Mariselle faced forward as Aurelise stepped onto the platform, her hands clasped tightly before her as she approached the magnificent piano.
“Our next performer,” Lady Bridgemere announced, “is Miss Aurelise Rowanwood, whose musical gifts have been the delight of private gatherings for some time. Tonight, we are honored that she has agreed to share her talent with us.”
A polite smattering of applause followed as Aurelise seated herself at the piano, her back straight, her shoulders tense. Mariselle caught the slight tremor in her hands as she positioned them above the keys, hesitating a moment too long. Just as the silence began to stretch uncomfortably, Aurelise closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began to play. The first notes were hesitant, almost tentative, and for a moment Mariselle feared she might falter.
But then, as if some internal threshold had been crossed, Aurelise’s entire demeanor transformed. Her shoulders relaxed, her expression softened, and her fingers began to move across the keys with fluid grace. The melody that emerged was hauntingly beautiful—complex and layered in a way that suggested far more experience than a girl of seventeen should possess.
As the music swelled, Mariselle became aware of a subtle shimmer in the air around Aurelise, like heat rising from sun-warmed stone. She watched, captivated, the music washing over her in waves that seemed to resonate with something deep within her own magic. There was power here, nascent but undeniable.
She glanced at Lady Lelianna across the room and recognized the look of pride on the woman’s face—and was struck by a deep and profound sense of sadness. Even if her own mother had known the full extent of Mariselle’s abilities, Lady Clemenbell’s eyes would never have held that fierce maternal pride.
A slight movement drew Mariselle’s attention, and she refocused on Evryn and Ryden. The latter was leaning forward slightly in his seat, his usual mask of casual indifference completely absent. Gone was the affected boredom, the deliberate nonchalance, the studied disregard for propriety. In their place was raw, unguarded appreciation, a vulnerability she suspected few had ever glimpsed.
She smiled to herself as she turned her gaze back to the subtle shimmer dancing in the air around Aurelise. It seemed they were all affected by the enchantment of her magic.
The final notes of the piece lingered in the air, sustained by the room’s magical acoustics before slowly fading into silence. For a moment, no one moved or spoke, the entire assembly held in thrall by what they had witnessed. Then applause erupted, more enthusiastic than for any previous performer.
Aurelise opened her eyes, looking momentarily startled to find herself before an audience. A shy smile curved her lips as she rose and curtseyed deeply, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
“She’s extraordinary,” Mariselle said as the applause died down, leaning closer to Evryn, her hand on his arm.
“Isn’t she?” he answered, pride evident in his voice as he reached over and placed his hand on hers. He squeezed lightly and then left his hand there, in a way that seemed entirely natural.
Or at least, it had felt entirely natural—until she noticed it. And then, quite suddenly, it was all she could notice. The gentle pressure of his palm against hers, the warmth of it seeping through her glove, the slow, absent-minded path his thumb traced across her skin. Was it intentional? Was someone watching? Was this still part of the performance? The questions tangled with a rush of sensation that made it difficult to think, to be anything other than acutely aware of him.
It was maddening. This was entirely unnecessary to their performance. She really should move her hand. But instead, she left it precisely where it was and forced her attention back to the stage as the next musician took his place.
She drew a measured breath, schooling her features into polite interest as the opening notes of the next piece filled the room. This peculiar flutter in her chest was nothing more than the discomfort of prolonged contact with aRowanwood. A perfectly natural aversion, heightened by the artifice of their charade. That was all. It would fade, just as the silver mark binding them would fade once they had fulfilled the terms of the contract.
She simply needed to remember what truly mattered: Dreamland, her family’s legacy, and finally earning the love and recognition she had craved for so long.
Chapter Twenty
The Brightcrest diningroom was a study in cold elegance, all sharp angles and glacial perfection, much like the family who occupied it. Evryn sat amid the splendor, acutely aware that he was witnessing what might well be the most uncomfortable dinner in all of fae history.
The contrast to the previous evening was jarring, like stepping from sunlight directly into shadow. The atmosphere the night before had become remarkably—and unintentionally—intimate, with the warm lighting of the chamber, the beauty of the music, and the inexplicable fact that Evryn’s hand had somehow ended up resting upon Mariselle’s. By the time he’d become aware of it, his thumb was already tracing patterns across her gloved skin, and removing his hand would have only called more attention to its placement. So he had left it there, and Mariselle hadn’t pulled away, not seeming to mind. If anything, she’d leaned in closer as the evening progressed.
But now, the Mariselle sitting across the dining table from him seemed an entirely different person—remote and untouchable, meeting his gaze only briefly and with cool detachment, as though the previous night’s closeness had never occurred.
What a contradiction she was.
For the past few nights, since stepping into Dreamland for the first time, Evryn had begun attempting to decode the puzzle that was Mariselle Brightcrest.Ink flowed across his notebook as he’d scribbled late into the night, documenting his observations since the start of the Season. Eventually, a portrait had begun to emerge on the page that bore little resemblance to the cold rival he’d believed he knew.
He’d written of her at the art auction, that fleeting moment when he’d seen her reach for her sister’s arm with what appeared to be an instinctive need for connection, only to be rudely rebuffed. He’d noted her hushed conversation with Iris, in which—according to what he’d heard later from Jasvian—Mariselle had actually apologized for whatever had occurred in the Thornhart maze last Season.
His quill had traced the gradual softening of her demeanor during tea at Rowanwood House, how her shoulders had lowered by increments, her laughter becoming bolder, as though she’d momentarily forgotten the enmity between their families. Even more telling had been his account of her with Petunia, the easy, unguarded affection between cousins, their interactions unmarred by calculation or restraint.
But nothing had flowed from his quill with such vivid detail as her transformation in Dreamland—that moment of pure, unabashed joy as she’d twirled beneath an impossible sky, her laughter as bright and uncomplicated as a child’s.
He’d reviewed these writings, searching for any evidence of the haughty Brightcrest ice princess. Instead, his observations had revealed someone completely different. Someone with unexpected depths, hidden vulnerabilities, and a warmth he never imagined she possessed.
But here was the ice princess now, across from him at the Brightcrest family table, encased once more in that flawless armor of frigid propriety. Straight-backed and distant, her expression a masterpiece of detached politeness, she was every inch the Mariselle he’d thought he’d known—the one his writings had so thoroughly contradicted.
Evryn grabbed his glass of amberberry wine and swirled it. The evening stretched ahead like an endless path of slippery ice, and he found himself missing the warmth of Dreamland’s cotton-candy skies and Mariselle’s genuine smile.
His arrival earlier had been an exquisite exercise in barely concealed hostility. Each Brightcrest had greeted him with the precise minimum ofcourtesy required, their smiles never reaching eyes that scrutinized him with the cold calculation of appraisers assessing damaged goods.
Lord Brightcrest’s handshake had been just firm enough to avoid insult while communicating volumes of distaste, while Lady Clemenbell’s curtsy was so shallow it bordered on impertinence, and Mariselle’s sister Ellowa hadn’t bothered to disguise her contempt at all. Only Mariselle’s cousin Petunia had offered anything resembling genuine warmth—a fleeting, sympathetic glance that spoke of her own outsider status within this glacial dynasty.
