Mother still won’t tell me anything. Not that she talks to any of us much these days.
I stifle a sigh as a servant offers Emerin and me goblets filled with mulled wine from a silver tray.
“Happy birthday.” Emerin smiles, then drinks from her goblet.
“Thank you,” I say as I lift my goblet, the metal cool against my fingers.
I take a sip and allow the spices to mingle on my tongue, a mixture of cinnamon, cloves, and orange peel.
It was Lyra’s birthmark still etched into my skin that first made me think it wasn’t a dream. That my time with Jasce had been real. And as the days passed and the memories stayed so vivid, I knew.
Emerin shifts next to me and stands on her tiptoes, as if to get a better look at the couples.
“Go on,” I urge her with a smile. “You’ve been eyeing the floor all night.”
Emerin hesitates for a moment, then, with a nod, she steps into the whirl of dancers. I watch her go, my heart swelling with a sister’s pride. She dances as if she’s part of the melody.
After a few minutes of watching her, I move to the set of double doors and step onto the veranda bathed in moonlight. The smooth stone presses into my arms as I lean over the balustrade.
Below me, the gardens sprawl out in meticulously trimmed hedges and flower beds. A light breeze rustles through the leaves and brings the faint scent of jasmine.
I breathe deep, appreciating the open air after the crowded warmth of the ballroom. The music from within filters out to me, muted and distant. Overhead, the moon hangs full and bright amidst a spray of stars. I close my eyes and focus on nothing but the gentle wind.
Soft footsteps break through my reverie. I turn as a man approaches from my left, a man in a bronzed mask that catches the moonlight and throws it back at the night sky.
Something about him is achingly familiar. Perhaps it’s the breadth of his shoulders or the self-assured way he walks, each step smooth and confident. As he draws nearer, the nagging sense of familiarity grows stronger.
He stops beside me at the balustrade. “Beautiful night.”
Jasce?
I know his voice, but that is impossible. This is Bakva, the capital of House of Silver.
Jasce wouldn’t dare come here.
If he were caught, Asha wouldn’t hesitate to have him publicly executed. Especially now that his father, Jerrod, is dead, and Jasce is the chieftain of the Hematite tribe—a position Asha covets just like Grandfather did.
You just want to see Jasce.
That’s why this man sounds like him.
“Indeed,” I manage after what feels like an eternity but is only seconds. “The stars are particularly bright.”
“They pale in comparison,” he says, his words hanging in the air like an unfinished thought, or a compliment not quite given.
I turn to look at him. “To what?”
“To you,” he says, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the night air.
“Do we know each other?” I ask because there is a part of me that desperately wants him to say yes, that he is Jasce.
He tilts his head, as if considering how to answer or whether to answer at all. “In another life, perhaps.” There’s a touch of amusement in his tone that makes me think he enjoys this game of veiled truths and half-seen faces.
“I’m Annora,” I say, then immediately wonder why I give him my name.
“A beautiful name.” He doesn’t offer his own but instead reaches out and allows his knuckles to graze my arm. “For a beautiful woman.”
“You’re bold for someone who hides behind a mask,” I observe.
