Maeve stared at the display, mesmerized. It was both thrilling and slightly disconcerting all at once.
Once she returned to her room with Cahira to prepare for the Samhwyn celebration, the wolfing leapt up onto her bed, promptly curled into a ball of white fur and wings and fell asleep. It was then Maeve spied the small package sitting on her nightstand. Ribbons of red wrapped around it and formed a bow, and attached to the top was a small white card scrawled with two simple words.
From Rowan.
A gift.
Apparently, Rowan had gotten her something for her birthday, and though her fingers itched to reach for the present and unwrap it, she decided to wait until after she dressed. Besides, part of her was still aggravated with him for the way he treated her the other day. Not only when she’d fought Laurel and he’d hauled her from the sky like a scorned child, but also for the way he’d disregarded her the following morning at breakfast.
She supposed the gift could have been a means of apologizing, but either way, it would wait until after she was ready.
Maeve sifted through the items in her wardrobe until she found the gown Aed had given her. She peeled off her clothes, tossing them to the floor, eager to try on the stunning dress. She carefully stepped into it, securing it into place. The jeweled bodice was snug against her breasts, shoving them upward, putting her cleavage on display. The slit was as high as she thought, coming straight to her hip.
Scarlet silk cascaded around her like a waterfall, and she realized the black lace roses were embroidered with hundreds of tiny diamonds. She twirled once in front of the floor-length mirror, stunned by the fluidity of the gown. It floated around her at the hem, clung to her curves with accurate perfection.
She looked positively Archfae.
Though she would’ve preferred boots, she slipped on a pair of absurdly high heels, then scanned the array of powders and pots of paint set atop her vanity. She selected a deep crimson shade for her lips, then lightly lined her eyes with kohl. Running her fingers through her loose curls, she shook them out, opting to leave her hair down. Mostly for simplicity, but also because her only other talent in that area of femininity was a braid, and it didn’t seem classy enough for such an occasion.
It would be different if she had someone to help her dress, but alas, she was on her own.
Maeve put on the matching black satin gloves, tugging them up over her elbows, then reached for Rowan’s gift.
A sigh escaped her, and she pulled the ribbon, unraveling it.Tucked into a cushion of silver tissue was a necklace, simple yet lovely.
It was woven black leather,trimmed with moonstone beads, and a large clear crystal dangled from its center. She unhooked the silver clasp and wrapped it around her neck. It was a little larger than she expected but pretty, nonetheless. Her other necklace, the one with the decadent opal and shining amethyst, fell neatly beneath it.
Maeve debated taking it off. She always wore it, but as she reached behind her to unclasp the golden chain, she stilled. The stones were warm against her skin, radiating with power, pulsing with magic. This necklace was precious to her. There was a reason she never removed it and yet…
She gently unfastened the gold necklace and laid it across the small vanity. It didn’t quite match the rubies and garnets of her dress.
She turned around to find Cahira stretching lazily across the bed, her sleepy, frost-blue eyes watching her with fleeting interest.
“How do I look?” Maeve asked, spinning once.
Cahira yawned and curled back into herself, falling asleep.
“Thanks.” Maeve rolled her eyes, then ran a hand along the wolfing’s soft, powdery white fur.
She opened the door to her bedroom, half expecting to find someone waiting on the other side to escort her to the ballroom. When she glanced out into the dimly lit corridor, she found it empty.
Following the sound of music and voices, she strolled through the House of Death, discovering a set of open ebony doors where glowing faerie light and the gentle strumming of string instruments spilled out into the hall. The wooden doors were carved with skulls and nightshade blooms. Beyond them was a glamorous ballroom with decorations designed to mimic that of a wild autumn forest.
The ceiling reflected a harvest sky, complete with a blood moon, thin gray clouds, and a smattering of stars. Large trees took up space along the walls, each of them bursting with leaves of goldenrod, carmine, and rusted orange. Woven baskets overflowed with sprigs of cinnamon and ripe red apples. Toward the back of the ballroom, a bonfire roared to life, filling the space with warmth to ward off the chilly autumn night. Long tables stretched around the opposite side of the room, brimming with platters of roasted meat, vegetables, freshly baked rolls, and several delicious desserts.
Twin sleek, obsidian staircases curved toward the dance floor below, where immortals of all different races gathered. There were faeries and nymphs, dryads and selkies. She recognized a few to be Puca, their signature curved horns protruding from their heads. Icy cold fear gripped her heart, squeezing violently. The sensation jarred her. Chilled her. She shook off the uncomfortable feeling, her gaze scanning the rest of the ballroom. Some partygoers were shifters, while others looked as though they could pass for mortals. She’d never seen so many beings gathered in one place before, and she wasn’t sure if all of them were dead or if any were still alive, like her.
Nervous energy skittered through her, dampening her palms. An anxious knot wound its way through her stomach, and she inhaled quickly to calm the rapid beating of her heart.
It was only a celebration.
A dance.
She wasn’t being put on display, and she had nothing to fear. Yet even as she descended the winding staircase, she knew she was being watched.
She took the final step off the staircase and glanced to her left. There stood Rowan, lounging against a pillar covered in leaves of burgundy and gold, his lavender eyes on her. He was devastatingly handsome, dressed in all black, from his pants and the shine of his boots to his tailored shirt and vest. His hair was tousled, falling over half of his face. He shoved off the pillar and strode toward her, and the sea of bodies dancing and mingling seemed to part just for him.
Of course they moved out of his way—he was the Nightweaver.
