Pixies flutter about, their wings dappling the space with prisms of light. Dwarves wear gemstone rings the size of walnuts.
I feel someone watching me. A breeze ambushes my hiding spot, jostling the hem of my gown. Instinctively, I search the spiraling crowd for a pair of knowing eyes.
But Moth said the guests wouldn’t snuff me out, whether or not I interacted with them. She said they wouldn’t catch my human scent or other tidbits that would normally give me away. Seems to be working, even if I’ve been noticed by at least one soul, so I step into the room and then waffle in the half-light.
That’s my first mistake.
One of the couples spins by and knocks into my shoulder. They keep going, but the collision throws me off balance—and flings me fully into the ballroom. My vision skates. I skid over the ground, my arm shooting out to find purchase on a pedestal table.
The music screeches to a halt. In one unified move, every Fae in the room wheels. And they gaze at me through hard, shimmering masks.
Movement in my periphery draws my attention. Moth’s a milk-and-honey vision wrapped in a gown akin to papier-mâché, the material floating around her featherweight frame. Her favorite porcelain combs bite into that tumbleweed of topaz hair. She tarries at the sidelines, goggling at me with agitated eyes behind a veil of her namesake.
Based on her expression, my own mask was supposed to be foolproof. Echoing silence fills the aviary. My thoughts splinter, sweat beading on my palms. That’s my second mistake, letting them catch me in a stupefied moment.
Don’t take off the mask.
And that’s my third mistake.
I see the partiers too clearly, too openly. My hands scramble to adjust the mask, only to discover it’s hanging lopsided off my face. The guise must have slipped when that couple barreled past me.
Such a simple action. Such a serious blunder.
Hundreds of revelers watch me intrude on their sacred night. Mouths peel back to reveal chiseled ivories. Pupils flash through eye slits.
Oh. Shit.
I straighten the visor, but it’s too late. They’ve seen me. They recognize me. My digits slide into the skirt pocket and curl around the whip—then stall. Across the room, a costume of snowy feathers flashes by, but the plumes vanish behind someone’s silhouette before I can identify the wearer.
It gets my gaze wandering, my mind tinkering. These farcical masks are no more than caricatures and warped visuals. The frozen, glazed expressions are reminiscent of bedazzled individuals, like the villagers who’d been glamoured whenever these monsters skulked into Reverie Hollow, their true forms disguised.
I’ve seen the face of enchantment. I’ve used my own tactics to charm blokes into my bed. And I’ve spent countless nights in the wagon playing make-believe with my sisters.
So if the Folk like their humans entranced, that’s what they’ll get. Slackening my facial muscles, I stare at them in a fake daze. I mirror the same candid devotion as their human victims, the very picture of submissive adoration.
The masks shift in realization and pleasure. Some of the giddy attendants chuckle. They probably suspect their ruler did this, but it doesn’t matter who cast this spell on me. The music resumes, and the bodies start dancing again. Whatever else they see in me, they’re keen to take advantage of it, until I’m spellbound, until I can’t remember who I am, where I am, or why I’m here.
Let this game begin. I grunt as an arm swoops around my middle and drags me into the fray. “We have a guest,” somebody chirps in that universal Fae accent.
Three Solitaries prowl around me. I remember this trio of phoenixes from my quest through the mountain. Infernos of hair blaze from their yellow heads, and their flaming wings retract into their backs, leaving behind tendrils of smoke. Masks of the same likeness conceal their faces but not their leers, the blisters of their eyes singeing me on the spot.
Two males and one female. They caper in a circle, their forms flashing before my eyes. A hand takes mine and waltzes me about. Another set of fingers dabbles with my hair.
No one said anything about touching. My fist balls, but thankfully, I’m too dizzy to let my knuckles fly. As it is, I’m supposed to be drugged on glamour.
“Sweet guest,” the first male jeers, the human-thumb charm twitching from his forehead band. “You’re right on time.”
The second male taps my lips. “Naughty guest, surprising us.”
“Human guest, listen well,” the female slurs, her breath reeking of clotted cream. “The aviary is vast.”
“The raptors have awakened.”
They trade turns, speaking while ushering me through the mob, cupping my bicep, steering my hips in a twirl.
“We have two floors, the lower for entertaining, the upper forentertaining.”
“What’s your pleasure? We won’t judge.”
