She smirks and knocks her head toward the tower.
***
Ten minutes later, I’m short on pride—for resorting to magic—but armed with a spool of enchanted thread.
As I’m leaving Moth’s chamber, she calls out, “Lark?”
I pause by the curtained exit and glance to where she fidgets in the middle of a room with butter yellow accents and wicker furniture.
Quietly, she warns, “Don’t take off the mask.”
I’m hankering to say something an ally would say, or at least to thank her, but that would piss her off. So I settle for, “Shucks. Not even to stick my tongue out at you?”
For somebody that prickly, I didn’t think Moth had a smile in her. And yeah, for a minute, I didn’t think I’d get it out of her. But there it is, sharp and flashing like a flipped coin.
The tower’s gonna wake up shortly. I return to my room with minutes to spare.
Moth tipped me off that Cerulean will be swamped when he rolls out of bed. Preparing for the revels guarantees we won’t see each other.
The masquerade is off limits, but curiosity is the devil, and that’s what led me to him as a tyke. After what I’ve learned about my bond with Cerulean, I need to know more. I’ve gotta see him in his true element, apart from me.
To know what’s real and what isn’t, I’ve gotta crash a death trap. Plus, snooping might yield a weakness in these Faeries. The Horizon dealt me a shocker, but I’m not about to let my guard down. I’m vulnerable enough.
Moth had ticked off instructions. I cross over to my bed, place the spool on the mattress, close my eyes, and conjure up a visual. I think about Cove. She’s water—pure and nurturing, and essential for my sanity. To be specific, I picture the shade of her hair.
When I peek, there it is. The fancy, teal confection has a ruffled neckline cut to bare the shoulders. The snug, silken bodice drops to a low waist, then bustles into a long, feathered skirt, the cascade splitting down the middle.
The gown splays atop the bed. It’s a brazen, flirtatious getup meant to hug curves, lick the ground, and take no prisoners.
For the next visual, I repeat the steps. A second later, a lark mask rests atop the garment.
I’d destroyed my old mask when I was ten, but I remember every lopsided and clumsily sewn feather, every sloppy application of quills around the edges. Must’ve taken me weeks to collect plumes for the border.
I hadn’t used actual lark feathers. I’d made do with what I found and pretended the rest.
Tonight, I could have envisioned an identical visor from memory, but that just wouldn’t feel the same. Besides, Cerulean would recognize that old mask. No matter how I feel about him, jogging his memory in the midst of a Fae masquerade would be the shittiest possible time.
Instead, this mask is a lavish imitation. I’ve created my own version, improvising since the lark’s actual quill colors wouldn’t match the gown. A white face band—true to the bird—layers in stripes with my preference for teal. Both colors streak to the sides, where the top stripe rises upward like tiny horns.
It’s half reality, half imagination. I can deal with that.
25
Torches light the way. Flames combust from the poles, searing the night in sienna hues and marching across a bridge dripping with honeysuckle. The crossing leads to that circular building, its facade glowing.
Tímien flies me to this spot and then catapults across the ravine. The wind rattles the wooden planks suspended over a carpet of mist, the platform jostling under my heeled slippers.
My white hair rustles around my face. I’d left it hanging free to conceal my rounded ears, an extra precaution in case Moth dealt me a fast one, and the enchanted mask fails to do its thing.
My outfit’s a waterfall of teal silk, the plumes fanning around my hips. The gown’s middle slit bares my limbs, revealing my thigh cuff. Also, I’d fabricated a pocket to stash my whip.
As I walk, the hem swishes across the ramparts. Stopping halfway, I clutch my stomach and register the Middle Moon. The lunar ring pours a frosted film across the range, the black pupil of its center glaring down at me.
My palms grow clammy. The mask hangs from a tie around my wrist. I unknot it, fling the tether into the abyss, and jam the visor over my head.
The rails narrow toward whatever mayhem waits beyond. I migrate down the bridge, passing through the torches’ hot glow.
A surge of anger and shame prickles my arms. It’s me that my sisters should worry about. Me, because unlike them, I’ve got a weakness in this realm. Though I never really knew him beyond thirteen days in a forge, when I was ten and believed anything was possible, the impact lasted. Which means that to get through this maze, I’m gonna have to break my heart.
