“But no dancing without a dalliance.”
“If you don’t wish to dally, we’ll make a deal.”
“If you don’t like deals, get out.”
Lush ferns unfurl and flounce around me. I stumble into one of Solitaries, and the trio chortles.
“Be careful where you stray.”
“Take care whom you seek.”
“For he’s not easily found.”
On that note, they pivot me one final time and melt into the quagmire. I stumble in place, the breeze stirring my feather skirt. That heady awareness returns, the intuition that someone’s watching, their phantom gaze sketching my bare shoulders.
For he’s not easily found.
I twist and hunt amongst the masked faces. My legs guide me through the aviary, where birds whirl and mate in the rafters.
Moth glowers at everyone who tries to get near her. To illustrate the point, she snaps open her fan like it’s a weapon. Over the crimped folds, she gives me a quick glance.
After a while, I lose track of her. Faeries kiss sensually, their tongues plaiting. A swan-necked female tugs on another’s neckline, revealing a crimson nipple peeking from the material. A male wearing the visor of a crow—which matches the talons spearing from his fingers—fondles another male concealed behind a stork mask, which compliments his stilt limbs. Another male slouches on a divan with a feminine figure bouncing on his lap, quail plumes springing from her back.
The sight pumps me with adrenaline. Frustration tightens my joints, spurs my limbs to move faster. I wedge myself through the mesh of rutting, churning figures, my slipper heels slamming into the blackened floor.
Another invisible wave sweeps across my flesh. Another breeze hustles under my skirt.
He’s here. I know he is.
Can’t say if I’m pissed, beguiled, or heartsick. Can’t say what I’ll do when I find him—punch his face or smooch it. I search everywhere, pushing through the compression of chuckles, chatter, and groans.
Where are you? Show yourself, you insolent prick.
Then the crowd parts. And I stop.
Snowy feathers nestle around his mask, a pair of volatile eyes igniting from behind an owl visor. There he is, watching me. He reclines against a wall, the very picture of casual elegance. Yet his eyes tell another Fable. They tear across my gown, blowing through its fringe and sketching the gold cuff hugging my thigh.
In the firelight, my eyes trail up his coat, its high collars encrusted with crystals. The lapels split open to reveal a billowy shirt that gaps down to his waist, as if he threw it on and forgot to lace the strings.
His hair dashes around his elegant face. The single braid hangs over the front of his shoulder, the feather swinging.
His eyes sparkle with gaiety. Yeah, he’d known I was here from the moment I walked in. And he knows I’m not glamoured.
The mask hadn’t worked its charm on this Fae. Neither had my act.
Flora trembles from the upper level of tangled branches. The music writhes around us, then fades altogether. There’s a lot of good and bad happening at once. And I don’t think you need the dead in order to feel haunted. The living can do the job just fine.
Cerulean.
I remember everything from those nights in the glassblower’s forge. I remember the scanty tips of his ears peeking through his hair. I remember those pupils teeming with fury. I remember the beak of his mask pointing down with superiority.
I remember friendship. I remember heartache.
I remember that first kiss.
Cerulean’s brows furrow, as if I’ve balled up my emotions and flung them at him. Bemusement loosens his lips, then mischief reinforces them. He disappears, sidestepping out of range as another pair loops in front of me.
If not dancing or debauching, the Fae toss back goblets. They schmooze and slur, shitfaced on dollops of cream.
