Mariselle laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders beginning to ease. “I believe I may have just shocked Lady Rivenna Rowanwood,” she admitted. “And not entirely in a bad way.”
“Oh?” A slow, approving smile spread across Evryn’s face. He moved to stand beside her, sliding a hand around her waist until it settled at her lower back. He drew her closer than was strictly proper, and as the two of them headed back toward the Rowanwoods’ table, he leaned close and murmured, “Now there is a story I should very much like to hear.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Evryn tuckedhis riding cap and gloves into Cobalt’s saddlebag, then ran a hand through his hair, attempting to restore some semblance of artful disarray. His boots crunched softly over the ground as he made his way past the quiet remains of Dreamland toward Windsong Cottage, telling himself how silly it was to be here at all. Dreamland’s lumyrite structure was intact now. There wasn’t anything left that required his particular abilities.
It was her. He knew it. Some undeniable magnetic pull toward Mariselle Brightcrest had drawn him here tonight, like a dusk sprite to a flame.
The previous evening at the tea house had left him … unsettled. He’d found himself gravitating toward her as the night progressed, leaning closer during conversation, seeking excuses to touch her hand or brush against her shoulder, until his mother had begun directing pointed glances of disapproval his way.
Even after returning home, sleep had eluded him entirely. He’d tossed restlessly among his bedsheets, mind filled with her laugh, her quick wit, the subtle vanilla scent that clung to her hair. Some small, foolish part of him had hoped he might find himself in her dreamscape again, but dawn had arrived without any such encounter.
He’d risen from bed with the disquieting realization that he missedher—that in the span of mere weeks, Mariselle Brightcrest had somehow become the axis around which his thoughts revolved.
Now, hours later, he walked past the remains of the outer Dreamland ruins, where luminous moss clung stubbornly to the stone. While the essential lumyrite structure that powered Dreamland had been completely restored, the site’s exterior still showed signs of decay—crumbling columns and half-fallen archways.
He reached the path that traced through the cottage garden and followed it until he stood before the front door. He pushed it open, stepped through, and was immediately hit with the sound of laughter—bright, breathless, and utterly unrestrained.
Mariselle.
The sound spilled from the sitting area like sunlight through an open window, and for a moment, Evryn could do nothing but stand still and listen, the sound weaving through him like a spell, disarming and golden.
He closed the door, taking in the scene before him. Mariselle and Petunia were sprawled comfortably on the floor, surrounded by books and papers in various states of disarray, with the dream core sitting to one side. Petunia held a plate of half-eaten jam tarts, while Mariselle sat cross-legged, hugging a cushion to her chest, her skirts arranged with a complete disregard for propriety that would have scandalized half of Bloomhaven. Her hair was still blue, Evryn noted, and she was bent forward over the cushion, gasping with laughter.
She looked up, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing. “Oh, Evryn! Petunia loves your idea about adding narrative experiences to Dreamland. She has some additions.” She immediately dissolved into laughter again, barely managing to get out, “Tell him, Tunia.”
Evryn did not miss the fact that she’d called himEvrynand notRowanwood, possibly for the first time ever in the waking world, but he did his best to focus on her cousin.
Petunia appeared composed as ever, but there was a dangerous sparkle in her eye. “Right,” she said crisply. “So we begin with a historical romp involving scandalous laundry thefts.”
Evryn blinked. “Pardon?”
“Visitors must infiltrate a floating manor staffed entirely by ghostly footmen in cravats made of cobwebs,” she explained. “Their mission is torecover a set of monogrammed petticoats that once belonged to the Grand Duchess of Silkenwhim, who, incidentally, haunts the laundry room and sings aggressively off-key opera when provoked.”
Mariselle was doubled over now, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“And,” Petunia continued, entirely unbothered, “the escape route involves leaping from a window onto a floating picnic blanket made of bubbles, flown by a flamingo in a waistcoat.”
“Of course it does,” Evryn said.
“Oh, and then,” Petunia said with a businesslike nod, “we pivot to interpretive kettle dancing.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“As you should be. Guests are assigned an enchanted kettle that whistles a different tune according to the color of their clothing. They must perform a synchronized dance routine in the Valley of Echoes, where each misstep is punished by a gust of floral confetti and very judgmental squirrels. The glittery pink sort.”
“Highly judgmental,” Mariselle wheezed. “They wag their tiny paws.”
“And finally,” Petunia concluded, “the grand finale: guests must outwit a sentient wig.”
Evryn raised both eyebrows.
“A bewitched bouffant,” Petunia said, “crafted from starspun threads and the regrets of debutantes past. It has opinions about social hierarchy. Guests must either flatter it with elaborate compliments or duel it in the Glittering Grove using parasols and riddles.”
Mariselle collapsed backward onto the rug with a gasp. “I cannot—I’mcrying, Tunia.”
Evryn watched her, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. Mariselle, completely unguarded, breathless and radiant and entirely improper. And standing in the middle of the room, he realized—utterly, quietly, undoubtedly—that he was in love with her.
