Chapter 13 #2
Oliver opened and closed his mouth. Twice. Speechless, because though her upturned cards were stronger than Grace’s, he hadn’t
expected her to win. Grace was supposed to win. But Emmy had outcheated her.
The nearby tables of partygoers paused their games to watch Oliver, Grace, and Clara pick out their masks: a deer with enormous
antlers for Oliver, the pig for Clara, and a squirrel with lifelike fur for Grace.
“Nice hand, Winnie,” Jack murmured.
Emmy refused to look at him. He’d forgive the risk when these three looked like animals the rest of the night.
Grace held her mask by its ribbons, careful not to touch it. “A gift for you, Mary.”
Before Emmy could protest, Grace dropped the mask into Mary’s hands, and the poor girl’s face grew wide and furry, her eyes
blackening.
“You’re supposed to wear it yourself!” Emmy exclaimed.
“You thought we’d wear them?” Clara laughed as she held her pig’s mask to the face of her own attendant, who tried to squirm away. As soon as
it touched her, the maid’s skin morphed to a lifeless pink and her nose swelled to a snout.
“This is for dropping the cards.” Oliver tossed the stag mask to the dealer, who could not dodge it in time. As soon as it
touched him, he yelped, and antlers sprouted from his temples.
The line of watching attendants shifted on their feet.
And Emmy’s blood boiled. “You said, ‘Only the winner avoids the mask.’”
If she’d lost, she would have been stuck in a mask. No one would have told her otherwise.
“Oh dear.” Grace exchanged an amused look with Oliver before offering Emmy a consolatory smile. “We should have been clearer. In the Society of the Charmed, servants’ bets are as good as our own.”
That slippery little wretch. Emmy glared as Grace patted the arm of her squirrel-faced lady’s maid, but Mary disappeared,
vanishing without a trace. The onlookers screamed in delight, searching for the invisible maid as if it were another game.
“Care for another round?” Clara purred. Behind her, Grace and Oliver pranced about, arms wide as they searched for the poor
maid.
“Maybe later.” With a dip of his top hat, Jack excused himself, pulling Emmy’s arm. “Turn around and curtsy to them,” he said
through his teeth.
“Absolutely not,” she hissed.
“You’re making a scene.”
The other guests had paused their games to laugh at the staff whose faces had morphed into grisly, human-size animals’. Three
innocent bystanders. No, worse: three people who depended on the Society to make their living. The wrongness of it stoked
that fire in her chest. The more they laughed, the more Emmy burned.
“Miss Fairchild!” Clara called.
Halting her feet, Emmy tried to wipe the fury from her face before turning around. Clara was hurrying toward her. “Here’s
my card. In case you change your mind about your wardrobe.”
Oh, she’d visit Clara’s dress shop again, to find out exactly how Clara was making so many enchanted gowns.
As Emmy glanced at the card, something brushed her face, and she jumped back, swatting. But she was too late; an otherworldly
chill was already spreading over her cheeks.
She knew that prickling sensation of ice seeping into her bones: Grace’s gift.
Clara’s delighted smile doubled, tripled, as Emmy swayed on her feet. “A rabbit’s fitting for someone with dirt conjury, wouldn’t
you agree?”
The nearby laughter swelled as Emmy tried to pull off the mask, but it had become her. Bits of fur thrust from her pristine skin, and whiskers, oh God, whiskers—
The laughter crested as Emmy huddled on the ground, trying to hide her face from the delighted crowd. Jack was beside her,
his shouts deafening to her too-large ears. She let him pull her to her feet, let him hide her ice-cold face against his chest.
She was back at her debutante ball, half-naked in her torn gown. Outplayed by Clara and Grace, once again. How many times
could she underestimate their cruelty? No matter the face she wore, Emmy was naive and pathetic and—
No. Winnie Fairchild would not be the jester of their terrible court.
With her face still hidden against Jack, Emmy let the brume surround her, let her power gather like a tempest. She pictured
Winnie’s face as she’d practiced it so many times in the mirror: breathtaking and alluring and closer to perfection than anyone
ought to be.
Letting go of Jack, Emmy faced those who’d gathered to ridicule her, the newcomer in their sick, twisted games. As their laughter
died, she tossed the mask on the ground at Grace’s feet. “Such weak conjury. It hardly lasted a minute.”
Grace’s merriment vanished, and she glowered at Emmy, who glared right back. There wasn’t a word in existence strong enough
to capture how fervently—how deeply—she hated Grace Montgomery.
Before Emmy did something truly unhinged, she stormed away, weaving through the other games, past the dance floor, up the
treacherous stairway beside the cliffs. With each step, her bravery threatened to abandon her, but she could not return. Even
if she’d ruined her brand-new reputation, she would never, ever allow the Society to laugh at her again.
Movement flickered at the edge of the trees, just beyond the driveway. Grace’s lady’s maid blinked into existence, her furry
face monstrous in the silvery moonlight. The poor girl.
With a covert glance at the guards stationed by the door, Emmy hurried toward the trees. A sob rattled through the maid as she clawed and clawed at her furry cheeks.
“Mary?” Emmy called softly.
The girl stilled.
Emmy stepped closer, hands raised. “Your name is Mary, yes?”
Mary nodded, Emmy’s face reflected in her ghastly squirrel eyes. If only Emmy could recall Mary’s true face well enough to
conjure it for her. But instead, she transformed Clara’s calling card into one of her own. “Come work for me, and I’ll pay
you triple your salary.”
The card trembled in Mary’s hand. “Miss Montgomery wouldn’t like that one bit.”
“I’m not afraid of Grace Montgomery.” The fire in Emmy’s voice surprised her.
More surprising still, she meant it.