The enchantedcarriage glided to a halt before Rowanwood House, its wheels barely touching the pebbled drive. “You haven’t forgotten your mother’s instructions, my lady?” Tilly said with a wry smile.
Mariselle rolled her eyes. “After she repeated them no less than seventeen times?” She shook her head. “Such a waste of breath. All her elaborate scheming and plotting, and it amounts to ‘observe everything and report back the minutest detail.’ As though I couldn’t have determined that myself.”
The truth was, spying for her mother ranked rather low on her list of priorities at present. Her thoughts were consumed by Dreamland. She and Evryn had spent several more evenings at Windsong Cottage, with Petunia joining them once. Her grandfather’s instructions had proven remarkably effective—she’d made exceptional progress, successfully enchanting several crystals in the dream core.
Evryn had kept himself busy out on the ruins, having begun the reconstruction of the pavilion framework the night after they’d determined the underground lumyrite network was intact. She liked to tell herself his sudden burst of industry represented newfound dedication to their project, but the truth was far more obvious—it was simply his preferred method of avoiding her company. She had no complaints about the arrangement. The greater the distance between them, the less she had to endure his insufferable presence.
He showed precisely no interest in her particular magical abilities. Not once had he inquired about the true nature of her power or what she might actually be capable of. Sometimes she wondered if he still believed her manifestation was limited to the trivial display she’d performed at her debut last Season. But he could think what he wanted, she’d decided. She had complex magic to master, and precious little time to waste on proving that she was far more capable than he believed her to be.
Unfortunately, mastering dream magic would have to wait. Today she was forced to waste precious hours on tea at Rowanwood House, an obligation she’d been dreading since the invitation arrived. She wondered how many of Evryn’s siblings would be present and whether they would be competing to outdo each other in haughty condescension.
Two footmen in crisp livery stepped forward from the front steps. One opened the door, while the other extended a gloved hand to help Mariselle descend the enchanted steps that had just shimmered into existence from thin air.
Rowanwood House rose before her, its warm honey-colored stone gleaming in the spring sunshine. Mariselle’s heart fluttered traitorously in her chest as she and Tilly ascended the steps, her hands growing clammy within her fine silk gloves. Was she truly the first Brightcrest to cross this threshold? Or had there been a time—perhaps generations ago, in that shadowed era her family refused to discuss—when Brightcrests had moved freely through these halls, welcomed at Rowanwood gatherings like any other noble family?
One of the footmen swung open the polished double doors, and Mariselle drew a steadying breath before stepping inside, Tilly a reassuring presence at her back.
A butler appeared in the entryway, offering a dignified bow. “Lady Mariselle Brightcrest and maid, as expected,” he announced. “Her Ladyship is in the drawing room. May I take your gloves, Lady Mariselle?”
She surrendered her gloves while her gaze traveled upward, taking in the graceful sweep of the staircase and the enchanted faelights that drifted near the ceiling, casting a warm glow despite the abundant natural light.
“If you please, miss,” a housekeeper addressed Tilly politely, “you may wait below stairs with the others while Lady Mariselle takes tea.”
Tilly glanced at Mariselle, who nodded her permission. The lady’s maidcurtseyed and followed the housekeeper down a discreet corridor, leaving Mariselle alone with the butler.
“If you would follow me, my lady,” he intoned, leading her across the marble-tiled entrance hall.
As they proceeded, Mariselle found herself instinctively cataloging details for her mother. The enchantments were tasteful rather than ostentatious—a delicate shimmer over the windowpanes suggesting subtle weather wards, a faint golden sheen around the edges of portrait frames, preserving the artwork’s color, and the occasional sparkle along the baseboards betraying a cleverly concealed draft-exclusion spell. Nothing extraordinary or particularly revelatory. Brightcrest Manor boasted far more impressive magical features, yet somehow felt … colder.
She pushed the disloyal thought aside as they reached a set of double doors. The butler rapped lightly, then opened them. “Lady Mariselle Brightcrest, ma’am,” he announced, stepping aside to allow her entry.
Mariselle squared her shoulders and glided into the drawing room, the picture of composure despite the anxious flutter in her stomach. The chamber was spacious and filled with light from the garden-facing windows. Comfortable seating was arranged around a low table upon which stood a pretty arrangement of folded paper flowers that moved subtly as if stirred by an enchanted breeze. Mariselle’s gaze swept the space, taking note of its occupants—Evryn, his mother, and his younger twin siblings, Aurelise and Kazrian. A faint breath of relief passed through her. Thank the stars Rosavyn wasn’t present.
Everyone rose from their seats in awkward unison. “Lady Mariselle,” greeted Lady Lelianna with a strained smile. “How delightful that you could join us today.”
“Thank you for the invitation, Lady Rowanwood,” Mariselle replied, dipping into a graceful curtsy.
“It is quite the historic occasion, welcoming a Brightcrest into our home.”
A suppressed snort drew Mariselle’s attention toward one of the windows—and there on the window seat cushions lounged a young woman with dark hair and a distinctly unimpressed expression. Ah. So Rosavyn Rowanwood was indeed present. Wonderful.
“Rosavyn,” Lady Lelianna said in a warning tone, and Mariselle’s gazebounced back to Evryn’s mother. Though her smile remained in place, the look in her eyes could have frozen molten lava.
After a long beat, Rosavyn let out a dramatic sigh and unfolded herself from the cushions. “As you wish, Mother,” she muttered as she moved to join her family with exaggerated slowness.
“Lovely,” Lady Lelianna said, turning her gaze back to Mariselle, though her smile was no less strained. “These are my younger children, Kazrian and Aurelise.” Kazrian bowed, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides as if he had too much energy and no way in which to release it, while Aurelise curtseyed, her eyes lowered. “And of course, you know?—”
“My beloved moonpie,” Evryn said, stepping forward and taking Mariselle’s hand in his. He bent over it, his lips brushing lightly across the silvery pattern of the supposed ‘soulbond’ that swirled across her skin.
Over his shoulder, Mariselle caught sight of Rosavyn making exaggerated retching motions. Lady Lelianna’s gaze snapped to her eldest daughter, and Rosavyn froze instantly beneath her mother’s withering stare. The absurdity of the moment—this elaborate charade, Rosavyn’s theatrics, the perfect tableau of family dysfunction—bubbled up unexpectedly in Mariselle’s chest. She bit her lower lip hard to contain the wholly inappropriate laughter threatening to escape.
Lady Lelianna gestured toward the seating arrangement with forced brightness. “Please, let us all be seated. Tea will be served shortly.”
Mariselle took her place on one of the sofas, carefully arranging her skirts as Evryn settled beside her—close enough that their proximity suggested intimacy, yet with sufficient space between them to maintain proper decorum. The air in the room felt thick with tension, every movement deliberate and measured. No one seemed to know where to look or what to say. The silence stretched uncomfortably until Evryn shifted, his hand disappearing into his coat pocket.
“I have something for you, my dearest,” he announced. “A small token of affection.” He withdrew a small velvet box and turned slightly to face her.
Oh good stars, what now? This was his retribution for the poetry gift, she had no doubt.
