7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
“Well, it’s a bit outdated.” Margo pinched the dress sleeve between two fingers, turning it like a crime scene clue, waiting for it to confess its sins. “But…”
“Will it work?” Emmaline perched on an extravagant chair upholstered in deep sapphire velvet. The frame was gilded in delicate filigree, its curved arms shaped like woven vines.
She had come straight from Greymane Castle to Margo’s family estate, nestled deep within the Golden Boughs.
It was where the Vale’s wealthiest families lived in towering homes carved into ancient silver-barked trees.
The streets were quiet here, the bustle of the lower districts nothing but a distant hum.
Margo examined the embroidery circling the wrists of the gown—fine silver moons woven between dancing blooms. Then, with an appraising look, she lifted the fabric to her nose and inhaled.
“Is this truly spider silk?” Her brow arched. “No one has seen a fae spider since before the War. I thought they were all pulled to Hell when the Imps were defeated.”
“Yes.” Emmaline adjusted her posture, carefully arranging her limbs in the cushioned chair.
She lifted a crystal goblet from the side table, taking a slow, measured sip of the expensive honeyed duskwine.
It was richer than anything she could afford, the golden liquid clinging to her tongue, smooth and decadent. A Lady’s drink.
“My mother had two gowns made from the stuff,” she continued. “They were her pride and joy before… well, you know.”
Margo stilled. Her grip on the fabric softened, fingers tracing the moons once more. And when she finally looked up, she didn’t speak right away. The amusement had dulled, replaced by something warmer, something Emmaline usually tried to avoid.
“Oh, Ems.” Margo’s voice was softer now. “I’m sorry for the reminder.”
“It’s fine.” Emmaline set the glass down with a quiet clink. “Just tell me they were worth keeping instead of selling years ago. I could have gotten a much nicer apartment—closer to all of you—with that kind of money.”
Margo ran a fingertip along the delicate embroidery. “Yes, with a few alterations, you’ll look like any other Lady at the ball. Better, even. Very few will have the luxury of wearing something this rare.” She glanced around the room, pursing her lips.
Despite the grandeur of Margo’s estate, her chambers were anything but pristine. Expensive gowns draped haphazardly over the edges of chairs, silken scarves pooled on the floor where they’d been discarded, and stacks of books—many half-open—teetered precariously on every available surface.
“Of course, you’ll need the right shoes, accessories, and a proper hairstyle,” Margo continued, stepping over a pile of lace-trimmed chemises as if she hadn’t just tripped on them earlier. “I should have something…”
“I don’t know how you find anything in here.” Emmaline lifted a discarded velvet glove from a side table and tossed it onto a pile of flowery shawls. “For someone so put together in public, you’re even messier than me in your own space.”
Margo straightened, leveling her with a pointed stare. “A secret I trust you will take to your grave, Emmaline.” She held the look, eyes narrowed, the weight of noble-born menace behind them. But then, just as the tension stretched, she laughed. “Even Ursula is afraid to brave my mess.”
“She’d take on armies of assassins with a smile on her face and song in her heart.” Emmaline shook her head. “But she draws the line at your living quarters? That says something.”
“And look. You’re here! Completely at ease. You’re truly the bravest of us all,” Margo declared, flashing a bright smile before practically diving into the crumpled gowns and accessories near her enormous walk-in closet.
Silk and lace fluttered into the air as she rummaged, muttering to herself, tossing aside anything that didn’t meet her invisible criteria.
Then, with a triumphant “aha!” she emerged, arms overflowing with shimmering fabrics, glittering jewelry, and an assortment of pins and belts that caught the fae-light like stolen stardust.
Striding back to the bed, she dropped everything into a gleaming heap atop the plush coverlet. “There. Now, this is what we’re working with.”
Emmaline barely glanced at the display. Instead, she curled up in the oversized chair, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her chin on them. “Do you really think I’m brave, Margo?”
Margo, still sifting through the collection, froze for a fraction of a second before glancing up. “Do you want me to say what you want to hear or the truth?”
Well, that wasn’t a good sign. After the day she’d had, she needed Margo’s support, not another blow to her already dwindling confidence. But… she squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.
“Truth.”
If there was one person she could count on for honesty without judgment, it was Margo.
The woman plucked a pair of silver-wired sandals from the pile and twirled one lazily around her finger. After a moment, she set it down in her lap and tucked a stray lock of her deep red hair behind a pointed ear.
“Very well,” she said. “I think you’re brave.”
She paused, choosing her next words carefully.
Emmaline exhaled. “Thank—”
“And foolish.” Margo continued. “I love you, Emmaline, so I need you to really hear this next part. Do you promise you’ll listen and not immediately reject what I’m saying?”
Emmaline reached for the wine, taking a long swallow, then bobbed her head. “Yes.”
“Okay, then.” Margo fidgeted with her hands, avoiding Emmaline’s gaze—a rare hesitation from someone usually so poised. “Even if you are mates, and that’s a very big if, for so many reasons, he’s not worth it. He’s actually quite horrible.”
Quite horrible.
The words rang through Emmaline’s head. Margo never spoke ill of anyone. If anything, she went out of her way to soften even the most damning judgments. For her to say something this direct… she must truly despise Caelith.
But how could she? He’s perfect. Society’s golden boy, the picture of nobility. Her future.
Emmaline swallowed hard, her thoughts latching onto another possibility. Did Margo want him for herself? Was that why she was saying these things?
“I know this is hard to hear, Ems, but my family has known his for generations. I practically grew up on his father’s estates.
” Margo sighed, rubbing her temple as if already exhausted by the conversation.
“Yes, he’s charming when he wants to be, and I suppose you could call him easy on the eyes.
But beneath that, he’s the worst kind of noble.
Entitled, self-serving, and utterly indifferent to anyone beneath his station. ”
Emmaline’s chest tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice rising. Margo was wrong. “I know him. I practically live in his castle already. He’s… he’s…” She searched for something to latch onto, something that would make Margo see what she saw. “He’s everything.”
“He believes he’s entitled to anything he wants and takes it, knowing his mother will clean up after him,” Margo continued.
“I’ve even heard rumors that he—” She hesitated, then pressed on, “—that he takes what isn’t freely offered, especially from the lower-class women in noble employ.
He knows they won’t speak out against him. ”
Emmaline’s stomach lurched.
She barely noticed Margo reaching for her hands before she yanked them back, stepping away as heat crawled up her neck.
Margo was mistaken. She had to be. It wasn’t her fault. She was too entrenched in noble circles, too jaded by their petty scandals. She saw the worst in people because she’d been raised among the worst of them. But Caelith wasn’t like them.
He just needed someone to believe in him. Someone to remind him of who he was meant to be.
“It’s not true.” Her nostrils flared. “And to make such accusations, even to someone of lower class like me, is incredibly reckless.” Her voice wavered with barely restrained fury. “Where do you get off, Margo? I thought we were friends.”
Margo flinched. The tension in her shoulders wilted, and she took a step back.
“I’m sorry, Ems,” she said softly. “Of course we’re friends.” She folded her hands together. “Perhaps I was mistaken. I just… I’m worried about you.”
“Then be my friend,” Emmaline snapped. “And stop throwing around baseless, crass accusations against my fated mate.” She squared her shoulders, daring Margo to challenge her. “Caelith is practically family already, so you’d better get used to that if we’re going to stay friends.”
Margo didn’t answer right away. She just stared at Emmaline, wide-eyed, her lips parting slightly before pressing together. The beginnings of tears welled in her deep brown eyes as she dropped her gaze.
Guilt crashed over Emmaline like a bitter tide.
Damn it.
She knew how fragile Margo could be, how much she hated direct conflict. Emmaline was one of the few people who knew the truth—that despite her noble blood, despite the wealth and status she carried by name alone, Margo had no natural magic.
In a city built on magic, in a world where nearly every creature had the power to kill her without a second thought, Margo was practically human.
And Emmaline had just lashed out at her like she was nothing.
“I’m so sorry, Margo.” Emmaline closed the distance and wrapped her arms around her friend, holding tight. Margo was tense for half a second before exhaling and sagging slightly into the embrace.
“I promised not to react, and I reacted.” Emmaline rested her chin briefly against Margo’s shoulder. “You’re just mistaken, that’s all. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I’m a shite friend.”
“The worst,” Margo huffed, her voice wobbly. She didn’t press the issue. Didn’t argue. Just squared her shoulders like someone accepting a loss with practiced grace. “I really don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Me neither.” Emmaline pressed a quick kiss to the crown of Margo’s head before pulling back and sinking into the chair once more.
She gestured vaguely at the extravagant mess of gowns and shoes strewn across the bed.
“I would understand if you wanted to withdraw all your fancy-ass noble support and leave me to my peasant fate.”
“Not at all!” Margo sniffed, straightening with a small, determined shake of her shoulders. “Fancy-ass noble support is what I do best.” Then, after a beat, her lips tightened, the lightness dimming just a fraction. “It’s about all I can do, eh?”
“Margo—”
Emmaline was already standing, ready to tell her exactly how ridiculous she was being, but Margo waved a hand, cutting her off before she could start.
“Forget it.” It was an old fight, one they’d had a hundred times, one that never seemed to change anything. “And let’s make sure you’re ready for the ball.”
“Margo…”
But her friend was already turning back to the pile of dresses, determined to move forward.
For now, Emmaline let her.
“I’ll even throw in some extras you can wear tomorrow to elevate your white uniform dress. That way, you can snag the man’s attention without technically breaking Lady Isolde’s ridiculous rules.”
“What?” Emmaline jumped up, already distracted, her previous frustration forgotten as she leaned over the pile of treasures on the bed. “That would be brilliant! Thank you, Margo!”
Margo let out a satisfied mmh as she sifted through the collection, the sound more pleased than she probably intended.
“I might not be entirely on board with this whole Caelith obsession of yours…” She plucked a jeweled clasp from the pile and twirled it between her fingers.
“But I’m definitely on board with putting that woman in her place. Goddess, she’s awful.”
“So awful,” Emmaline agreed, her fingers grazing over a breathtaking platinum belt.
Strands of metal knit together in an intricate lattice, merging into the shape of ivy vines frozen in silver moonlight.
Tiny crystalline gems glimmered at the center of each leaf, catching the candlelight like drops of morning dew.
It was beautiful—elegant and defiant, the perfect touch of nobility to push the line without crossing it.
Emmaline lifted the belt, running her fingers over the cool metal, already picturing how it would gleam against the stark white of her uniform. But more than that, it was proof.
Proof that she could belong. Proof that, come tomorrow, he would have no choice but to finally see her. And this time, when Caelith looked at her, he wouldn’t look away.