26. Heart Of Glass

Apleasant evening breeze ghosts along my neck as I soak in the beauty of the gardens from the empty balcony. The luscious rumples of my ball gown sag against the balustrade, and a full-bodied shiver takes hold of my body despite the warmth of the night.

My strapless dress leaves my shoulders bare, the golden-flecked ivory skirt made to match my mask. A layered fishtail braid tumbles down my left shoulder, and I pick nervously at the knotted end.

Instead of the usual banquet, the Foghar festival is a fancy standing picnic. The high tables peppered on the fringes of the dance floor and on the balcony fit four to five people each, but there's no seat to speak of. The set-up encourages—or rather forces—the guests to mingle. Tiny portions of mouth-watering meals are being passed around by magic trays, but I'm not hungry.

The triplets are a no show so far, as is the Shadow King.

"Emerald and gold—how pretty," Isobel Umbra chimes as she joins me in my secluded spot. "You look like a fine jewel, seed."

"Thank you," I answer politely before taking a sip of water.

Isabel's blood-red dress shimmers as though it was stitched in twilight. Most of the Fae ladies are wearing beautiful ball gowns showcasing earthy tones like dark orange, burgundy, and violet-red, and I stick out like a dove in a field of fallen leaves.

"I saw you the other day, in the blibliotheca," she says.

"Yes, I remember." I brush the sensitive patch of skin at my temples, grateful for my mask.

It can be a tremendous advantage to wear one. I only have to nod and smile as I endure her scrutiny. Not having to check my facial features or hers allows me to watch for other signs. Finger twitches and the incline of one's chin can tell you more about them than their brows, and it's easier to reign in my emotions without the pressure of constant eye contact.

"Between you and me, the court is curious about you. It's not often that we get an old world seed, let alone a princess."

I make sure not to move my head as she says the word. Aside from the dark triplets and the king himself, no one here knows I'm a princess. Mara hasn't found a way to belittle me about it, so I'm sure she doesn't know, and I even kept it from Lori.

"Which task did you get first?" Isobel asks, forcing my attention back to her.

"Nightmares."

"Oh…you must spend a lot of time with One." Her tone is now dangerously sweet, and I get the feeling that her patience with me is wearing thin. "Does he plan to show up for the Foghar festival tonight?"

"Actually, I'm studying dreams now. With Two."

Her top lip curls up in an ugly, disbelieving smile. "Is that so?"

I grip the railing, my long ivory gloves shining in the moonlight, and catch a glimpse of Lori near the buffet. Taking advantage of her arrival, I excuse myself from Isobel to greet her.

The skirt of Lori's blue dress undulates around her frame like liquid silk as she stumps over to the hors d'oeuvres, her sapphire mask complimenting the look. While her chosen fashion is not as formal as mine—with no gloves or necklace—and her usual earrings still in place, she's a vision. Her golden skin is simply glowing, making the rest of us look pale and sickly in comparison.

Lori grips a triangular glass and stuffs a spoonful of sweet potato mousse in her mouth. "I hate these things," she mumbles with the spoon tucked between her teeth. "They always force me into a damn dress."

"You look gorgeous."

"Hmpf. I don't care. I want my hoodie and pants." She eyes me up and down. "You don't look so appalled by the Fae fashions as I thought. Didn't you tell me you weren't used to showing skin?"

I blush deep red, her remark gnawing at my insecurities. When Baka had carried the dress into my bedroom, I almost clawed it out of her tiny, wrinkled hands. "It's the most beautiful gown I've ever seen. I just—it was so beautiful, I had to wear it."

"Hey, sorry." Lori grabs a champagne flute from an incoming magic tray and pinches the front of her dress with a disgusted pout for emphasis. "You look fabulous. I'm just crabby because of this wretched thing."

Misha—the curly-haired hunter with the sharp accent—joins us with a full plate in his hands. "The High Fae are quite interested in your progress. Everyone's asking about you."

My lips purse together. "Why?"

"They're here to spy on the king." Lori explains, always quick to jump to my rescue when I need information. "The seeds reflect the strength of his magic on a given year, and I bet Isobel Umbra caught more than she let on the other day."

"Agreed. She all but grilled me with questions earlier."

My friend half covers her eyes with her open palm, peering through her fanned fingers. "Oh, here we go. Two's here."

I crane my neck around in time to see Two stand on one of the tables.

"May I have your attention." He raises his wine glass in the air, his speech slightly slurred. "I'm happy to report that all three seedlings have made it through their first trial."

Applause resonates in the banquet hall, and Two offers them a quick bow, relishing the attention.

I stand on my tip-toes to glance over the crowd.

Three decided to show up, too. The silent triplet shakes his head with a humorous grimace like he finds his brother unredeemable. The red embroideries on his black jacket highlight his muscled frame, and he's got a gorgeous Fae lady hanging on his arm.

James chats with a group of Fae lords, the timid seed looking like a fish out of water in the middle of the huddle.

"Where's One?" I ask quietly.

Lori tilts her head back to gulp down the last sip of champagne, and a smudge of red lipstick taints the rim of her empty flute. "I guess he wasn't in the mood for schmoozing. It's not unusual for him to miss these events."

"I thought it was an official Faerie holiday, shouldn't he be made to bear through it like the rest of us?" I say, crestfallen.

She eyes me up and down. "You're grumpy tonight."

"Am not."

She grins from ear to ear. "Are too."

A sprite with a smooth, deep voice clears his throat. "All welcome his Majesty the King. Damian Morpheus Sombra, king of shadows, keeper of dreams, weaver of fantasies, and master of nightmares."

The crowd grows quiet, and Two hurries off the table with his lips curled down. The narrow root of the table he was standing on wobbles at his hasty retreat and knocks him off balance. He tumbles to the ground, and his ass hits the floor hard just as the Shadow King steps out of the glass.

The king's faceless stare latches onto him, and Two peels himself off the dance floor with a humiliated pout.

The Shadow King dressed up for the occasion. His tunic has been weaved from the shadows themselves, and a wispy cloak floats at his back. The darkness within it is so impenetrable that it dims the light in the entire room. A stitch of orange on the side of his pants matches the bright harvest decorations, but the tiny splash of color makes the rest of the ensemble darker still.

He sits on his throne with a perfect air of ease, his hood snug around the edges of his mask. Shiny leather gloves are pulled tight across his knuckles as he grips the armrests, and the High Fae return to their food and conversations.

A few lords and ladies come over to greet me and introduce themselves. I evade their questions as best as I can until they give up and leave me to my peers. Mara joins us, and Lori finally convinces me to try the bite-size food—it's actually pretty delicious. I drink a little wine, and the weight of my confusing visit to Demeter slowly lifts off my shoulders.

"The king seems even more taciturn than usual," Lori remarks.

The king doesn't mingle, the few High Fae courageous enough to engage in conversation quickly rebuffed by a sharp slice of the head. He's clearly not in the mood for schmoozing.

He watches the celebration from behind his mask, perched on his throne like a vulture atop a dead pine. Perfectly unattainable.

"I've never seen a monarch act like this," I admit. "It's not a proper way to rule."

Misha cranes his neck to glance at the king. "He always does this on holidays. Shows his face without truly engaging with anyone. It drives the High Fae mad, of course, but it reminds them who's in charge."

Mara takes a sip of her wine. "I heard he hasn't spoken a word out loud since he banished the other courts from the grounds."

I frown at that, remembering how cruelly he spoke to me the night of my first trial. Does he only speak to me?

Misha raises his brows in a secretive manner. "It makes sense. That's around the same time as when he started wearing his full-face mask. I heard that he got badly burned during a dragon hunt, and that his tongue melted off."

Lori clicks her tongue in a chiding fashion. "That's nonsense. I heard him speak with One once. Three is the only mute Fae around here."

I nod in agreement, relieved that I'm not the only person who's heard the king speak. The faceless monster who bargained for my life weighs heavily on my mind lately… and I can't say I've learned much about him in my time here. Damian the Dauntless.

Two drops a cherry stem inside his empty glass and pries Mara from our circle. "Let's dance."

He whisks her to the middle of the floor and motions for the string quartet to play a cheery, jig-like song, and I'm impressed to see them work through it with a shred of dignity considering their intoxicated state.

Mara's black dress leaves little to the imagination, the short skirt barely covering her ass.

Jo takes her place in our group at the small round table. His navy jacket flatters his masculine silhouette, the collar of his white shirt crisp and tidy.

"It's so unfair. They let the men wear anything they want," Lori whines.

Jo wiggles his shoulders under his jacket, his chin tucked in. "What are you talking about? It's a nice tuxedo."

"From the new world. The Fae lords wear scarves, tunics, and tails. We're encouraged to follow their customs, you know," Lori says.

Misha shrugs at the reproach. "Isn't it nice to mix the fashions? It shows open-mindedness."

"Open-mindedness would be not forcing me into a dress. Mara is wearing a miniskirt for crying out loud." Lori goes off into another tirade about her gown.

Jo inches closer with a sheepish smile. "If I'd known it would upset her so, I would have worn something more traditional," he whispers. "You're absolutely gorgeous tonight, Nell."

My lips twitch, my eyes instinctively dropping to the ground even though he can't see them. "Thank you."

Cary weaves his way through the crowd and wraps an arm around Misha's shoulders. "Hey, hot shot." The easy smiles on their faces give credit to Mara's claim that they are in fact a couple.

The fast-paced dance tapers down to a slower rhythm, and Jo extends his hand to me. "How about a dance, milady?"

"With pleasure."

I've danced my fair share of waltzes, and to my delight, Jo doesn't take advantage of my lack of corset to grope my body. He holds me at a gentlemanly distance and leads through the dance with a steady hand, not perfect, but with enough finesse to impress me.

"You're a good dancer," I praise him.

"My mother taught me. We don't have a lot of opportunities to waltz in the new world. The way you dance, you must do this every day."

"Such obvious flattery would be considered pretty forward in Demeter." I add a false air of decorum to my answer to tease him, and I'm taken aback by his charming smile.

We sway back and forth, and the heat of his hand is pleasant on my waist. The bronze mask covering his eyes complements his skin nicely, and I find myself grinning back at him before the song is over.

"Thank you for the book," I blurt out, suddenly wishing I could see his green eyes.

"Anytime, Old World." The music tapers down again.

Jo adds a fun, silly twirl at the end, and I collide with his chest with a gentle laugh. "I'm almost done with it. I'll give it back to you tomorrow."

Claps resonate across the sleek checkered floor to praise the musicians, and Jo and I join in. After a quick pause, the string quartet starts a languid, forlorn tune. It slowly picks up from a few timid notes, and my grip on Jo's arm tightens.

The music seeps inside my pores, and the soul-shattering whine of the violin prickles my heart. Most of the lords and ladies stop moving and exchange quick whispers between themselves.

The cellist plucks the cords of his instrument like he's hanging between life and death, and the bassline harmonizes with the violin in a powerful, intricate melody.

I glance over my shoulder to the Shadow King, surprised to find his throne abandoned, and my pulse quickens. A gloved hand taps on the shoulder of my partner, and Jo sidesteps, bowing to the king.

I curtsy at his arrival and drop my gaze to the ground. My whole body freezes as the king extends his hand in my direction. A sheen of cold sweat gathers at the back of my neck, and I swallow against the roil in my stomach, feeling faint.

For a moment, I think that the Shadow King's magic has stopped the flow of time, but Jo shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and the stares of the High Fae tickle my shoulders.

I search the masked faces in the crowd, but none of them can help me. Mara's lips are pressed in a grim line. Lori gapes. Three pushes himself off the wall at his back, graceful as a cat, and abandons his female companion, but I quickly lose sight of him.

A discrete creak of leather booms in my ears as the king flexes his little finger and raises his offered hand by a quarter inch, signaling that I should take it now. At last, I succumb to his demand.

Snubbing him in front of his court… I shiver at the possible consequences.

The king's blank golden mask shines in the darkness. He guides me away from my original partner to the center of the room, but my eyes are fixed on our joined hands.

Black and ivory gloves.

Leather and satin.

A firm yet gentle hand on my shoulder blade…

I cover his right arm with mine. He's stronger than I knew, his body broad and powerful as he tugs me close and whisks me into a dizzying waltz. We fly around the dance floor. Our movements are so fluid that I glance down to check if I'm still touching the ground.

The other lords and ladies quickly follow suit.

Dark gowns flow around us, and my ivory skirt is the only white flag in the middle of a bloody battlefield. The music thickens in my bones as the two of us move in perfect synchrony. I feel drugged—or rather enchanted. The king's bite of power sinks its claws inside me better than if he'd skewered me with a sword, and I jump at the chance to observe him more closely and fact-check a few tidbits of gossip. From this angle, I catch a glimpse of his neck and see no burns to speak of.

Nothing but smooth, tanned skin, interrupted only by the ghost of a crescent-shaped scar.

Leather brushes along my naked back, and the small caress packs a powerful punch. Two's angry words resonate in my ears. She belongs to the king…

No wonder One freaked out when we kissed. This is why he's avoiding me; why he's not here.

The entire world melts away. The dancers, the clink of glasses, the glow of the lanterns… Everything disappears but the king and me, the both of us bound together by this haunting, exquisite piece of music.

No cruel threats, no crude mention of sex or abuse. In fact, his bite of power is incredibly soothing, and I almost weep when the song stretches into its last decrescendo.

The king holds an arm to his chest and offers me a respectful bow. The skirt of my dress sweeps the floor as I offer him a full-blown court curtsy to atone for my earlier indecision.

The melody finally stops, and I press a hand to the hollow of my neck, feeling like a puppet liberated from its strings.

"What do you want from me?" I whisper.

He balls his fists, and I wait with baited breath, presuming he's about to turn on his heels and storm off without the simplest of explanation.

When he finally speaks, his voice is both swift as a breeze and hypnotic as a campfire. Strong as stone, but gentle as the ripples over a bottomless pond. It is no human sound.

"Nothing. Everything. Too little of what you owe, and more than you can spare." He tilts his head in goodbye and walks off with the poise of a man who owns the room—and everyone in it.

The crowd closes around me after he's gone, a school of sharks honing in on a discarded prey. Lori elbows her way through them without hesitation and grips my hand, her red-painted lips parted in horror.