THIRTY
The sounds of the party reach my bedroom by the time Shea manages to help me into my gown. Standing in front of the mirror, I wonder if it’s safe for Bishop to see me like this after …
A tingle races down the back of my neck as if reminding me that’s the entire point of a dress like this.
Its wine-red color does something dangerous against my skin, as if it’s too rich.
Too alive in a way that draws attention instead of hiding.
Especially once my hair is pinned up in dark curls, allowing the collar to rise the full length of my throat.
Lace sleeves stretch to anchor neatly to my middle fingers with a little loop that allows free movement of my hands while everything on my front half feels controlled.
The same can’t be said of the back of the gown.
Because while the high neckline shields my chest intentionally, when I turn, the back falls away in a single, uninterrupted sweep of fabric, leaving me bare from the nape of my neck to the small hollow between my hips.
The skirt skims my hips and thighs, fluid against my skin with a slit that shows the line of one leg just enough to feel deliberate.
“Don’t overthink it,” Shea whispers, adjusting her fur stole. “He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Music and laughter spill toward us as we step out of my room and find Taliesin lounging at the base of the stairs.
He’s dressed in a suit cut from deep purple wool, shot through with subtle silver thread that catches the light when he moves.
He glances up as we start down, letting out a low whistle.
Vessica gives him the finger.
He only smirks and crooks his arm for her when she reaches the bottom. He offers his other arm to Shea, but she shakes her head, flushing deeply and muttering something about “the library.”
“We’ll find you in a moment,” I tell him, hooking my fingers around Shea’s elbow. As soon as we’re safely away, I shoot her a knowing look. “You have a thing for him.”
Shea sighs, but she doesn’t deny it. “He’s my superior.”
Enough said. I’m not about to press her after just being roasted for my own romantic entanglement.
But when we reach the library, Shea presses her palm against the door to stop me from opening it. “You know it’s okay, right?”
My first instinct is to disagree, even though I’m not sure what we’re talking about. “What’s okay?”
“To want Bishop back,” she says in a quiet voice. Not because anyone could possibly hear us.
She’s softening the blow.
Before I can tell her she’s wrong, she squeezes my arm once and nudges me forward. “Let’s make sure my brother hasn’t destroyed the library.”
“I think we’d have already heard about it if he did,” I say. Reassuring her is far easier than reassuring myself.
But when we walk inside, we both freeze. My brain stalls as it tries, and fails, to reconcile the scene in front of me.
Hadrian and Breccan sit shoulder to shoulder as the librarian explains something that sounds too complicated for me to understand, let alone a little boy. But Breccan is hanging on his every word like he’s some type of god.
And they’re both eating cookies.
In the library.
I stare for a second. “Well, all seven hells must have frozen over.”
Shea presses a hand to her mouth to muffle a laugh, but that just makes me laugh. Hadrian looks up sharply, crumbs on the corners of his mouth. He swallows, but only so he can frown. “We are in the middle of a lesson,” he informs us. “Someone wanted to learn the ancient tongue.”
“The party started,” I say. It’s harder to hear the commotion through the library’s thick walls.
But Hadrian waves us off without looking away from the book. “We’ll join later. When he’s finished the lesson.”
Breccan beams like he’s just been knighted.
“I told you,” I murmur to Shea as we slip into the hall. “Those two are a match made by the Stars.”
Relief relaxes her shoulders. “I owe you.”
I consider telling her that she can repay me by dropping the Bishop talk, but part of me doesn’t want her to. Part of me needs to be pushed.
Because that look on his face when I opened the door …
This is more complicated than keeping my distance. How am I supposed to do that when we live in the same house?
I’m no closer to an answer when we enter the party.
The great room has been cleared of its usual furniture, the space transformed into something like a ballroom.
The floor is open, musicians set up along one wall, the long banquet tables pushed back to make space for movement.
Pine boughs and dark ribbons are woven across the hearth, candles flickering in the dark branches.
Fur-trimmed cloaks are slung over chair backs, their owners mingling in a blur of dark velvet and wool threaded with silver and starlight blue, even the occasional burst of gold, all catching the firelight from the hearth.
For the first time since Bishop brought me here, the house doesn’t feel haunted. It’s bursting with life.
And I can’t enjoy any of it.
Because I’m expected to make constant small talk—every single member of Bishop’s extended family seems eager to chat with me.
And every single one of them manages to get a slight in, their comments ranging from overtly rude to almost laughably oblivious.
Shea stays with me the whole time, offering polite smiles and pleasantries before excusing us firmly when someone tries to get their hooks in deeper.
We’ve made a full round of the room, but before we can retire to shove pastries in our mouths, a willowy woman steps into our path. Thin lines pinch the corners of her eyes, her lips twisting into something stuck between a grimace and a smile.
“We heard our cousin brought you here,” she says, an icy current running through her voice.
But it’s the young woman next to her who makes me fall back a step.
They have the same calculating eyes. “Lady Perran,” she adds in introduction but doesn’t offer her hand.
“I believe you met my daughter, Livia, at the Quincentennial.”
Met is an overstatement—the lone Marius initiate kept to herself. But I force a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Livia snorts, her dark gaze darting around the room like she’s already bored. “You’re awfully chipper for a prisoner.”
“And well-dressed,” her mother mutters.
“Prisoner?” I repeat, and Shea steps closer like she senses trouble.
“You are the harbinger.” Lady Perran sniffs. “I can’t imagine any other reason Bishop would allow you into Vennaro. Of course, we all thought he’d have killed you by now.”
My mouth falls open. What had Shea said about not bringing weapons?
My friend takes a full step in front of me. “Perhaps you should ask Patron Marius about that. I’m sure he’s dying for your opinion.” Shea steers me away before either of his cousins can get in another snub.
“Thank you,” I say when we finally work our way to the banquet tables groaning beneath the weight of Lenora’s lavish spread.
Platters are crammed everywhere, their edges overlapping to make up for the lack of room for all of it, the polished wood of the table barely visible beneath the sprawling feast. Steam rises in lazy spirals from heated serving trays, carrying the mingled scents of roasted fowl, melted butter, and spices warm enough to soften the chill of winter seeping into the room from the constantly opening front door.
I grab a plate and start piling everything I see on it. “Is there a contest I don’t know about?” I grumble to her. “Who can deliver the worst insult to my face?”
She snorts. “Do you think there’s a prize involved?” She pops a grape into her mouth and deadpans, “I could use the money.”
“And I thought we were becoming friends.” I polish off a honey tart in two bites, suddenly famished. Which definitely has nothing to do with the constant simpering and ogling.
It’s because he keeps moving through the room. Never close enough to cross paths. Never far enough for me to miss. But always just within my periphery.
Every time, it’s like a shift in gravity. Like I can feel him before I see him.
He doesn’t look at me once, apparently immune to whatever invisible thread keeps pulling my attention back to him.
Maybe I imagined that look on his face at my bedroom door earlier. Four honey tarts later, I’m still not sure.
The closer the clock creeps to midnight, the more I find myself checking Bishop’s location.
At an hour to the Turning, I spot him near the doorway, talking with a richly dressed man with rings on every finger and a voice that carries like he wants the whole room to hear him.
Bishop’s eyes lift and meet mine across the room. Our gazes lock, and then … he turns away, continuing his conversation as if he didn’t see me at all.
The casual dismissal might as well be a blade slid neatly between my ribs.
I stop looking after that.
When there’s less than half an hour until midnight, the crowd moves toward the hall. The borrowed servers appear carrying goblets of sparkling wine on silver trays. Anticipation and dread tangle into a knot in my stomach.
Someone jostles their way through the swarm to us, Lenora appearing a moment later in a deep-green gown, her sleeves rolled up but not entirely hiding their usual dusting of flour.
A sprig of holly hangs limply from her bun, and I can’t quite decide if it got stuck there accidentally during the decorating, or if she pinned it there hours ago and it finally conceded its bid to keep up with her.
A server appears at the same moment she does and holds out his tray. “Last two.”
Shea and I both snag flutes of the sparkling wine.
“Here.” I hold it out to Lenora. If anyone deserves a drink tonight, it’s her.
But she waves me off. “I still have to clean up after everyone goes to bed.”
“Absolutely not.” I scowl at her. “You aren’t lifting a finger.”
But she refuses to accept the drink. Before I can take a new tack, a chair scrapes loudly against the floor.