Chapter 32
A Ball
Brynn seethes by the time we exit into the palace gardens.
He drops my hand the second we step outside, but it does not matter—because the view consumes me.
That copper light bathes the entire sprawling city in its ethereal glow.
Seeing it at night was breathtaking, but seeing it like this?
It’s a sight to behold. An ironic thought occurs to me: I have not seen one cloud since catapulting into Sanctuary.
No hint of rain or gloominess. During the day, everything is warm and shiny and alive.
I could stare at this view for an eternity and never tire of it.
Glo, dressed in a floor-length, skin-tight gown of twinkling gold, seems to be taking in Jasmeen in a similar fashion. I release Jasmeen’s hand so she can shyly twirl at Glo’s request.
Meanwhile Brynn is so distraught that he has not even glanced my way. He wears a black suit with fitted pants and boots. He’s dazzling, as always. So much so that I am undone when he runs a hand through his hair. I clear my throat, snapping him back to reality.
“Thea,” he breathes and my heart stumbles at his obvious distress. “Clack was supposed to deliver lunch to your quarters. I have no idea what—”
“It’s fine, really—” I’m cut short by the stupefied expression he wears as his eyes rake over my figure.
“Wow, Thea—I’m—you look—”
“Fucking hot,” Glo finishes. She grabs my hand and twirls me around before I can protest. Brynn throws her a reproachful glare. Between the spinning, the lightheadedness brought on by hunger, and the restrictive corset, I am dizzy.
“You both look lovely,” I say with a smirk. “But if you don’t feed your ‘mortal pets’ soon, we may perish.”
Brynn and Glo lead us around the backside of the palace grounds, where servants are setting long tables with tonight’s feast. Extravagant spreads of fruit and cheese rise high, punctuated by large centerpieces of mixed florals and shimmering globes of faerielight.
Brynn swipes a bright fruit from a tower.
It resembles a fuzzy, purple fig, but I already know what it is.
“Don’t tell me that’s a—”
“Faeplum,” Brynn says, handing it to me. He watches intently as I take an inelegant bite. Forget decorum—I all but moan at the taste. The faeplum ales and tarts are delicious but having it in its rawest form trumps all.
“It’s divine,” I say, sinking my teeth into it again.
Juice dribbles down my chin, and without hesitation, Brynn wipes it away with his thumb before it can ruin my dress.
Blood rushes to my cheeks, but for the first time, I hope he notices the quickening of my heartbeat.
His gaze lingers on the pulse at my neck. He smiles in earnest.
Fuck.
Perhaps Jasmeen was right. I played daft, shrugged it off so often that I became blind to it.
It is not simply friendship for either of us.
Brynn said yes, it feels something like this.
It was not a lie. Mother said one cannot exist without the other.
Do I love him? I can say, with certainty, I never asked myself this question about Edwin.
That seems answer enough. I swallow hard.
Telling him the truth of my identity may wreck me as much as it would wreck him.
But there’s the prophecy, anyway. And though it physically hurts to imagine his arms around another…
perhaps it’s best to distance myself now—before either of us falls further.
That’s the smart thing to do. The right thing to do. Yet, my obstinacy screams in protest.
Manipulate me all you want, Thea.
I shove my thoughts away, fighting the sudden urge to choke.
“Is there something to drink?”
“Absolutely,” Glo answers. She snags us four goblets from a nearby cart. “Brinewine. Selkie-made wine. Take it slow, though. This is magic in a mug.”
Glo was right. It takes exactly one cup of magic wine before I am laughing with uncharacteristic giddiness. Brynn stands sentinel over me at a table of bread and cheese, handing me various combinations to sample.
“I’m going to ensure you eat enough,” he says. “You still need to meet the king and queen. And we must find the High Mage at some point.”
I glance up at him, and his whole being sparkles. Fucking brinewine.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I say with a sly smile.
“I’m awfully aware of that,” Brynn says, but his smirk is short-lived.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are? Because it’s awful how beautiful you are,” I blurt. Brinewine may be more dangerous than pluckroot. His brow rises in amused perplexity.
“Surely that’s the wine tal—”
“Can you glamour your horns away?” I interrupt, like magic is a simple party trick. He sighs but grants my request. They vanish. The glittery mist of glamours floats in the air between us—made more pronounced by the wine. I squint at his bare forehead.
“Hmmm,” I say. “I prefer the horns.”
“That’s not a funny joke,” he says, clearly wounded.
“It’s not in jest. Not a lie—I like them! Bring them back. Please?”
He obeys with a timid smile. Without thinking, I reach up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind his ear.
Our gazes lock, and his heats. My hand hovers in the air between us, and I think he will take it.
He does not. Instead, he plucks a cracker and takes an irritable bite.
I withdraw, clasping my traitorous hands behind my back.
“Maybe eat another piece of bread,” Brynn says, changing the subject. “And let’s perhaps hold off on another drink until the dancing begins?”
“I once thought you were fun,” I jest.
“I still am. It’s my family that can be less fun,” he retorts, looking glum.
Guests begin to arrive once dusk settles.
Brynn retrieves me a fresh glass of water, and with a stomach full of bread and faeplum, my thoughts clear—mostly.
Jasmeen and I seem to be the sole mortals in attendance thus far.
The gathering Sanctuarians are dressed in all sorts of ridiculous garb.
From big, flowing ball gowns of blinding yellow, to suits made of nothing but flickering faerielight.
I lean into Jasmeen as a faerie with large wings, comically large compared to his small frame, passes by.
This party does not seem like it was planned for us.
“Are we the only mortals in Royal City?” I whisper. She shrugs.
“I don’t doubt it, to be honest. Royal City has one of the most…
pure populations of the realm,” she replies close to my ear.
A band of pixies—much tamer than the ones I encountered in Mayhem—have taken to playing on their stringed instruments, the music grandiose and loud enough to cover our voices.
“Are you intimidated by that? I am rather so,” I admit.
“Yes, but you’re used to these kinds of things, right? Revels? Balls?” she asks in a low tone.
I shake my head. “Not at all… this will be a new experience for us both.”
Jasmeen takes in my expression, offers a small, pitying smile, and slides her hand into mine with a reassuring squeeze.
Brynn and Glo are pulled away by several important-looking Sanctuarians, leaving Jasmeen and I to our own devices.
Thanks to a goblin passing by with a tray of brinewine, I snag another glass.
Jasmeen laughs, taking one too. I am going to need it to survive the night.
I am out of my element. Maybe even more so than the day I materialized in the middle of Mayhem Bazaar.
It does not rattle me as that first glass had, likely due to Brynn’s idea to stuff me full of fruit and bread, but it helps blur the edges of my anxiety.
Having unloaded my secrets on to Jasmeen’s shoulders has done wonders, too.
“There you are,” Brynn’s familiar, honeyed voice comes from behind me and I automatically lean into his side as his hand slides over the small of my back. Just as fast, he withdraws, his expression guarded. I frown. Jasmeen’s eyes narrow as Glo gives me a tight-lipped smile.
I take a big swig of wine, ignoring Brynn’s critical gaze.
I have no clue why he’s acting so strange, but what frustrates me most is how it riles me.
Like I’ve come to expect his closeness. Well, I guess that decides it—makes it easier, at least. Best to start distancing ourselves now before my inevitable return to reality.
I down the wine, slamming the empty glass onto the nearest table.
That’s when I notice Asan has joined the crowd.
He wears a black suit, much like Brynn’s, and stands in conversation with two fae who—with a gulp—I realize must be the king and queen.
The king appears to be middle aged, though I’m not quite sure what middle aged is for a fae, and is strikingly handsome.
It’s obvious he sired both Brynn and Asan—they all have the same beautiful bone structure.
But Brynn must favor his mortal mother, because Asan and King Kerron share their pale skin and dark eyes.
Large, gnarly horns protrude from the king’s forehead and his long, black hair twists into an intricate knot at the nape of his neck.
The queen’s appearance matches her cold countenance.
Her long hair is pure white and moves like a sheet of ice, her skin the palest shade of blue.
Her eyes are the lightest gray—so absent of color that the orbs appear to be nothing but pinprick pupils.
My gaze catches on her tail—yes, tail—a hairless thing with a barb on the end of it.
It twitches back and forth like that of a perturbed cat.
She appears much younger than the king, but it’s obvious they are a set, as they are dressed in matching blood-red gowns.
The queen’s clings to her angular curves, while the king’s adopts a more masculine, boxy silhouette.
Their fingers are intertwined, and they wear similar, spindly crowns of gold and thorns.
Brynn now looks like he longs for another glass of brinewine. But when I glance back, Asan’s coal gaze bores into me. A chill travels down my spine.