With a sigh, Mariselle stood, recognizing that her cousin was in full flow with her jests and deciding it was best to leave before becoming thoroughly entangled in an endless thicket of botanical witticisms.
“I should return before anyone notices my absence,” she announced.
Petunia released her own sigh before standing as well. “Yes, I suppose I should too.”
The two embraced once more. Petunia lifted the basket, slipping it deftly onto her arm through the woven handle so it rested in the crook of her elbow, before they walked to the greenhouse door.
“You’ll have to send a note with one of the pixies if we need to change our plans,” Mariselle said. “We can’t speak via the mirrors at the moment. Mine broke last night in my hasty attempt to hide it when my mother returned home unexpectedly.”
“Oh, that explains why you weren’t answering me all day. I’ve been calling your name into my mirror every chance I could get. But how are we supposed to coordinate our plans now?”
“I collected all the shards this morning,” Mariselle assured her. “They’re fairly large pieces, not too small. I’m planning to try a restoration spell. I would have attempted it already if not for the High Lady’s tea this afternoon.”
Petunia blinked. “The High Lady’s what?”
“Oh, goodness, I haven’t told you about that yet!” Mariselle exclaimed. “Nor about the engagement ball she’s hosting in our honortomorrow night.”
“She’s—what?” Petunia looked horrified.
“Turn right around, cousin dear,” Mariselle said, looping her arm through Petunia’s and directing her back inside the greenhouse. “This visit will have to last a little longer. You simply cannot leave until I’ve recounted every mortifying detail of this latest development.”
Chapter Eight
Evryn stoodbefore the unassuming door of Cromwell’s Antiquities that evening, his fingers clutching the obsidian token in his pocket. The evening air carried the faint scent of honeysuckle from the flowering vines that climbed the walls of Sweetbriar Confectionery nearby, and the subdued glow of faelights illuminated the cobblestone street with a gentle amber hue.
He’d almost turned back three times on his journey here. Once at the threshold of Rowanwood House, where he’d lingered in the shadow of the grand entryway, second-guessing his decision to maintain his usual social engagements when everything else about his life had been thrown into disarray. Again as the enchanted carriage had slid to a stop at the corner of this very street. And finally, mere moments ago, standing at the door of Cromwell’s Antiquities, where he’d actually pivoted on his heel before forcing himself to turn back toward the entrance.
The thought of facing his friends after the day’s events made his stomach churn with dread. It had been difficult enough to fabricate a romance with Mariselle Brightcrest for his family, but his friends knew him in ways the Rowanwoods did not. Well, aside from Rosavyn, perhaps, but she’d been too overwhelmed by shock this morning to notice anything strange. His friends, however, were more likely to perceive the subtle inconsistencies in hisdemeanor, the forced nature of his enthusiasm. Particularly Fin, who had known him the longest.
Perhaps he should simply tell them the truth. The Obsidian Circle maintained powerful enchantments of discretion that prevented its members from discussing certain matters beyond its walls. He could invoke these protections, ensuring his confession remained secure.
But even as the thought formed, he dismissed it. Such enchantments might seal his friends’ lips, but they couldn’t erase their knowledge. If he revealed the charade, he would need to explain why he had agreed to Mariselle’s absurd scheme in the first place. The truth would necessitate confessing his secret identity as E. S. Twist, exposing the very thing he was desperate to conceal.
No, he couldn’t risk it—especially not with Ryden present. How could he admit to penning satires that mocked his friend’s own mother? Despite the prince’s carefully cultivated facade of indifference, Evryn knew Ryden harbored a fierce loyalty to his mother.
No, honesty was not an option tonight. The performance must continue.
With a resigned sigh, Evryn approached the shop door and inserted his token into a small, nearly invisible aperture beside the handle. The token vanished with a soft click, absorbed into the mechanism.
The door swung inward without a sound, revealing not the cluttered interior of an antiquities shop but a narrow staircase descending into velvety darkness. Evryn stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a whisper of magic. The staircase illuminated itself as he descended, each step lighting with a soft golden glow that faded once he passed.
At the bottom of the stairs Evryn passed beneath an archway of polished mahogany, intricate carvings of mythical creatures dancing along its curved surface. The Obsidian Circle unfolded before him as he stepped through. The main chamber formed a perfect circle beneath a dome of midnight blue, where enchanted stars shifted slowly in accurate reflection of the night sky above Bloomhaven. Rich wooden panels lined the walls, punctuated by private alcoves. The club’s centerpiece—a circular bar crafted from a single piece of polished black stone—gleamed in the warm glow of floating amber lights.
Behind the bar, attendants mixed drinks with theatrical flourish. The air carried notes of cedar, aged spirits, and a hint of smoldering driftshade leaf.Leather armchairs and intimate conversation nooks invited relaxation, while the ambient hum of magical enchantments preserved the Circle’s exclusivity and promised absolute discretion.
As Evryn made his way across the chamber, he noted the usual assortment of elite fae society—lords engaged in quiet business negotiations, young heirs lounging as they debated the latest pegasus racing odds, several of the High Lady’s advisors. Unlike most evenings when he moved through the space largely unnoticed, he couldn’t help observing a few surreptitious glances and hastily concealed whispers.
So the gossip had preceded him even here. Marvelous.
Evryn wove between clustered seating areas toward the club’s eastern alcove—their usual gathering place. The familiar space came into view, his three friends already assembled. The golden-orange glow from a hearth of dancing magical flames illuminated their faces as they gestured energetically in conversation, their movements stilling abruptly when they caught sight of him approaching.
He hesitated once more, gathering his resolve before stepping beyond the invisible magical barrier that ensured conversations within this space remained private.
“The lover arrives at last!” Prince Ryden’s voice greeted him immediately, loud enough to make Evryn wince.
The alcove was arranged in its usual configuration—four leather armchairs gathered around a small table, facing a hearth of warm copper that housed flames dancing in shades of amber and gold. The fire crackled pleasantly without producing heat, a sophisticated enchantment that provided all the comfort of a real fire without the sweltering temperature. It was almost summer, after all. On the table sat a decanter of amber liquid alongside four glasses, three of which bore signs of having already been emptied at least once.
Ryden lounged in his customary seat, legs stretched before him in a pose of deliberate casual elegance that only someone of his station could affect without appearing slovenly. His royal features were subtly altered by the complex glamour he always wore within the Circle, his midnight-blue hair a dark brown, his nose more prominent, his jawline slightly softened. The glamour left him with just enough resemblance to Prince Ryden that one might note a passing similarity, but not enough to suspect he might actuallybe the prince.
