A vague acquaintance could easily mistake them as the same person.
But to those close with either man…
My belly flips as I realize I now consider myself amongst that party. Someone close to Dante.
Intimately close.
Albert chuckles to himself, oblivious of my silent assessment. He sits as far from me as he can manage, sipping a flute of bubbly champagne with one hand and browsing theTrundale Tattlerwith the other. From how often he titters at his own name being mentioned in the scandal sheets, he must be getting a kick out of the drama Dante and I have stirred up. Although, I can’t be certain that’s how he feels, for the man has hardly said a word to me since he and his driver arrived at my cottage to pick me up in his automobile—the car Dante named Bertha, I recall with sentimental affection.
Albert didn’t so much as offer me his hand in greeting, only held open the door and told me to be careful of Bertha’s leather seats. Had this meeting occurred two weeks ago, I’d be pleased beyond belief. All I wanted then was a fiancé who kept his distance and provided zero risk to my heart. Now that my heart has been thoroughly captured by an unexpected thief, Albert’s distance feels aggravating. Well, not his distance, exactly. More the fact that he isn’t Dante. In letting my guard down with the spy, I’ve experienced what true closeness feels like. What safety feels like. Safety isn’t distance like I thought it was. It isn’t guardedness or lack of lust and attraction.
My gaze sweeps over the prince, assessing the way his leg is crossed away from me, how his attention is engrossed in his paper. If Dante were here, he’d tell the prince his body language is all wrong.
Albert’s gaze darts from theTrundale Tattlerto me, startling as if he’d forgotten my presence. “Pardon? Did you say something?”
I force myself not to wince at his voice. Even his tone is like Dante’s, yet it’s all wrong at the same time. It’s not quite deep enough. Not quite warm enough.
Shaking my head, I avert my gaze to the window, watching moonlit autumn trees give way to city streets as we draw closer to the city of Oakenshire. Albert doesn’t press me to say a word. There is something I must tell him before the night is through, but now is not the time.
First, we have a ball to attend.
* * *
The ball is heldat the Oakenshire Ballroom. It’s a masked ball—a tame event, compared to the glamoured balls the fae are known to host—to raise funds for the city’s new hospital. I don’t need to check the timepiece tucked in my purse to know we’re running late. Albert showed up thirty minutes after the time we agreed upon. Further evidence is demonstrated by the lack of people loitering inside the lobby of the ballroom, its vacancy visible beyond the large glass doors.
I shrug off the velvet cape I wore over my gown, not bothering to bring it inside. Then I retrieve my mask from my purse and tie it behind my head, careful not to disrupt my elegant chignon. My mask is a simple domino made from pink silk. It does its duty of complying with the expectations of a masked ball without distracting from my dress.
The driver, who I recognize as Mr. Digby, opens my door and helps me out of the backseat. Albert meets me on the sidewalk and offers me his arm. He too wears a mask—burnished copper with a slight beak over the nose—but it isn’t enough to hide the widening of his eyes when he sees my dress for the first time, no longer hidden beneath my cape.
“You’re showing a lot of skin.” He doesn’t elaborate whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but his grimace says enough. The man may have a rakish reputation with women, but I take it he prefers his wife to present herself as demure.
“I am, aren’t I?” I say dryly, unable to note that Dante’s reaction would have been far different from Albert’s. In fact, I already know exactly how Dante would have responded, as the dress I wear now is the very same I wore to the red-carpet premiere.
Well, if Albert disapproves of my gown now, I suppose he’ll like it even less in a minute or so.
I take Albert’s elbow and allow him to escort me inside. A pair of footmen greet us at the front doors and guide us to where we’ll make our grand entrance. Anxiety squeezes my lungs as one of the footmen directs us to a circular landing above a short staircase that leads to the dance floor. A quadrille is underway, and those not dancing chat with their companions. Albert presents the Master of Ceremonies a card with our names while I take my chance to remove my gloves. Albert catches sight of my bare hands as I tuck my gloves into my purse.
“What are you doing?” he whispers. “You can’t remove your gloves at a ball. It isn’t proper. Or…or is that something you fae find appropriate?”
I give him a false smile and let my indignation grow to anger. It floods my chest and trickles down my arms, filling my palms. Where normally I resist the heat that begs to explode from my hands, this time I yield to it. Red flames fill my palms, and I bring them down to my skirt, releasing the fire to light a piece of lace trim.
The Master of Ceremonies leaps back, as does Albert.
The spark grows, catching the full length of the lace. The startled reactions of those on the landing draws the attention of the guests on the dance floor. Gasps erupt as the flames catch on more and more of my dress. Thanks to a quick alteration I made, thin threads of dragon silk extend from one row of lace to then next, then the next, allowing the fire to spread on its own until every inch of the special lace is aflame with a gently flickering golden blaze. I close my palms, and the flames in my hands go out.
The music stops, either from the song’s natural conclusion or my blatant grab for attention. I meet the eyes of those who look up at me, finding everything from repulsion to awe. Lifting my chin, I meet their gazes without falter.
This is who I am, I silently convey, as much to myself as those who look at me.I, Amelie Fairfield, am human and fae. Creative and violent. Sweet and dangerous. Accept me or don’t, but this is the real me.
It’s a risk. My rebellious entrance could get me removed from the ballroom at once. More than that, my actions tonight will assure my second chance with Bartleby’s is permanently revoked. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take after my conversation with Evie. It made me realize gaining human approval won’t make me human. It won’t return the innocence I had before I fell in love with a cruel fae prince. Hardening my heart won’t erase my past, and rejecting help from others won’t guarantee my happiness. I’m starting to understand that my determination to do things alone has had an adverse impact on my joy.
