Entering the ballroom felt like stepping out into a meadow. Niamh touched a hand to her lips to keep herself from crying aloud with delight.
Flowers overflowed from pots balanced on marble columns, tumbled from the balconies, and wove through plates of cakes on the refreshment table. A few even floated in the punch bowl. Hundreds of candles flickered all around her, casting the ballroom in an intimate glow. Firelight winked off the low-hanging chandeliers and lacquered the hardwood floor to a breathtaking shine. And as the sun dipped low and streamed through those glorious windows, everything went gilded and warm.
“This dance floor will open,” the footman by the doors solemnly informed her, “when Her Royal Highness Infanta Rosa arrives.”
A massive white sheet lay over the dance floor. How curious, Niamh thought, that they could not even look at it until Rosa’s arrival.
She wandered as if in a dream. Beleaguered servants milled about, carrying silver platters with bite-sized dishes she had never seen before. She sampled layered puddings in tiny glasses; sandwiches with cucumbers sliced so thin, she barely had to chew; and three jam-filled biscuits each topped with a crystallized flower petal.
As she helped herself to another, a middle-aged woman seized Niamh by the arm and all but dragged her into her group of friends. Her eyes sparkled with wonder. “I say, who designed your gown?”
“I did,” Niamh said through a mouthful of biscuit. “My name is Niamh Ó Conchobhair.”
A ripple of amused silence traveled through the group, and some of the genuine mirth faded from the woman’s face. Cruel delight took its place.
“You? A Machlish girl?” the woman cried. “Oh, my. Why, how very quaint. I need you to make a gown for my daughter at once. No, don’t speak now. I shall call on you—oh, dear me. Can you even read? How thoughtless of me to assume!”
The insult stung, but Niamh did her best to smile through it. She’d hoped for a better life here. But a better life, she realized now, came with a thousand smaller hardships. As she made her way across the ballroom, she stumbled from one horrid conversation to another.
“What a shame. Such potent divine blood but no money or status at all,” one woman tutted. “However, I daresay you are pretty enough that a certain sort of family might give you to one of their younger sons. I do hear that Machlish women produce many children.”
“You must come stay in my estate for a time, if I can wrest you away from your lord,” an old man told her weepily. “Your gown … I have not felt this sort of whimsy since I was a boy. Nothing makes me happy any longer, you see, save my glorious horses.”
“How strange you must find it here,” remarked one of the debutantes. “We Avlish are so buttoned-up compared to your people. In Machland, I hear you run wild in the hills. And oh, the stories one hears about your rituals!”
No one asked her to dance.
Once she escaped the last of her accosters, Niamh found her way to a chair and collapsed into it, grateful to take the weight off her feet. Her skirts puddled around her, glittering so brightly beneath the candlelight they hurt her eyes. Balls, it seemed, were far less romantic and far more humiliating than she’d expected. She squeezed her eyes shut for a count of three, swallowing down the familiar burn of tears in her throat.
When she opened them again, she spotted Sinclair stumbling into the ballroom from one of the wings. It didn’t take a particularly seasoned member of the court to guess what he’d been up to. His jacket was suspiciously rumpled, and his cravat was tied loosely around his neck, although tied was a generous word for what he’d done to it. Admittedly, she was impressed it’d taken him no more than an hour to find someone to sneak off with.
Their gazes met, and his whole face brightened. He lifted one finger, as if to say, wait. He retrieved two glasses of punch from the refreshment table and ambled over to her. His golden hair fell wildly across his forehead, and he all but glowed in the candlelight, as saintly as a gilded icon in an Avlish church.
“Well, aren’t you a vision? You’re like sunshine itself.”
Niamh warmed under his compliment. “Hello, Sinclair.”
He handed her a glass and clinked his own against it. Niamh sipped at the punch—and nearly spit it back into the glass. Alcohol burned her throat and roiled in her stomach. She tasted no fewer than three different types of spirits—and wine besides. Goodness, how did anyone manage to dance, much less walk, if they drank more than one of these?
Sinclair leaned on the wall beside her and gestured vaguely at the ballroom. “How are you enjoying yourself?”
Niamh set her glass down on a nearby table. “It has been, ehm … interesting? But the food is incredible.”
“It looks incredible on you as well,” he said good-naturedly.
She glanced down to see the fingers of her gloves stained bright red with jam. At least she hoped it was jam. “Oh, gods. Please pretend you did not see that.”
“I make no promises. It is very endearing.” He grinned. “Do you have space on your dance card? I’d never forgive myself if I missed the opportunity to stand up with you.”
“You may take your pick.” She flashed him her empty card. That stubborn, maudlin loneliness threatened to overtake her again, so she added, “It’s for the best. I never learned to dance like you do here.”
In Machland, parties were a more intimate affair: fewer people, faster dances, less formal clothes. Here, she imagined the dances were as prim and regimented as everything else, all of the guests twirling on their course like figures in a music box.
“Then allow me to teach you to waltz. A lovely girl like you not dancing on the first ball of the Season? I won’t allow it.”
A tentative spark of excitement kindled within her, but she smothered it as best she could. “I couldn’t! I will embarrass you.”
“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” His expression turned so overwrought and pitiful, she couldn’t help smiling. “Please say yes.”
“Very well, but don’t say I did not warn you when I step on your feet.”
“I very much look forward to it.” He squinted at the dance floor. The tarp laid over it remained undisturbed, like a fresh bank of snow. Some of the guests lingered at its edge, eyeing it with eager, impatient interest. “Assuming we ever get the chance.”
“I was told the dance floor will not open until Infanta Rosa arrives. Is that customary?”
Sinclair waved a hand. “In a way. Every year, Jack commissions an artist to chalk the dance floor for the inaugural ball of the Season. I imagine that this year, he’s asked for the design to pay homage to our Castilian guests. We cannot have it ruined before they see it.”
She could envision it now. Couples turning about the room as magic sparkled in the air. Chalk dust rising in clouds around them. The artwork smeared across the floor in wild, giddy lines. The bittersweet thought of such fragile, impermanent beauty made her heart ache with longing. “It sounds spectacular.”
“It is. You ought to see it when it’s unveiled.” He offered her his arm and smiled when she took it. “Let’s get a better vantage point.”
“All right,” she said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.
As he led her through the crowds, the whispers began. At first, Niamh could ignore it. But as gazes followed them across the floor—some pitying, some derisive, some amused—she couldn’t deny it any longer. Her stomach dropped with shame, and her skin felt boiling hot beneath their scrutiny.
“Sinclair?” Niamh whispered. “Why is everyone staring at us?”
“Hm?” He scanned the room briefly. “Ah. That would be my fault.”
“Please, do not spare my feelings,” Niamh pressed. “Everyone tonight has made it very clear what they think of me. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
His easy gait faltered, then slowed to a stop. He determinedly avoided looking at her. “It isn’t because of you. I don’t know how to say this, but I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you.”
“I see.” Niamh searched his expression, half-concealed beneath the tousled mop of his hair. “What do you mean?”
“My attention to you thus far hasn’t been entirely selfless. That isn’t to say I don’t enjoy your company. I do, but I…” He let out a choked laugh. “I could use some air. How about you?”
Whatever he had to confess clearly weighed on him. She squeezed his forearm reassuringly. “You can tell me. I will not be angry.”
“At the presentation of the debutantes, do you recall when Jack asked if I’d put any thought into what he said?” When she nodded, he barreled onward. “He asked me to court someone this Season. More accurately, to pretend to court someone. I know it sounds mad. But I don’t have the best reputation, and he doesn’t want it to touch Kit more than it already has. Of course, I will do my best to help you navigate the Season. I could introduce you to what few acquaintances I still have, if you would like. But I would never presume—”
“Sinclair, ah … I am very sorry to interrupt.” Her head spun. “May I ask why? You are perfectly charming. Surely, there is a woman here who would encourage your affections—”
“I don’t want to court a woman.” He held her gaze steadily, and it took only a moment for his meaning to dawn on her.
In Machland, no laws prevented them from loving or marrying whomever they pleased. She and Erin had never officially courted, but the night before Erin had left for Avaland last year, she’d taken Niamh to the cliffs just outside Caterlow. As the sun had dipped low into the ocean, turning Erin’s red hair as brilliant as flame, she’d kissed Niamh. The languid heat of it, the fizzling, impossible happiness of that moment, had felt as fleeting as chalk on a ballroom floor. Niamh could not promise to wait for her—not when she did not know how long she had left. She could not follow her, either. Not for an ill-paying job. Not even for her own happiness.
The wounded compassion in Erin’s eyes had nearly broken her.
But in Avaland, where wealth and magic intertwined, where the nobility fiercely protected its magical bloodlines, it did not shock her to learn they disapproved of such matches.
“We are of a kind,” she said, which earned her a relieved smile. “But why me? I am hardly a suitable match for you.”
“That is exactly why you’re perfect! You’re not here to find a husband. No marriage-minded mother would let me anywhere near her daughter. Besides, I’d say you and I are about equal in the eyes of society. In fact, you might be more respectable than I am. I’ve no divine blood.”
“But you are still a noble,” she protested. And yet, the herald had announced him as Mr. Gabriel Sinclair.
“No longer,” he said bitterly. “I’m not Pelinor’s son—not by blood, anyway. He raised me like a cuckoo in his home to protect both himself and my mother from the shame of her indiscretion. But a few years ago … Well, let us say that I wore out his generosity. A bastard without divine blood, he tolerated as best he could. A bastard with proclivities such as mine, he could have overlooked if I’d carried my mother’s divine blood. But both? It could not be borne.”
“He disowned you.”
“Yes.” Sinclair sighed, but she watched him carefully tuck away his pain behind a smile. “But Kit has made sure I am taken care of. I have an allowance from him.”
“What?” She wasn’t sure what shocked her more: that the duke would be so cold, or that Kit would be so generous. “But that’s horrible!”
“You do not need to fret over me. It’s a very nice townhouse that Kit bought for me. In fact, you should come and see it sometime.” He winked, but she couldn’t bring herself to play along with his hollow flirtations. How could he so determinedly gloss over something so painful? When he drank in her expression, Sinclair sobered. “I’ve upset you. My sincerest apologies.”
“No, please do not be sorry. One shouldn’t have to bear one’s burdens alone.” Niamh took both of his hands in hers. “I’m very glad you told me. And for what little it’s worth, I would be honored to consider your suit.”
His eyes shone with gratitude. “Ah, Miss O’Connor, I will break your heart in the end.”
“And I shall hate you bitterly for it,” she replied warmly. “Call me Niamh.”
“Niamh.”
The sound of her name, spoken with such welcome familiarity, lit her up from within. Tonight bore no resemblance to her silly daydreams. Even so, here in a ballroom full of people who disdained them both, she’d finally found a friend.
“Sinclair. There you are.”
Just as quickly as her night had improved, it soured once again.
Kit hovered just a few paces away, all the fine thread of his jacket silvery and cool. All the candlelight gathered around him, softening the sharpest edges of his features. Her mouth went infuriatingly dry at the sight of him. Here, at last, was a prince stepped out from the pages of a Jaillean storybook. Or a Fair One, cruel and beautiful, with how effortlessly and maddeningly he ensnared her attention.
And then, he turned his golden eyes to her and added, “You.”
You. As if he did not know her name after all this time!
“The man of the hour makes an appearance at last,” Sinclair cut in. With a touch of apprehension in his voice, he asked, “What have you got there?”
“Lemonade,” Kit replied curtly, “so you can stop looking at me like that.”
“Right. Of course.”
For the first time, Niamh sensed awkwardness between them. She inspected the glass in Kit’s hand. It was indeed lemonade, garnished with a sprig of mint and a thin sliver of cucumber. Strangely, he was one of the only people in the room without a glass of punch. He’d seemed distracted earlier in the reception room, but now, he was downright agitated. His jaw ticked, and his eyes roved the ballroom, landing on nothing and no one.
“Jack is clearly determined to spite me,” he said after a long moment, clearly doing his best to break the tense silence. “It’s so sweet, I can hardly stand to drink it.”
She gasped. “You don’t like sweets?”
“No,” he said, visibly taken aback by her horror.
It seemed impossible that one man could be so monstrous. “How can that be?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t,” he said defensively. He seemed entirely flustered by the accusation in her voice, which only baffled her further. “Here.”
He did not exactly thrust the lemonade toward her, but he offered it to her hastily, as though he’d been compelled against his own volition or better judgment. The ice inside rattled ominously. Too bewildered to refuse, Niamh accepted it. The glass chilled her skin, and a trickle of water slid down the side, soaking into her glove. She stared, transfixed, at the condensation beading on the rim, where his lips had left behind the faintest impression. She’d have to rotate it before taking a sip. Gods, now she was flustered.
Sinclair looked at the two of them with an expression warring between awestruck and nauseated. Very slowly, he took a sip of his punch, as though he had to physically restrain himself from saying anything.
A murmur swept through the ballroom. It multiplied, until Niamh could make out the content of it: Infanta Rosa has arrived.
“I have to go,” Kit muttered. “Bye.”
And with that, he was gone. What a strange man. But she could not dwell on it. Right now, she had better things to do than wonder at his behavior. She stood on her toes and craned her neck to look out over the crowd—and instantly spotted Rosa.
Once again, she wore all black like a mourner. She walked arm in arm with her pretty lady’s maid, following the path her father’s broad, epauletted shoulders carved through the ballroom. A thick ribbon of black banded the empire waistline of her gown, and the jet beads on her skirt caught the light with every step.
Jack waited to receive them on a makeshift dais, his hands clasped before him and Sofia standing serenely at his side. As the king and the prince regent spoke, the guests shifted restlessly around her. Everyone was eager to dance.
At long last, Jack stepped forward and projected over the crowd in his stately cadence. “I am honored to open the floor for the inaugural ball of the Season. As many of you know, it has become tradition to mark the occasion with art chalked on the dance floor. This year, I have prepared something very special for our guests—who soon I will have the honor of calling family. Without further ado…”
He gestured at a pair of footmen, who lifted the corners of the tarp in unison.
“What will it be this year?” someone muttered eagerly. “Last year’s will be hard to beat.”
“A portrait of the princess herself, do you think? The one he had done of Princess Sofia on their wedding was absolutely exquisite.”
Inch by inch, the footmen rolled back the tarp to reveal the floor.
The giddy murmurs of the crowd intensified.
And the hope dropped clean off Jack’s face.
Rosa gazed out at the dance floor with a studiously blank expression. Her dark eyes, however, twinkled with amusement. Her father, meanwhile, did not look at all impressed. He turned to Jack expectantly, but the prince regent did not seem to notice him at all. His complexion brightened from ghostly pale to livid red.
From her vantage point, Niamh could see the dance floor laid out before her. In bold, angry lines, someone had drawn the sun in the style of a Machlish rune: the symbol of the god of justice and his ruthless, illuminating glory. It was an emblem even the Avlish would recognize. It’d been scrawled on buildings and hoisted up on flags in the lead-up to the Machlish War of Independence. It was a clear enough message alone, but the artist had also scrawled Machlish words beneath the sun.
Sinclair leaned over to Niamh and whispered, “What does it say?”
Niamh flushed. She could not very well repeat what it said—especially not here of all places. “I do not think you want to know.”
Sometimes, she believed their language had been made for curses, for there was a spare elegance to them in the Machlish tongue. It lost some of its power in Avlish, but what it said was this:
Jack Carmine, may the gates of heaven never open to you.
May there be guinea-fowl crying at your child’s birth.
May you see what you’ve become.