Evryn grimaced. “I’m afraid not. Her Grace was most enthusiastic about celebrating our connection.”
“You’re going to have to actuallydancewith her,” Crispin said, one side of his mouth curling in disgust. “Lady Mariselle Brightcrest.”
Evryn forced himself to picture every other young lady he’d ever found attractive instead of Mariselle Brightcrest and tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he said, “I know. I’m so looking forward to it.”
“How does one dance with someone one has publicly despised for years?” Fin asked.
“Carefully,” Ryden advised.
“With heavily reinforced footwear,” Crispin suggested. “Lady Mariselle strikes me as the type to express her true feelings through strategically placed heel stomps.”
“I doubt she would try something like that with the High Lady watching,” Fin said.
“True,” Ryden agreed. “The real danger will come later, in the gardens, when she lures you behind a topiary and throttles you with her fan ribbon.”
Evryn bit down his instinctive response: Yes, it was very likely Mariselle would attempt to throttle him at some point. “You have an unpleasantly vivid imagination,” he remarked instead. “And you seem to be forgetting that Lady Mariselle feels the same way about me as I do about her.”
“I admit I’m finding that very hard to imagine,” Fin said, still watching Evryn with undisguised concern.
“As I mentioned,” Evryn offered awkwardly, “it’s magic.”
“Hmm,” Fin murmured, his expression making it clear he remained unconvinced despite choosing not to press further.
“When’s the wedding to be?” Crispin asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“End of the Season,” Evryn replied, grateful this farce would be over by then.
“How romantic,” Ryden sighed, clutching his heart. “Nothing says true love like ‘I’m delaying our union in hopes you might perish naturally before I’m forced to commit.’”
Evryn caught himself before a snort of laughter could escape. He cleared his throat and clarified, “I was thinking more along the lines of giving our families time to adjust. And I’d appreciate it if you could show a little more support,” he added, reminding himself that he needed to defend this union as if it were real. “She is to be my … wife.” The word felt so wrong in his mouth that he had to grip the arms of his chair to stop himself from performing a full-body shudder.
“Oh but it’s far too entertaining teasing you about it!”
Evryn fixed him with a glare.
Ryden leaned forward, his expression softening as he squeezed Evryn’s shoulder. “I’m only having a bit of fun, my friend. We may not be fond of Lady Mariselle, but if you’re truly determined to marry her, then of course we support you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Crispin muttered. “Though if you must marry her,” he added, “at least try never to fall asleep in her presence.”
Evryn arched a brow. “I imagine that will be difficult once we are wed.” Which, fortunately, would never happen.
Crispin leaned forward. “The Brightcrests might deny it until their dying breath, but who’s to say the rumors about dream influence aren’t true?”
“Oh come now,” Evryn scoffed. “You saw Lady Mariselle’s debut last Season. You’ve seen other demonstrations from that family. You know the most any of them can do is extract dream essence from …” He waved a hand vaguely, uncertain of the exact terminology. “I don’t know, from the general population of all those who are asleep at that precise moment. So they can make their precious Dream-Bright Elixir.”
Evryn couldn’t help the contempt that crept into his voice at the mention of the Brightcrests’ flagship product. The small blue bottles with their signature silver stoppers graced bedside tables in homes throughout the United Fae Isles. A few drops before sleep guaranteed pleasant dreams, banishing nightmares and ensuring restful slumber. Even middle-class families kept a bottle in their medicine cabinets. The Brightcrests had built most of their fortune on that concoction alone.
The Rowanwoods, of course, refused to allow a single drop past their lips. In Evryn’s childhood home, merely mentioning Dream-Bright had been enough to earn a stern reprimand. His father had called it ‘bottled manipulation,’ explaining to his children that anyone who drank too much of it came to develop an unhealthy dependency on it. Evryn wondered, however, if the true objection was simply that it had the name Brightcrest attached to it.
“Perhaps that’s all someone like Lady Mariselle is capable of,” Crispin continued, “but my uncle swears he once dozed off at a dinner where her aunt was present and woke up with the inexplicable desire to sell his prized racing pegasus to her at half its value.”
“That sounds more like your uncle’s fondness for expensive wine than dream manipulation,” Evryn countered.
“Perhaps,” Crispin said, “but the rumors persist for a reason.Dream invasion, I’ve heard some call it. The ability to enter someone else’s dream and plant suggestions that linger after waking.”
“Do you remember Alaryn Brightcrest speaking of ‘dream sharing’?” Ryden asked, frowning. “What was that about?”
“That was something more … intimate, was it not?” Fin said.
