Chapter Nine
Evryn tuggedat the sleeves of his formal jacket as he peered through the half-open doors of the antechamber into Solstice Hall’s grand ballroom. The cavernous space glittered with floating faelights that cast a golden sheen over the assembled guests, their finery sparkling as they milled about in anticipation.
The High Lady had spared no expense. A string ensemble occupied one corner, light and color shimmering in the air above the musicians as they played. Arrangements of golden blossoms spilled from vases atop every pedestal and alcove. And around the edges of the ballroom, enchanted marble sculptures poured endless streams of wine into crystal basins. A rose-veined maiden with outstretched palms, a stag with honey-colored wine pouring from gilded antlers, an elegant swan whose parted beak released a slow trickle of amber vintage. The scents of fruit and spice mingled on the air.
Evryn exhaled slowly, working to calm the fluttering in his stomach. The entire cream of fae society had turned out for this spectacle—this farce—and soon he would be the center of their attention, alongside Mariselle Brightcrest of all people. Upon his arrival, a palace steward had directed him to this antechamber with instructions that he was to wait here until Lady Brightcrest arrived. “The High Lady wishes for you both to make your entrance together when she signals,” the man had explained.
This news might previously have made Evryn squirm with discomfort, but tonight he approached the situation with newfound resolve. He had a plan. One that brought a smile to his lips every time he considered it. If Mariselle Brightcrest wanted him to act besotted, then by all the stars above, he would give her a performance so convincing that she’d regret ever dragging him into this ridiculous charade.
A palace attendant approached with a slight bow. “Lord Rowanwood, Lady Brightcrest has arrived and will join you momentarily.”
“Thank you,” Evryn replied, straightening his posture and adjusting the silver cravat that matched the embroidery adorning his sapphire-blue formal coat. The silver threads caught the light as he moved, rippling like water across the fabric in a display of last-minute magical tailoring that had cost him a small fortune. But if he was to play the part of besotted fiancé, he would do so in appropriate style.
The soft sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention toward the corridor. He turned, prepared to greet his fake fiancée with practiced cordiality.
And felt his carefully rehearsed greeting die in his throat.
Mariselle Brightcrest stood before him, and Evryn found himself momentarily speechless. Her gown was the color of dawn, pale gold at the bodice melting into the softest blush pink at the hem. The fabric shimmered faintly as she moved, embroidered with delicate threads of gold that caught the light like the first rays of morning. At her throat gleamed a rose-gold pendant set with a single pink opal, and matching drops glinted at her ears. Her golden hair had been swept up into an elegant arrangement of curls, with a few artful strands left to frame her face.
She was beautiful. Like a deadly silksnare lily—mesmerizing until the moment its pollen paralyzed you and its tendrils wrapped around your throat.
She released an impatient sigh as she entered the antechamber. “Have you forgotten how to speak, Rowanwood?”
Evryn recovered his composure with a slight bow. “Not at all, my radiant buttercup. I was merely wondering how I’m to endure an entire evening pretending to be enchanted by someone whose very presence makes me contemplate the appeal of slow strangulation.”
“How charming,” she replied, looking him over with cold assessment. “Isee you’ve put considerable effort into your appearance tonight. A pity the same cannot be said for your manners.” She faced the ballroom. “We have an audience to persuade. Do try to perform convincingly. I realize artifice doesn’t come as naturally to you as it does to me.”
Evryn pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation washing over him. “Musteverythingbe a competition with you?”
“My treasured love,” she replied with saccharine sweetness, “it isn’t about competition. It’s merely an observable fact that I excel at social performance. As I do in most endeavors.”
Evryn leaned closer, as though whispering sweet nothings into her ear. “Your modesty continues to enchant me, my precious sapdrop. Though I look forward to demonstrating my own considerable talents throughout the evening.”
“Sapdrop?” she hissed, her smile never faltering.
“Too much?” he asked innocently. “I have an extensive repertoire prepared. Would you prefer ‘my blushberry muffin’ or perhaps ‘my enchanted toadstool’?”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but she said nothing as she stepped closer to the half-open doors and peered into the ballroom. Evryn shifted uncomfortably as her shoulder brushed against his chest. He leaned away from her instinctively, the scent of vanilla reaching his nose.
“I can see both our families,” she murmured, “positioned at opposite ends of the ballroom as though preparing for battle. Your grandmother looks as though she’s contemplating how to dispose of my body without leaving evidence. And your brother looks …”
Evryn straightened to his full height and peered over Mariselle’s head until he located Jasvian across the room. “Constipated?” he offered helpfully.
Mariselle snickered. “Indeed.”
“That’s his natural expression. It’s how you know he’s still breathing.”
“And my father looks?—”
“Like he just swallowed something extremely unpleasant.”
“That ishisnatural expression,” she sighed.
“Well,” Evryn said, reaching up to tug slightly at his cravat, “let us hope the evening doesn’t conclude with bloodshed and the end of several noble lineages.”
Mariselle stepped back from the doorway, turning to face him. Her gazetraveled from his face to his cravat, her brow furrowing slightly. “Stop, you’re making a mess of that.”
He adjusted the silver fabric. “I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”
