Chapter Seventeen #2
It will pass. Emmy was still breathing, though each inhale grew shallower.
The tremendous power this man possessed, to silence an entire ballroom on a whim.
No wonder he hadn’t been tempted by Caleb’s telepathy.
He was at the top of the food chain, able to shoot men without consequence, all the while keeping their daughters’ screams muted, locking them up—
The chancellor relaxed, dabbing the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. A quiet murmur flooded the ballroom as the Society
hurried to their seats.
“Well, that was fun,” Jack muttered as he sidled up beside her, that pretty girl nowhere in sight.
Oliver aimed his lazy, arrogant smirk at Jack. “Not a fan of my father’s methods?”
“Oh, come on, Stratton. You must admit, your father’s a rather fierce man.”
Oliver made a noncommittal noise before turning to Emmy as if Jack weren’t there. At this rate, Jack would never befriend
him. They needed a new plan. And soon.
The pageant began much like the debutante ball. One by one, Mrs. Claremont called the participants to the stage. Two golden
stopwatches floated above it, their numbers replaced with diamonds. The first measured how long it took the participant to
conjure. The second, how long they held on to their power. Given that she and Jack had a plan to share the relic tonight,
they were both at quite the advantage.
“Next, we have Mr. Nathaniel Fontaine,” Mrs. Claremont announced.
With an easy smile, Jack sauntered up the stage’s stairs as if he neither noticed nor cared about the whispers that still
followed the name Fontaine.
“If you’re not interested in marriage, you should keep an eye on your cousin.”
Emmy turned to Oliver, whose gaze remained fixed on Jack. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your cousin. He’s always watching you, even from across the room.”
She nearly laughed. Oliver was perceptive enough to notice Nathaniel guarding his secret weapon, though not perceptive enough to realize Nathaniel was Jack.
“I’m only trying to help.” He winked. “From one determined singleton to another.”
“That’s not what I hear. In fact, I hear you’re quite unavailable.”
“So you’ve been asking after me?” Oliver leaned closer, eyes alight. “Careful, Miss Fairchild, or I might take that as an
invitation to call on you.”
“Your mother would enjoy that far too much.”
“A problem indeed.”
Oliver was as handsome as he was terrible, yet Emmy liked when her clever words made him smile like that, even when Grace wasn’t here to witness it. Where the hell was she tonight?
Onstage, Jack sent a burst of tar-black flames surging over the heads of the guests. The audience screamed, ducking their
heads as the fireball returned to Jack like a boomerang.
Emmy clapped. Oliver did not.
“Tomorrow,” Oliver raised his voice over the growing applause, “perhaps we can . . .”
Emmy glanced at him, but something else had stolen his attention—stolen everyone’s attention, if the oohs and ahhs spreading through the ballroom were any indication.
Grace stood in the entranceway. Her blonde hair was woven into the most extravagant braid Emmy had ever seen, with purple
blooms and glittering diamonds tucked in her golden twists. The tight bodice of her gown was shaped like two petals, resulting
in a deep plunge that revealed the curve of her breasts. A risqué cut, but the real eye-catcher was the voluminous skirt made
entirely of petunias. Waves upon waves of the purple flowers cascaded from her waist, flooding the vast doorway and spilling
into the ballroom.
The dress wasn’t enchanted. That ought to be cause for celebration, but nothing about this dress screamed “crawling with critters.” No, Grace had still managed to shine.
“And next,” Mrs. Claremont announced, “we have Commander Stratton.”
So enchanted was Oliver by the sight of Grace that he did not even hear his name. Swallowing her frustration, Emmy nudged
him, and he finally snapped out of his daze, leaping onto the stage. “Mr. Fontaine, care to join me?”
Heads turned to Jack, who shrugged.
“Since you’re the one to beat, I have a proposal for you.” A mischievous smile spread across Oliver’s face. “Fight me.”
Unease washed over Emmy, especially as the Society leaned forward in their seats. This was the sort of entertainment they craved.
Jack, for his part, laughed. “You want me to—”
Oliver slammed his fist into Jack’s cheek.
Jack’s head snapped back, and Emmy’s breath rushed from her lungs. He’d just—hit him.
Pain erupted across Jack’s face, followed by shock as he registered the audience’s laughter.
Her teeth grounded together to keep her from screaming at them all.
Spitting blood onto the stage, Jack whipped toward Oliver. “My turn?”
“Whenever you’re ready.” Oliver squeezed his eyes shut.
Hit him back. She’d seen Jack snap a guard’s neck without breaking a sweat. And though he vexed her to no end, seeing Oliver strike him
made her positively murderous.
Jack curled his hand into a fist, and—froze.
Oliver gave Jack a little shove, and he tipped over stiffly, slamming his head into the stage. The audience roared with laughter,
but Emmy was breathing fire.
What was wrong with her, that she’d enjoyed Oliver’s approval, even for a moment?
“What do you say, Fontaine?” Oliver stood over Jack, grinning. “Do you yield?”
Unlike his father, Oliver couldn’t silence people with his conjury. But with his lips frozen, Jack could not shape his words,
which earned Oliver another wave of laughter.
Jack’s hand curled into a fist.
Everyone was still laughing. Even Grace, who never missed a thing, was grinning at Oliver while shaking her head in mock disapproval.
But Oliver grimaced. His conjury had failed him, even if he was pretending otherwise.
Burn him. If Emmy had Caleb’s telepathy, she would have seared the thought into Jack’s skull. Burn him and show them all what you’re made of.
But Jack remained still. Not striking back. Not giving Oliver what he deserved.
Oliver made a show of letting go of the brume. The gilded stopwatch stopped. Two minutes and fourteen seconds. The longest
time yet, but utterly fraudulent. Jack had let him win.
Mrs. Claremont beamed at Grace. “Miss Montgomery, dear, it’s your turn.”
With a prim smile, Grace cut through the ballroom, the crowd parting for her and her train of purple flowers. It was sickening,
really, how much they adored her.
Jack, meanwhile, silently took his place beside Emmy. The tanned skin of his right cheek was shiny and crimson, and part of
his bottom lip was already hard and discolored.
“Why?” she whispered. She’d seen his hand move. He’d let Oliver win.
“You know why.” Bitterness laced his quiet words.
Because, for Nathaniel to befriend Oliver, he needed to let Oliver make a fool out of him.
Jack’s fingers tangled with hers, slipping her the relic, and Emmy gave them a comforting squeeze before quickly pulling away, willing herself not to look at him.
“I’m ready,” Grace announced, and the golden clock started ticking.
Ignoring Jack’s gaze, Emmy watched Mrs. Windsor hand Grace three teacups, each painted with the same flowers as Grace’s gown. After
setting them on the stage, Grace removed her gloves, one finger at a time. The little cheat should have done so before they’d
started the clock.
Grace touched the first teacup—and disappeared.
Mary’s conjury, once again. Emmy glanced toward the line of staff, but petite Mary was probably hiding with embarrassment.
No one seemed to care that Grace had prepared these items in advance. She was, and had always been, a goddamn cheat.
Grace reappeared as abruptly as she’d disappeared, this time picking up the second teacup. A cloud formed in her free hand,
one that began to rain over the stage. Water conjury.
Once she’d collected her round of applause—and wasted more seconds—Grace plucked a petunia from her gown, then dropped it
into the third teacup. The delicate flower grew until the petals cascaded over the porcelain rim. Earth conjury. But Grace
wasn’t done yet. No, she lifted the giant flower, and a swarm of bees blinked into existence, furiously buzzing about it.
Grace tossed the flower to Emmy, sending the bees rushing toward her.
With a yelp, Emmy ducked, flailing to defend herself. Papa had been allergic, but Emmy had never been stung, so she couldn’t
know for sure—
The crowd laughed, and Grace flashed her a victorious smile. The wretch had tricked her. With an illusion.
As the crowd cheered exuberantly for their darling protégé, Emmy forced herself to clap, her heart still racing. Jack, curse him, had been right. Emmy did feel inferior to Grace. How she looked, how she danced, how she carried herself through the world.
But Emmy had always been stronger in conjury. And she had the relic Grace had failed to steal.
“And our last act,” Mrs. Claremont announced, “is Miss Winifred Fairchild.”
As Emmy climbed the stairs, Clara looked exceedingly pleased with herself.
Ignoring her, Emmy glanced about the ballroom, but—the floral tree centerpieces, the colorful vase arrangements—they were
all gone.
Anything Winnie Fairchild could use for earth conjury had disappeared.