“It is not. Stop fidgeting—you’re only making it worse.”
Before he could protest, she smacked his hand away and reached for his cravat herself, her fingers working to straighten the folds. Horrified—the impropriety of the gesture would have raised eyebrows even between genuinely engaged couples—Evryn pulled his head back, trying to avoid contact with her skin.
“Oh, for stars’ sake,” Mariselle muttered. “Stop being ridiculous. In fact …” She gripped both his shoulders and tugged him closer to the gap in the door, ensuring they were perfectly framed for anyone who might glance toward the antechamber. “Let us give the gossip birds something more to squawk about. By morning they’ll be jabbering that the two soulbonded sweethearts can barely keep their hands from one another.” A wicked smile curved her lips as she deliberately brushed her fingertips against his jaw. “Which is precisely the impression we wish to convey.”
Evryn remained still, though it required considerable effort not to flinch away from her touch. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh,enjoyis certainly not the word I’d use,” she corrected, maintaining her sweet smile, “but I shall play my part nonetheless.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “There. Now you look presentable enough to be seen on my arm.”
“Your generosity overwhelms me, my shimmering honeycomb.”
The palace attendant reappeared behind them. “Her Grace requests your presence,” he announced with a bow. “If you would please take your positions.”
Mariselle inhaled deeply, squaring her shoulders as though preparing for battle. “Remember,” she whispered, “everyone must believe we are genuinely in love.”
“Oh, I assure you,” Evryn replied, offering his arm with an exaggerated flourish, “no one will doubt the depth of my devotion after tonight.”
She eyed him suspiciously but placed her gloved hand on his offered arm. The ballroom fell silent as the grand doors swung fully open. On the other side, a herald stepped forward, his voice ringing clear across the hushed space.
“Lord Evryn Rowanwood and Lady Mariselle Brightcrest!”
Evryn pasted a lovesick smile on his face, one he had practiced diligently before his mirror, and guided Mariselle forward. The assembled crowd parted before them, creating a path toward the High Lady, who sat at the far end of the ballroom upon a throne of woven gold branches that seemed to grow directly from the dais beneath it, blossoms of pale blue crystal adorning its curves.
As they processed through the crowd, whispers followed in their wake. Evryn caught fragments of conversation—‘never heard of a soulbond,’ ‘oh isn’t itromantic,’ ‘the families will never allow it’—but kept his gaze trained on the dais ahead.
They reached the High Lady, who stood from her throne and extended her hands in welcome. “Lord Rowanwood, Lady Brightcrest,” she greeted. “It brings me great joy to celebrate your extraordinary connection.”
They bowed and curtsied in perfect unison.
“The soulbond is among the rarest and most sacred of magical phenomena,” the High Lady continued, her voice carrying easily across the ballroom. “It represents the ancient magic that flows through our realm, taking a form beyond our mortal comprehension. Throughout our history, only a handful of such bonds have been recorded. Such a rare and precious connection deserves to be honored by all of us together.”
Evryn noticed the High Lady’s diplomatic omission of any reference to the families’ long-standing feud. A wise choice, he thought, given that acknowledging it might trigger open hostilities from the opposing corners where the Rowanwoods and Brightcrests had established their separate territories. He resisted the urge to glance toward either family.
“To mark this auspicious occasion,” the High Lady declared, “I invite our betrothed couple to open the evening with the first dance.”
She gestured toward the string ensemble, who immediately readied their instruments. Evryn guided Mariselle toward the center of the ballroom as the crowd retreated to form a wide circle around them. He remembered Crispin’s comment from the previous night about reinforced footwear and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
As the first notes of a traditional waltz filled the air, Evryn drew Mariselle into the proper position, one hand at her waist, the other clasping her right hand. They began to move in perfect synchronization, gliding across thepolished marble floor, eyes locked on each other in perfectly feigned adoration.
“You dance better than I expected,” Mariselle murmured after several moments. “For someone who spends far more time on the back of a pegasus than in a ballroom.”
“And you move with surprising lightness,” he replied with a tender smile, “for someone carrying the weight of such an inflated opinion of herself.”
They turned gracefully, their steps perfectly matched as they traversed the ballroom floor. “Your eyes are positively radiant tonight, my sugar-dusted moonbeam,” Evryn continued after executing a perfect sequence of steps that brought them close to the edge of the assembled crowd. “Like pools of water in which I could happily drown myself.”
Mariselle’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “How poetic, my love. One wonders why you’ve never pursued publication given such unique talent.”
Evryn tensed momentarily before recovering his composure. He tightened his grip on her waist ever so slightly as they continued their circuit of the dance floor.
“I’ve been saving all my poetry for you, my precious strawberry tart,” he replied, spinning her beneath his arm before drawing her back into a hold. “Every word, every thought, every dreadful metaphor—all for you.”
“Your devotion leaves me speechless,” she countered, her smile fixed in place.
They lapsed into silence as they continued their circuit of the dance floor. Evryn directed his gaze just over Mariselle’s shoulder, finding it impossible to maintain the pretense of adoring eye contact for the entire dance. He carefully avoided looking at his friends, knowing that catching Ryden’s eye in particular would surely break his composure.
He watched the assembled crowd as the the two of them turned, his eyes scanning the faces around them—admiring glances from the gentlemen, dreamy sighs from several young ladies who pressed their hands to their hearts, and the inevitable whispering behind fluttering fans and cupped hands that accompanied any significant social event. His grandmother stood rigid as marble, her expression carved from the same unforgiving stone. Beside her, Jasvian watched with a furrowed brow, while Iris whisperedsomething into his ear that softened his expression into a genuinely warm gaze as he looked down at her.
A peculiar tightness gripped Evryn’s chest. An unwelcome pang that felt suspiciously like envy. He pushed the feeling away immediately, his gaze swinging across the room toward the Brightcrests. Ellowa Brightcrest’s lip curled in evident disgust as she leaned toward another young lady, no doubt sharing some particularly venomous observation, while Mariselle’s parents regarded him with such cold hostility that he wouldn’t have been surprised if frost started materializing on his formal wear.
