Chapter 2
Amaya’s footsteps echoed on the marble floor as she stepped inside her home, the large two-story entrance and double staircase making her feel like a child. Behind her, Victor’s car leaving was the only other sound—until the pitter-patter of tiny feet announced someone coming to greet her.
Amaya beamed when her little dog, Daisy, appeared at the top of the stairs. She let out a high-pitched bark and scampered down. Her long, fluffy ears flew back as she exploded with energy.
Dropping her bag on the floor, Amaya knelt down to catch the dog in her arms. She scratched behind Daisy’s ears and stroked her silky white-and-russet fur.
“Hello,” she cooed, cuddling her dog before letting go.
Daisy ran in frantic circles around Amaya before leaping back into her lap, attempting to lick her face.
“Stop it,” Amaya protested through giggles.
Daisy was Amaya’s birthday present from her father five years ago.
Goldridge became hauntingly quiet after Marjorie Sinclair’s untimely death two years prior, and Lord Sinclair’s position required him to spend significant time away.
Amaya hadn’t coped well on her own, and Daisy was the solution.
She made the cavernous mansion feel a little less lonely.
“Come on,” Amaya said, standing and motioning for Daisy to follow. “Come help me practice.”
Amaya had the entire three-story south tower to herself, with a piano and various other instruments on each floor.
Her favorite piano, however, was the white baby grand in her first floor sitting room.
With the flip of a switch, the golden chandelier above the piano sparked to life and illuminated the space.
Daisy was happy to curl up on the piano bench cushion while Amaya sat beside her, picking up her composition where she left off before Victor interrupted.
She retreated to her private world once more and let the passage of time fade into obscurity until Daisy tilted her head toward the door, alerting Amaya to the sound of footsteps outside. Mrs. Stone, their housekeeper, cracked open the door.
“Miss Amaya,” she said, nodding politely. “Camden Hargreeves is on the phone for you.”
Amaya frowned slightly. Camden calling was odd; he usually just showed up if he wanted to talk.
“I’ll be right there,” Amaya said.
Her stomach flipped. What if he was calling to tell her that someone had noticed them? Or worse, that Victor had reported him for sharing classified information about the Empyrean and he’d lost his apprenticeship?
Amaya didn’t bother putting away her things before following Mrs. Stone to the parlor, picking up the rotary phone from a side table and wrapping the cord around her finger.
“Cam?” she asked.
“Amaya!” he replied almost too quickly, sounding breathless.
“Is everything okay?” Amaya twisted the phone cord tighter, the restricted blood flow making her pulse pound in her fingertips.
“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
The tension in Amaya’s shoulders loosened and she released the cord, sinking into an armchair.
“I thought maybe you got in trouble. For today.”
“Not a chance. We know how to sneak around.”
She smirked because it was true. They’d bent and broken rules together for over a decade with little to no repercussions—apart from one notable exception, but Amaya tried her damndest not to think about that.
It was probable she and Camden had gotten away with so much over the years because everyone was afraid to cross her father, a former general and personal friend to the king, but she preferred to credit their mutual talent for unsanctioned—in Grace’s words—“shenanigans.”
“So, what’s going on?”
“Okay, so, this might seem a little random . . . but I wanted to ask if you’d come to the Midnight Symphony with me. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Amaya’s eyebrows shot up. “You have tickets for the Midnight Symphony tonight?”
“Well, yeah—”
“No, wait, you have tickets to the Midnight Symphony tonight, and you didn’t tell me?” Amaya rephrased, incredulous. “Cam! I thought you didn’t want to go?”
Of course she wanted to go. She’d been dying to, but her father didn’t want her out that late alone, Victor refused to take her, Camden wasn’t enough of a night owl to survive the night, and it wasn’t like Amaya had any other friends.
Besides that, it sold out months in advance. Camden hardly had the clout to snag last-minute tickets.
“Well, I . . .” Camden stumbled over his words. “They’re actually my parents’ tickets. Dad got them from work, but Mom has a cold, so they asked if I wanted them, and you’re always rambling about it, and I’ll probably fall asleep, but . . .”
“Yes! Yes, I want to go,” Amaya said without hesitation. “You will not fall asleep. I’ll make sure of it.”
She would spend the rest of her life wondering how she’d missed the panicked quiver in Cam’s voice.
She would curse herself to all nine circles of hell for not asking more questions, for being too blinded by the promise of an unexpected, magical night to consider just how unexpected it was.
But in the moment, all she could think about was what she would wear and how she would convince her father to let her go when he returned home.
Wait. Who was she kidding? He would never let her out so late after all the fuss about pirates in the city this afternoon, even if it was with Camden.
Especially if it was with Camden. Going to the Midnight Symphony with him didn’t exactly honor her father’s desire to prevent anyone from getting ideas. Damn.
“Great,” Camden said. “Yeah, uh, that’s great. I’ll swing by and pick you up, say, eleven?”
“Perfect. Um . . .” Amaya lowered her voice so Mrs. Stone wouldn’t overhear. “Meet me outside the gate, okay? Don’t ring.”
Camden inhaled, hesitating.
“Cam, please.”
“Oh . . . all right,” he finally relented. “Outside the gate.”
The clock read 10:52 p.m. when Amaya slipped out of her room. She paused as the door snicked closed, then released a breath when Daisy didn’t whine at her absence.
Sneaking out of the mansion wasn’t especially difficult, but Amaya had done this before, and she knew better than to be careless. She padded down the spiral staircase barefoot, descending to the lowest level and tip-toeing past the staff rooms. If anyone caught her, it would be Mrs. Stone.
But no one caught her tonight.
Amaya snuck out the back door near the kitchen garden unnoticed. The chilly night air opened her lungs with startling force, causing her breath to puff out in a silver cloud. It felt good. And it tasted like freedom.
She bent down to slip on her gold flats and spare her feet from the rough stone path, hastily tying the satin ribbons around her ankles before winding through the manicured grounds.
No one was watching, but she still kept to the shadows until she could squeeze through a small gap in the brick wall that surrounded the property.
It was covered in overgrown ivy, hiding it from the rest of the world, but Amaya and Camden had used it to sneak in and out of Goldridge since they were children.
Camden couldn’t fit through the wall anymore, but Amaya could still squeeze .
. . barely. The rough, cold brick and the pricks of leaves were more unpleasant against her skin than they had been when she was smaller, but discomfort was a small price to pay for a night at the Midnight Symphony.
Once through, she stopped to check her dress for any snags before she deemed herself home free.
At exactly eleven o’clock, a large silver car rolled around the corner and found Amaya leaning against the wall by the gate.
She tilted her head; Camden had called a chauffeur? For a moment she thought it must not be Cam at all, but then her friend opened the back door and stepped out. He looked surprisingly sharp in a pristine navy blue suit and tie—no grease stains to be found. Amaya couldn’t contain her smile.
“My, don’t you polish up nicely,” she said.
His smile was a nervous reflection of her own.
“Uh, thanks. You look . . . really beautiful,” he said, eyes traveling down her figure.
“Thank you.” Amaya twirled, showing off her light blue chiffon dress. Gold beaded stars winked in the lamplight, the skirt holding its shape thanks to layers of tulle. “You pulled out all the stops, huh?”
She glanced at the silhouette in the driver’s seat window curiously, having only expected Camden and his old car.
“Of course. You’re going to drink too much wine, and I’ll be too sleep deprived to drive us back.”
“Hm. Excellent point.”
Amaya climbed into the car ahead of Camden. “Good evening,” she said to the driver. “Thank you for driving us so late.”
“Not at all, Miss Sinclair,” he replied in a nasally voice. He grinned at Amaya through the rearview mirror, and she swore a gold tooth glinted off his smile. Or was it a gem?
“Just Amaya, please. What’s your name?”
“You can call me Barnabas, Miss Amaya. And might I say, you look like a vision this evening.”
“Thank you. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Camden got settled, shifting his gaze across the interior of the car. His eyes lingered on the empty passenger seat a moment before reaching for Amaya’s hand and giving it a squeeze.
“We’re going to have a great night. I promise.”
“The best night.”
Goldridge Estate disappeared behind the walls and hills and buildings, its inhabitants none the wiser.
The city’s symphony was quieter at night, but far from silent. Blinking headlights, the steady purr of automobiles, and buzzing windskiffs were constant staples in Sorrento, regardless of the hour.
Camden sat closer to her than usual, so Amaya forewent her typical habit of leaning on the window in favor of leaning on his shoulder and watching the lights fly by.
Even with Barnabas up front, it felt like just the two of them, riding in the dark.
Camden still held her hand, his thumb massaging gentle circles into her palm.
They weren’t supposed to do this. But although they both knew it, neither pulled away.
“Your hands are sweaty,” Amaya said, smirking.