Cora’s ultimate mark has finally walked through the door.
“The years have treated him kindly, I see,” Mimi adds. “Although that attire. How... misguided.”
Through the crowd, Cora spots the young man Mimi’s speaking about—and a wave of relief crests over her shoulders.Sometimes in the past weeks, at night, when cold rain pelted the windows or when the fire would pinch out and Alice’s apartment turned frigid, Cora’s mind turned chilly too, imagining the very worst that lay ahead—far worse than mastering dances and place settings. Harry Peyton could have proved a true ogre, after all, one she must spend months fawning over and charming for the sake of her payout.
Thankfully, the young man working the crowd—shaking hands now with Mr. Vandemeer—looks more like a hapless prince than a gruesome ogre. Tall, slim physique, a big smile. Animated, bewildered eyes as he takes in the ballroom. Cora can’t tell what color they are from here, but she wouldn’t mind finding out.
Mimi mutters, “Harry should save that getup for your mother’s costume ball, Bella.”
“Hush, Mimi,” Arabella says, unusually sharp.
Mimi does make a point this time. Good heavens, no wonder Cora thought of a prince. WhatisHarry wearing, and why? A blue satin coat that doesn’t quite fit, scuffed shoes, a clearly borrowed and worse-for-wearpowdered wig?
No matter. Cora’s mind clicks into performance mode, nerves singing now that her target has taken on tangible form. Now that the plan is no longer theoretical but here, curtains opening, the act about to start. And a wrong first step could foil the entire show.
She considers her move as Harry turns to approach Mrs. Ames.
“Lady Cora, allow me to introduce myself.”
Cora startles, turning to find a pale, spindly young man hovering on her heels.
The man’s dull gray eyes narrow, his rounded spine hunched like a question mark as he bows. “Beau Witt the Third, heir to my father’s empire. Once my mother passes and gets out of the way, obviously.”
Bonnie’s “nutter brother.”Oh no, not now.
Beau straightens somewhat, smiling to reveal a set of crooked gray teeth.
“Ah yes, charmed, Mr. Witt.”
“My sister has been monopolizing your time,” Beau coos. “I take it you have an interest in the occult? I myself...”
His voice sinks into the party’s swells as Cora tracks Harry out of the corner of her eye—still with Mrs. Ames, though Arabella has wisely used Beau’s interruption as an excuse to cross the room and join them.
“...and so I was hoping the two of us might have a word,” Beau concludes, to his own apparent satisfaction.
Cora blinks. “I believe we just had several.”
Beau laughs like a hyena, so loud that even his sister grimaces and shrinks away. Mimi, too, slinks off to a nearby table, eyebrow crooked again.
Wonderful. Now just the two of them.
“I should think you would be excited for some conversation, a chance to practice your English. Cora—Icancall you Cora, can’t I?” Beau waggles his haywire eyebrows. “I notice that no other gentleman has been bold enough to approach. I assure you, we Witts are confident stock, not easily intimidated by matters of the heart, mind, or even the supernatural. It is not every day one meets an international, powerful princess—”
“I am not a princess, Mr. Witt.”
“And all this talk of mystic gems—”
“Emeralds.” She glances away, searching for rescue.
“Not to mention how truly enchanting you look tonight.” Beau winks, his smile stretching wide. It’s like a cemetery in there, she thinks, a mouth of ancient headstones on a gloomy eve.
Cora’s pulse begins jumping faster than the orchestra’s rag. From her vantage, she can see that Arabella and Harry are speaking now, both of them smiling. Beaming, really. Friends from childhood, it sounds like, correspondents, although it looks like more. There’s obvious chemistry between them. Not a spark necessarily, but... something. A simmering.
A simmering she supposes she’ll need to quickly cool, which is hardly possible when one is trapped by a young Grim Reaper.
“Did you hear me?” Mr. Witt presses petulantly, fiddling with something in his pocket. A pencil. What the dickens, is he about to ask her to dance? “I saidenchanting.”
“Yes, a play on... the occult, is it? Very clever.” Cora smiles brightly. “But I’m afraid the thing I feel most at this moment is overheated. If you’ll excuse me—”
