“Ah, I see.” Ryden’s gaze took on a knowing glint.
“An intimacy of themind,” Fin hastened to add. “Only possible between two people who trust each other.”
“Of course, of course,” Ryden said, though his grin suggested he didn’t believe Fin for a moment.
“Ah, yes, I believe it was something about trust opening a doorway between two sleeping minds,” Crispin said, nodding, “as long as one of them possesses dream magic. But that’s entirely different. I’m speaking of aninvasionof the subconscious mind, and I’m almost certain there are some who are capable of it.”
“Your concern is noted,” Evryn said, hoping to put an end to this line of conversation. “I shall endeavor to sleep as far away as possible from my beloved after the wedding.”
He offered silent thanks to whatever celestial powers might be listening that this charade would end long before he ever found himself in a position where sleep—or anything more intimate—near Mariselle became necessary.
“Nonetheless,” Ryden said with a warm smile, “strange sleeping arrangements aside, we stand with you in this unexpected union, my friend. Brightcrest or not, she’ll be a Rowanwood soon enough.”
Evryn suppressed a grimace. “Thank you.”
“And perhaps,” Ryden continued with a mischievous glint in his eye, “your legendary charm will eventually rub off on her. What a service to society—one less spiteful Brightcrest to contend with at social gatherings.”
“Speaking of social gatherings,” Evryn said, his insides tightening with anxiety, “I could do without tomorrow night’s engagement ball.”
“Ah, yes, on that note,” Ryden declared, “you cannot possibly attend without adequate preparation. This soulbond connection may feel genuine to you, but your public expressions of devotion need work.” He straightened in his chair. “You require intensive instruction in the art of performing besotted adoration.”
Evryn narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious. “I believe I’ve observed enough lovesick fools at society functions to manage.”
“Oh no, you need to do more than simply manage, my friend,” Crispin said, setting his glass down as he warmed up to this idea. “You must convince everyone in that ballroom that you and Lady Mariselle are consumed by passion beyond reason. Mere adequacy will only invite suspicion.”
“Agreed,” Fin said, apparently enjoying this idea too. “The soulbond story requires nothing less than a performance of legendary proportions.”
Evryn groaned inwardly. If only his friends knew how close their games strayed to the truth.
Ryden rose dramatically to his feet. “Allow me to demonstrate proper hand-kissing technique,” he announced, bowing with exaggerated formality before an invisible partner, his gaze fixed on empty air with such convincing adoration that one might almost believe a beautiful woman stood before him. He delicately lifted an imaginary hand while Crispin and Fin exchanged amused glances, barely containing their laughter as Ryden proceeded to place the most reverent kiss upon a nonexistent hand.
“You must hold her gaze the entire time,” he instructed solemnly. “The effect is utterly ruined if you look away.”
“I’ll develop a permanent crick in my neck trying to maintain eye contact while kissing her hand,” Evryn protested, playing along and demonstrating the awkward angle. “Not to mention looking completely deranged in the process.”
“Love is supposed to look deranged!” Ryden insisted, straightening and looking across at Evryn. “That’s how everyone knows it’s genuine. Not only that, but you must hold the contact for precisely seven seconds.”
“Seven seconds?” Evryn couldn’t contain his laughter now. “That’s an eternity for such a gesture. People will think I’m trying to devour her knuckles.”
“Is that not precisely what you desire to do?” Ryden asked, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Surely your magical connection compels you toward suchpassionatedisplays of affection?”
Evryn lunged across the space between them to land a solid punch on his friend’s shoulder, sending all four of them into peals of laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all.
Eventually, the conversation shifted away from the upcoming ball to their customary pegasus racing schedule, a topic that prompted a fresh wave of anxiety in Evryn’s chest. Between his social obligations as a newly engaged man and the secret work to restore Dreamland, he would have precious little time for such pursuits.
“I’m afraid I may need to reduce my participation this Season,” he admitted reluctantly. “Given my new circumstances. It would be inappropriate and invite unwanted questions if I were absent from too many society events.”
“Disappointing,” Crispin declared. “But we shall simply have to continue without you. Thornhart was telling us about his plans for a new course with gravity-defying spiral sections where riders must navigate while completely inverted.”
The conversation continued to flow around him, but Evryn found himself withdrawing into his thoughts. The weight of his deception pressed heavier with each passing moment. These were his closest friends, the people with whom he had shared his triumphs and failures for years. Yet here he sat, feeding them elaborate falsehoods simply to protect a secret that suddenly seemed simultaneously vital and trivial.
As Fin continued to detail the intricate challenges of the new racing course, Evryn’s thoughts returned to the engagement ball awaiting him tomorrow. Hours of pretending to be enamored with Mariselle Brightcrest while navigating the treacherous waters of high society, all under the High Lady’s watchful eye. His stomach clenched at the prospect.
That wretch Mariselle had thrust him into this impossible situation with her blackmail and her grand plans for Dreamland restoration. All because, as she had put it with such entitled certainty, “I want this.” As though her desires naturally outweighed all other considerations, like a spoiled child who always got whatever she wanted. Here he was suffering the indignity of fabricating affection for her before his friends and family, while she was likely sleeping peacefully, satisfied with her clever machinations.
A slow smile spread across his face as an idea occurred to him. If he was to suffer through this charade, then by all means, so should she—in equal measure. Ryden’s ridiculous instructions for performing convincing displays of affection had planted the seed of a delightful possibility in his mind.
After all, what was more fitting than ensuring that Mariselle Brightcrest received precisely the sort of demonstrative, adoring fiancé she had unwittingly signed up for?
