5

During the half-hour drive to the city, I have trouble focusing my thoughts. My mind keeps leaping between the tasks I must accomplish. I need to glean some useful information about the prince, something my stepsisters can use to get close to him and set themselves apart from all the other women in attendance. I have to find my way to the library and figure out how to get into the vault. Then I need to spend time with the books in the vault so I can free myself from this fucking anklet.

There’s no way I can do all of it tonight. It’s simply impossible. But maybe, if I can prove useful to my stepmother, she’ll let me return tomorrow night. So my focus must be on devising a scheme to promote my stepsisters in the eyes of the Crown Prince. Vashli and Amisa are both beautiful in different ways, and they both have unfortunate personalities, so I suppose I will have to decide which of them can feign likability the best for His Royal Highness.

When the crystal carriage halts, I realize with a start that I’ve arrived at the palace. I have a vague memory of the city streets passing by the carriage windows in a dazzle of lighted color, but I don’t remember much of it. I was deep in my head, strategizing.

The palace, though, emblazons itself instantly on my brain. It’s a huge rectangular structure, more serviceable than decorative, with a large central block flanked by an east and west wing. Rows of windows shine into the night, but the massive pillared entrance is brightest, shedding light over the sweeping steps and crisply trimmed hedges. The lawns are brown now, but I can imagine they must look lovely and lush in the summertime.

Several footmen and guards stand in a motionless row along each side of the wide steps leading to the entrance. When I open the carriage door myself, one of the footmen hurries forward to help me down.

The carriage rolls away along the drive, toward a distant lawn where I can see other carriages parked in rows, but thankfully the footman doesn’t seem to notice that I didn’t have a driver. He merely says, “Would you like me to escort you inside, my lady?”

I almost laugh at the title. I’m used to being called “Cinders” or “fool” or “wretch.”

“Yes, please,” I tell him, and he offers his arm, accompanying me up the steps and into the glowing heart of the palace.

I stare in awe at the staggering height of the ceilings and the air of subdued luxury that suffuses the foyer. Statues loom along a marble staircase ahead, and more stonework frames an immense door to my right. In the room beyond, colorful clusters of people are milling about. The strains of a waltz mingle with the chattering din of the crowd.

“Whom shall I tell them to announce?” murmurs the footman as we cross the glossy floor of the foyer, heading for the ballroom. He reaches for my fluffy wrap, and I yield it to him, knowing that even if he hangs it up in some coatroom, it will disappear at midnight .

“Do they have to announce me?” I ask, but when he gives me a confused look, I say, “Announce me as Celinda Laurier of Eisling House, daughter of Anvedin Laurier.”

My father wasn’t a nobleman, but he did well for himself as the owner of many merchant ships and a couple shipyards. He used to say my birth gave Fate a reason to smile on him, for it was then that his fortunes began to improve and he was able to expand his business and amass the wealth that has kept Eisling House afloat thus far. His name still carries some weight in the social circles of this region, though mine is fairly unknown. I’m rarely introduced to anyone, and when my step-family does acknowledge me in public, they simply call me “Cinders” or “the maid.”

The kind footman passes on my request to the herald at the door, who blows his trumpet to signal my arrival. The soft waltz continues in the background even as he bawls out my introduction.

It’s terrifying to enter that room, to face all those eyes. I’m used to doing my work quietly, unnoticed. The most attention I ever get is on market day, and even then I’m on a strict schedule from Gilda and I’m not allowed to engage in much conversation. The onslaught of so many people, so much attention at once—it’s a torture I didn’t expect.

But I hold my head high and sail into the room in my glorious dress, taking comfort in the fact that even if I’m anxious, at least I look beautiful. My Faerie godfather did his work well. Though my gown is a different style than most, it suits me perfectly. With its graceful silhouette and exquisite material, it outshines every other garment at this gathering.

I spot the Prince immediately, as his portrait usually appears next to his father’s in public buildings. He’s pleasantly handsome, dressed in a cream-colored suit with red and gold trim. A thin circlet of gold nestles amid the waves of his brown hair .

He’s dancing with a young lady, but when the herald announces me, he turns his head and catches my gaze. My heart does a quick flip at the eye contact, and my first instinct is to look away—but I’m here to help my stepsisters ensnare him, and to do that, I need to make a good impression.

So I hold his gaze, and I let a soft smile curve my lips. The blush on my cheeks is real, engendered by my nerves and by the constant awareness of what’s at stake.

The Prince smiles back. He leans toward his companion and murmurs something, at which she looks somewhat disgruntled. Then he leaves her and walks toward me as the crowd parts for him.

The fluttering sensation in my chest intensifies. Surely he can’t be coming over to ask me to dance. Surely it can’t be this easy. Surely there are lovelier, more graceful people with whom he could spend his time.

I’ve seen people dance. I’ve watched waltzes from shadowed doorways and observed merry jigs in the market square. I’ve danced around the kitchen before. But dancing with the Crown Prince, in front of everyone? Terror floods my limbs, turning them weak.

The Prince is in front of me now. He’s about my height, and as I look into his eyes, I see sincere admiration. His warm, easy smile takes a little of the edge off my nerves.

By some miracle, I remember to sink into a deep curtsy.

“Good evening,” he says, with a slight bow. “Miss Laurier, is it?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Call me Brantley. Would you care to dance?”

I’m excruciatingly conscious of everyone in the room looking at us, listening to our conversation. He seems relaxed, but in this moment I realize how difficult it must be for him, having his every move watched, his every sentence dissected and evaluated .

“I’m not the best of dancers, Your Highness,” I reply. “But with your guidance, I’d be willing to try.”

“That’s more than fair.” He extends his hand, and I take it.

He leads me to the center of the immense ballroom, where we join a few dozen other couples. Apparently the Prince also invited many eligible young men to be present tonight, to provide dance partners for the ladies while he is occupied.

Even though everyone here is dressed in their finest, I can spot those with true wealth and dignity. There’s a simplicity and quality to their clothing, whereas those with less money or no titles tend to make themselves garishly noticeable, as if a preponderance of gaudy trimmings or bright colors will make up for their lack of breeding or wealth.

To my mind, noble blood means little, but the education and manners that accompany it do have some value. Since my father’s passing, my education has consisted of whatever scraps I could learn on my own in the precious minutes when I wasn’t immersed in household chores. Nor do I possess the flawless manners of high society. But my dress and my necklace proclaim me as someone of both class and means, and I hope I can fake the rest, just for one night.

The Prince leads the dance well, and I quickly assimilate to the rhythm and the simple paces.

“So many beautiful ladies here tonight,” he says. “And yet I do believe you are the most stunning.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “But you must not have met my sisters yet. They are both quite lovely and have many charming qualities.”

“Indeed? And what might those qualities be?”

“Well, Amisa is… she likes to…” Oh fuck . Here’s my opportunity to begin earning them favor with the Prince, and my mind has gone entirely blank. “And Vashli, she’s quite… um…”

For fuck’s sake, there must be something good about them .

The Prince’s smile has faded, and he’s looking at me quizzically.

“Forgive me,” I say with a breathless laugh. “I suppose I’m a bit flustered, being in your presence.”

He chuckles. “Not to worry, Miss Laurier. Perhaps we should see if we share any interests. Do you like music? I’m quite fond of this song. The rhythm is so crisp, so satisfying. Are you familiar with the work of the composer Eshlin Asok?”

“I can’t say that I am,” I admit.

“I’m fascinated with his work.” And with that, the Prince launches into a lengthy biography of the composer, including the history of the school of music where he trained, a list of which musicians he prefers to work with, and a ranking of his best songs, along with the inspiration for each one.

Another partner might find the Prince dull, but for someone like me, who yearns for knowledge she has no time to gain, his lecture is both informative and interesting. I let him talk for as long as he likes without changing the subject or cutting in, except to ask a few questions related to the topic.

But eventually, my interest wears thin and my attention begins to wander. We’ve danced through several more songs and my feet are beginning to hurt. I’m itching to slip away, to talk with some of the palace servants and find out where the library is.

The time hasn’t been wasted though. I’ve deepened my knowledge of music, and I’ve discovered a few important things about the Crown Prince.

First, he’s obsessed with the composer Eshlin Asok. Second, he’s a man with a love of specifics, who enjoys diving deeply into one subject and learning everything about it. And third—he seems to enjoy a partner who will listen to him with genuine interest.

As the waltz ends and he pauses for breath, I gently intercept before he can continue speaking. “Your Highness, I have preyed upon your kindness long enough. As delightful as our conversation has been, there are many young ladies here who desire a moment of your time, and I must share you with them.”

He looks lost for a moment, and so sincerely disappointed that I impulsively clasp his hands in mine. It’s too intimate a gesture for such a short acquaintance, but I can’t help it. He seems sad, and I know what it is to need comfort.

I feel a little guilty that, without trying to, I somehow made him like me enough to dance with me for a significant portion of the night. But it will all work out. It’s part of the plan. Securing his attention was the first step, and now I can redirect that attention from myself to Amisa or Vashli.

“Will you walk with me in the garden later?” he asks. “There are some lovely winter roses. I can tell you all about the horticulturist who cultivated the species—it’s a fascinating tale.”

“I’m sure it is.” I press his hands between mine. “I will try to see you again before midnight. Until then…” I hesitate, thanking Fate because at that moment, I spot Vashli not far away in the crowd, dancing with a rather bland-looking young man and watching me with undisguised jealousy. “Until then, you should dance with my sister Vashli.”

I lead the Prince toward her. At our approach, her envious expression transforms into momentary astonishment before she manages to plaster a simpering smile on her face.

“Vashli, may I introduce His Royal Highness,” I say. “Your Highness, this is Miss Vashli Laurier.”

“Call me Brantley,” the Prince says affably.

“The Prince enjoys winter roses and the compositions of Eshlin Asok,” I say, with a significant look at Vashli. She only stares at me, uncomprehending, and frustration spikes in my chest. Motherfuck — “If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” I say to the Prince with a smile .

Pulling Vashli a few steps away, I speak sharply in her ear. “Ask him to tell you the history of the winter roses. Feign interest if you have to. Smile. Ask intelligent questions.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, cunt-wipe,” she hisses. “And where did you get that dress?”

“Go back to him before he chooses someone else.”

With a murderous glare, she turns away and glides toward Brantley. I bob a curtsy to him and then hurry in the opposite direction, threading my way through the crowd and pretending I don’t notice the calls and outstretched hands of several young men asking me to dance.

I escape into the foyer and flee deeper into the palace, through a huge dining room and a dimly lit smoking room, then into a portrait gallery. I pass the occasional guard, footman, or servant, but none of them stop me. A few other visitors are walking in the same areas, admiring the collectibles and art. Apparently the Prince’s guests are allowed to wander through parts of the main floor tonight.

When I spot a trio of guards engaged in low conversation, I meander past them slowly, my ears attuned to their conversation.

“The King did not come to the ball,” mutters one of them.

“I heard he wasn’t feeling well at the council meeting this afternoon,” replies another guard. “He must be resting.”

“Perhaps, or he gave his bodyguards the slip again and went out into the city.”

“Ren and Sevir hate it when he does that.” The second guard chuckles.

“I would, too. It’s their job to protect him, but he makes it difficult.”

“He’s about due for another dalliance with some gorgeous young mistress,” the third guard comments. “Perhaps he’s on the hunt for one now. ”

Their voices fade behind me, since I can’t linger any longer without them suspecting me of eavesdropping. Hesitantly I approach a maid who is dusting one of the portraits.

“I was just dancing with His Royal Highness, and he mentioned a biography of Eshlin Asok,” I say. “I’m a great lover of books and music, so I thought I might do a little reading before I meet him in the garden later. But this place is so big—I can’t remember which way he told me to go to find the library.”

Her eyes light up with interest. With a few strategic sentences and key details, I’ve established myself in her mind as a favorite of the Prince. No doubt she will spread gossip to that effect, which could allow me a bit more freedom in the palace.

“Of course, love.” She leads me to the open door at the end of the gallery. “You want to turn right here, go to the next hall, and take a left. The library is through the big doors on the right side, with the dragons engraved on them. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” My heart pounds faster as I hurry away, following her guidance.

Though I didn’t have access to a full education, I can read quickly and retain the information—skills that will serve me well once I find the books I’m looking for. Being so close to the resources I need is a thrilling accomplishment. I can nearly taste freedom.

I pause before a pair of gigantic doors, each boasting two intertwined dragons carved from the gleaming black wood. One of them is already ajar. If I weren’t wearing such a decadent gown, I could slip through easily. As it is, I have to push the door a bit wider to enter. Its hinges groan faintly, and the sound echoes in the space beyond.

Cautiously I creep in, my heart thumping in my throat, my eyes wide with worshipful awe.

The library is a dark cavern of books, uplit by the soft glow of frosted electric bulbs. To my left, pale moonlight shines in from the garden through a pair of arched windows. The glow touches the curled white petals of winter roses, two huge bouquets of them overflowing from large urns.

I tear my gaze away from the moonlight and the flowers, refocusing on the layout of the library, a rectangular room divided by rows of bookshelves. Along the wall behind the bookshelves I glimpse alcoves with cushioned benches—nooks where readers might find refuge.

I move deeper into the room, looking for another door that might conceal a vault of prized books. But parts of the library are heavily shadowed, and there’s so much tall furniture it’s difficult to get good sightlines. I’ll have to do a thorough exploration of every nook and cranny, even the alcoves and the darkened areas.

All the dancing has made my lungs ache, and I’m finding it difficult to get a deep breath. I pause and bend over, sucking in air until I finally get a whole breath, all the way to the bottom of my lungs. It’s an inexpressible relief.

I have got to quit sleeping next to a coal bin.

I walk between two rows of bookshelves toward the far wall, the one with all the reading nooks. Each nook has a light set within it, overhanging the bench seat. In some alcoves, the light is on, even though no one is reading there. It seems like a waste of electrical power. At Eisling House, we use electricity sparingly.

But it’s none of my business whether the palace wastes money or not. I simply need to find the vault.

“Where are you?” I mutter, pacing down the aisle, swishing aside the curtain of a reading nook. A cursory inspection shows no sign of a concealed door, so I move on to the next alcove, whose light is on, with the curtain partly drawn.

I see the boots a second too late, as I’m already drawing back the curtain. Black leather boots, finely crafted, crossed at the ankles. Not a speck of mud on them. The boots belong to a man who’s reclining in the alcove with his feet up, reading a book .

“I beg your pardon,” I gasp. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

The man smiles at me. He’s not young, but he’s undeniably handsome, with black brows, ice-gray eyes, and a mane of wavy silver hair. His square chin and angular jaw frame the most perfect mouth I’ve ever seen—exquisite lips crafted for kissing, surrounded by a short scruff of dark beard, neatly trimmed. His clothes aren’t overtly luxurious—a simple pair of black pants and a loose white shirt that shows part of his well-cut chest. There’s a warm elegance and a regal charm about him that doesn’t come through in his portraits, making him even more appealing in person.

This is the King himself. I just yanked back the curtain and disturbed the King’s private reading session.

“Your Majesty,” I exclaim, dropping into a curtsy.

He dismisses the formality with a wave of his hand. “No need for all that.” His voice has a deep, soothing resonance. I notice his fingers—thick, masculine, adorned with heavy rings. “Who are you looking for?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Earlier, you said, ‘Where are you?’ Are you searching for someone?”

“Oh… not exactly. I… well… I was looking for a book.” My gaze descends to the volume lying open on his lap. One page contains text, and the opposite page features a detailed drawing of a naked man fucking a nude woman against a tree.

Swallowing hard, I glance at the King, who makes no move to hide the image or close the book. His silver eyes narrow, crinkling at the corners as he gives me an amused smile.

“Ever read a book like this?” he asks.

A wicked heat rushes through my body, and in a moment of impulsive daring, I decide to tell him the truth. “A woman of good breeding should say no, but… yes.”

His smile broadens. “I respect your honesty. ”

“I should say, I’ve only read short stories of that kind,” I confess. “Never an entire book.”

“Ah. Well, the story is good. It’s meant to titillate, of course, but there’s substance beyond that.”

Another wave of hot embarrassment rolls over me, because not only did I disturb His Royal Majesty, the King of all the land, but I’m standing here, talking about naughty books, hearing him say words like “titillate” with that sinfully exquisite mouth of his.

It crosses my mind that he’s exempt from the command my stepmother placed on me, when she forbade me to have sex with any of the young men of the region. He’s old enough to be my father, outside the category of “young men.” And yet he’s more beautiful than any man I’ve ever seen, except perhaps my Faerie godfather.

The King’s eyes are wandering over my body with bold interest. His broad, smooth lips part, and he fucking licks them, as if I’m a treat he’d like to taste.

And why shouldn’t he? Earlier, when the Faerie kissed me, I was re-awakened to the carnal needs of my body. I even thought about satisfying those needs tonight. Why not quench my sexual thirst with the King himself?

Besides, as the owner of this palace and ruler of the kingdom, he would be the one person who could grant me access to the vault where all the books on Faerie magic are kept. I could defy my stepmother, sate my own cravings, and get closer to my goals at the same time. All I have to do is seduce the King.

Judging by the bulge in his trousers, it won’t be difficult.