CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Rose curtsied to Queen Priscilla, barely smothering her envy for the other woman’s unreal elegance and grace when she returned the gesture.

The queen smiled warmly. “It is my greatest honor to welcome you to my kingdom, Queen Orozalia,” she said as the orchestra transitioned from the Eradorian anthem to a lively jig. Most of the guests chattered among themselves, but Rose knew some still eavesdropped on their conversation. Her escorts hung back, quickly lost in the ever-rippling crowd—making her appear all the more independent, though she couldn’t help but feel their absence.

Rose dipped her head. “The honor is all mine, Queen Priscilla. Axaris is a magnificent city, and I already look forward to any future visits.”

“Axaria will accept you with open arms,” Priscilla said. A pause, accompanied by a puzzled frown. “Do excuse me, Your Majesty, but I must say that you look … awfully familiar.”

Rose’s gut clenched as she thought of Luna’s illusion work. She let her lips tilt up, playing it off. “People often jest that I am my mother’s duplicate, though I always found her nose to be a little taller than mine.”

Priscilla hummed. “I confess that it has been many years since I last saw the late Queen Lillian. She never seemed to be able to attend the Fairfest Ball, but all the more honor to have you with us. And my sincere condolences for your loss.”

“Your Majesty is most kind.”

“Well, then,” Priscilla said with another curtsy. “Do enjoy the festivities.”

Rose mirrored her. “A million thanks.”

Before the relief at getting away with Luna’s disguise could set in, Rose was immediately swept off the dais by a group of chattering ladies curtsying atop one another and cooing excessively over her dress, their own corsets drawn so tight that Rose wondered how they managed to breathe. Several guests made requests to dance with her later on, all of which she graciously accepted.

For an hour, she played her part as the Queen of Eradore, charming and flirting her way into the good books of every single damned noble and royal present. After all, she had alliances to secure for her country, business partnerships to establish, and most of all … she needed to show that she wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of her inexperience in the slightest.

Rose set an empty glass of champagne on a passing tray, keeping an eye out for Garringsford. Asterin leaned against the far wall, Orion kept watch by the balcony, and—

“Rose,” a familiar voice breathed behind her.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Kane.

How in the all-loving name of the Immortals had he managed to sneak in? There was no chance he could have gotten his hands on an invitation, and slinking past all the guards … if only he had put those wily wits to better use at the Academia. She couldn’t decide whether to be furious or impressed.

“What are you doing here?” Rose hissed, without turning around.

“I happened to be in the next kingdom over, and I heard you would be coming to Axaris for the ball. I had to see you, of course.” The lingering hand brushed against her hip, but the prickle up her spine that followed wasn’t from his touch. A slip of paper had found its way into the cup of her palm. She curled her fingers around it. It was still warm. “Just a little thank you. For … everything. From before.” She could feel his eyes roving up her body, burning hot, but she refused to spare him even a glance. “Rose, I want to fix things between us—”

Her jaw clenched. Three times is far too many to fall for this act again. “Don’t.” She exhaled through her nose, flashing a coy smile at a random passing lord. She closed her eyes briefly and then snapped them open when she heard a growl.

Quinlan stood before her, glaring over her shoulder at Kane with his teeth bared. “You.”

A choked cough from Kane. “Qu-Quinlan?”

Quinlan was unrecognizable beneath Luna’s illusion—nevertheless, anyone who knew him as well as Kane once had would recognize that wrath in his voice.

“Yeah. Remember me?” said Quinlan, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Next time I see you talking to my cousin, you eat fire. Now beat it.”

Rose opened her mouth, then closed it. Before, she might have said something in Kane’s defense … but no, it didn’t matter now. He had hurt her in more ways than she cared to admit.

“Rose, wait …”

She shook her head. “Just go, Kane.”

A bell rang, not a moment too soon, and the guests cleared out of the way as guards filed into the ballroom, levitating heavy oak tables between them upon currents of air. They arranged them in impeccable lines down the length of the hall. The guests burst into lengthy applause as silverware and decorations even more lavish than those already present materialized from thin air, hidden behind layers of illusion.

By the time the applause had died, Kane was gone.

Quinlan reached for Rose’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “We need to talk about that sometime. I … I have apologies to make.”

“Okay,” Rose whispered. When she was certain he had turned away, she allowed herself a little smile.

Later, after they had been seated as per ornate cursive notecards and Queen Priscilla had made her first grand speech of the night on Axaria’s behalf, the servants paraded from the kitchens bearing steaming platters that caused half the hall to drool over their lotus-folded napkins.

Rose picked up her spoon. Quinlan, at her side, had already finished half of his soup. She spared a glance at her other two disguised escorts. Only one personal guard was permitted per guest for dinner, and only for the royals seated at the head table. The others stood vigilant along the walls, eyes sweeping the room. Asterin and Orion blended in perfectly, garnering no more attention than the occasional once-over. After mentally marking their location, Rose took a moment to observe her dinner companions for the night.

King Jakob Evovich of Ibreseos sat stewing silently at Priscilla’s right. He’d only spoken with Rose long enough to exchange a cool greeting. On his left was the willowy Queen Belinda of Oprehvar—Priscilla’s second cousin—and her towering husband, King Marcus, so gigantic that he was seated in a custom-made chair, low enough so that his knees wouldn’t bang against the table every time he moved. King Nori and Queen Kinsa of Cyeji were notably absent.

Across from Rose was a familiar face—Prince Sol of Morova, with his olive skin and pretty gray eyes, chin tipped regally toward his soup. His mother, Queen Calla, was deep in an animated discussion with King Marcus. Prince Sol had often accompanied his father, King Bas, on visits to the Eradorian palace, and the prince had even studied briefly at the Academia Principalis to learn how to control his untamed light affinity. Even before King Bas had disappeared at sea on a voyage to Artica, Sol had taken it upon himself to guide Morova and contribute to its global status. He had negotiated with world leaders to create several new overseas trade routes in order to expand Morova’s import-export activities, and under his command, the institutions in Morovis had begun amassing books and papers from all over the kingdom for deeper analysis and to help the kingdom establish a stronger foothold in the advancement of magic.

Next to the prince and his guards were two other frequent visitors to Eradoris—albeit only recently. All night, King Allard of Galanz and his daughter, the scholarly Princess Rowena, had kept to themselves. Rowena’s mother, Queen Madeleine, was quite ill, and it evidently weighed upon the pair. Rose herself had arranged the care of the highly esteemed Doctor Ilroy from Ermir, the second largest city in Eradore.

Glancing up, she caught the brazen amber stare of Prince Viyo, the Volterro royal that she had only heard about in passing. He adjusted his bright yellow finery, vivid against his dark umber skin, and raised an eyebrow at her. Beside him sat his older sister, Queen Valeria, in shimmering gold, a thick torque choker of yellow diamonds encircling her slender neck.

Rose stared right back at Viyo until he began fidgeting. He finally turned away, directing his stare instead at the occupants of the next table over, where the Duchess of Ignatia, one of Quinlan’s distant cousins, chattered away to Lord Tylas of Ermir. And beside her sat the Duke of Orielle with his bristly mustache, engrossed in a heated debate with the Countess of Ichaqar.

Deciding that she had enough privacy—or as much privacy as one could have in a room full of hawk-eyed snoops with no qualms when it came to juicy gossip—Rose unfurled Kane’s message underneath the edge of the table, hidden in the shadows of the satin lilac tablecloth. Quinlan’s gaze was seemingly elsewhere, but she knew better.

Rose frowned. She looked up at King Jakob and Queen Priscilla, but gleaned nothing from either their muted conversation or their body language. Peacocks didn’t have fangs—but vipers certainly did. While lifting a spoonful of soup to her lips, she passed the note to Quinlan. There was a quiet hiss as he burnt it to cinders. She waved a hand beneath the table to disperse the thin curl of smoke drifting upward.

With her mind on other things, dinner passed in a blur. Garringsford had yet to make an appearance. Soon after dessert was cleared and the tables spelled away, a chime silenced the room. The guests turned their attention to the throne, where Priscilla stood, glass raised.

“Tonight,” the queen began, her voice melodious, “we celebrate the eve of Fairfest.” A light smattering of applause. “We have already feasted, and soon we will rejoice at the arrival of summer with a night of dancing and music.” More applause. “However, some of you may have puzzled over the absence of a person of great importance to our kingdom.” A few nods of agreement. “At this very moment, my beloved daughter, Princess Asterin, courageously defends Axaria. Some of you have perhaps heard of a demon terrorizing our people. This is true—and the princess has taken it upon herself to eradicate this monster in a valiant act of fearlessness.” Priscilla’s eyes glittered turquoise in the light of the chandeliers. “And so, I should like to propose a toast in her name. To the heroic bravery and successful return of the princess!”

“To Princess Asterin!” the ballroom chorused, glasses raised in salute. Asterin drank alongside everyone else, as if for reassurance.

“And now,” Priscilla announced, “let us honor Fairfest!”