Evryn’s retort died on his lips. He gritted his teeth, anger flaring hot beneath his collar. “Shouldn’t you be at Solstice Hall preening for potential suitors? Or has your second Season begun with the eligible lords of Bloomhaven maintaining a safe distance?”
“I’m surprisedyoudid not remain at the ball to support your family,” Mariselle countered. “Your sister Rosavyn looked positively bereft without her gallant brother’s support. Rather inconsiderate of you, considering her precarious situation. She turned nineteen some months ago, did she not? And still no signs of manifesting?” Mariselle’s expression shifted to one of exaggerated sympathy. “How mortifying for your family.”
The barb struck home. Evryn had promised Rosavyn he would attend, knowing the pressure she faced to manifest soon. It was too late for her to be presented this Season, but surely she would manifest before turning twenty—an age where failure would transform concern into scandal. He tamped down a flicker of guilt.
“How touching that you monitor my family’s activities so closely. One might almost suspect envy.”
Mariselle’s laugh grated on his nerves. “Envy? Ofyourfamily? My family cultivates dreams, Rowanwood. Yours merely digs in dirt.”
“At least we build something tangible,” Evryn replied, “rather than peddling illusions and addiction disguised as dream magic.”
“That is alie,” Mariselle snapped. “A lie spread by Rowanwoods. Dream-Bright Elixir does not cause?—”
“So defensive,” Evryn drawled, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he settled back into his natural rhythm of practiced nonchalance. “I merelyreferenced what everyone across the United Fae Isles whispers behind closed doors.”
Mariselle inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing, before she spun around and headed toward her pegasus. A surge of satisfaction warmed Evryn’s chest as he watched her retreat, smug in his victory. He’d successfully provoked her into abandoning their verbal sparring match—a rare triumph worth savoring.
But instead of mounting her copper steed, Mariselle reached into the saddlebag and withdrew something with a dramatic flourish. Her pegasus unfurled its flame-tipped wings and took flight with a powerful downdraft. Evryn was vaguely aware of Cobalt similarly retreating, but his attention remained fixed on the papers Mariselle now held aloft. His heart stuttered to a halt as recognition dawned. The familiar pages with their distinctive penmanship—hispenmanship—fluttered slightly in the night breeze.
“I must say,” Mariselle continued, her voice dropping to a silken murmur, “I never expected to discover literary ambitions among your otherwise unremarkable pursuits. How bold of you to publish such scathing satires. That caricature of the High Lady in last week’s Gazette—which perfectly matches the handwritten version in these pages—was particularly audacious.”
A cold sweat broke out across Evryn’s forehead. “Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?” She ran one gloved finger along the edge of the manuscript. “I’m sure the High Lady will find this particularly damning.” Her eyes lifted to his, glittering with malice. “E. S. Twist.”
The blood drained from Evryn’s face as though someone had pulled a stopper, leaving him lightheaded and strangely hollow. His carefully constructed world of deflection and charm seemed to crumble beneath his feet, leaving only the horrifying certainty that his secret—the one thing that was truly his own—now rested in the hands of a Brightcrest.
Rage and panic surged through him in equal measure. Without conscious thought, he lunged forward, reaching for the damning evidence that could destroy not just his reputation but potentially his entire family’s standing.
Mariselle shrieked, spun around, and darted away between the trees.
Mariselle rushed headlong into the forest, clutching the stolen manuscript tightly to her chest with one hand and ducking beneath low-hanging branches dripping with luminous sap. One caught her shoulder, the magical substance momentarily splattering across her racing jacket with a bright green glow before fading back to dormancy.
“Come back here, Brightcrest!” Evryn shouted behind her.
Mariselle, of course, did not obey.
Her parents would be livid when they discovered her absence from the Opening Ball. Her mother had spent an entire ten minutes selecting the ‘perfect’ (hideous) gown for her, in a shade of yellow-green that clashed magnificently with her coloring. Lady Clemenbell had even exerted herself to the apparently exhausting extent of arranging two potential introductions with lords whose conversational skills rivaled those of particularly dull garden statues.
But the look of panic on Evryn Rowanwood’s face was worth whatever punishment awaited Mariselle at Brightcrest Manor. Though perhaps her parents would be pleased when they learned what she had stolen from him.
The thrill of discovery still hummed through her veins. To think that carefree, irreverent Evryn Rowanwood was secretly publishing scathing social satire as thinly veiled allegorical tales under a pseudonym! This could be precisely the leverage her family needed to finally humble the insufferable Rowanwoods.
Mariselle wove between the ancient trees, grateful for the racing attire her mother would have deemed scandalously masculine. The fitted breeches and short-waisted jacket afforded her a freedom of movement that would have been impossible in proper ladies’ attire—one of many reasons she secretly cherished these forbidden nighttime races.
“Return my property!” Evryn called, his voice closer than she’d expected.
“Property?” she tossed over her shoulder without slowing. “Or evidence?”
Her lungs burned pleasantly with exertion, the night air crisp in her chest. Despite his longer stride, he hadn’t caught her yet. The trees were her ally, forcing Evryn to navigate obstacles that she, smaller and lighter, could slip past with ease.
She heard a satisfying thud and muffled curse as Evryn collided with something solid behind her, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the forest floor. A triumphant smile curved her lips—until her ownfooting suddenly betrayed her. She’d been distracted just enough that she missed seeing the exposed root in her path. It flared with amber light as her boot caught against it, sending her pitching forward with a startled cry.
She threw one arm out instinctively to break her fall, her hand landing on something wickedly sharp that sliced clean through her riding glove. White-hot pain blazed across her palm, drawing a hiss through her clenched teeth as something—Evryn’s hand?—wrapped around her ankle and tugged. She kicked hard with her free leg, her boot connecting with something solid, and was rewarded with the satisfying sound of Evryn’s pained yelp. His grip slackened just enough, and she wrenched her ankle free, scrambling back to her feet as pain pulsed across her lacerated palm.
She took off again, blood warming her hand within the confines of her torn glove as she pushed herself harder, unwilling to surrender her advantage. Her legs burned as she dashed between the trees. Branches whipped past her face.
Then she burst from the forest into a familiar moonlit clearing. The ruins of Dreamland spread before her, hauntingly beautiful in the silvery light. She’d visited this place dozens of times during her solitary rides, drawn by the tales of what had once been her family’s crowning achievement.
