Do not lose yourself, Daphne.
But hadn’t I already started to?
A pair of earrings rested in a small velvet box in the drawer—gold with garnets shaped like teardrops. I clipped them on with trembling fingers, then brushed my short hair with a brush I found on the vanity table.
Was this foolishness or strategy?
I didn’t know. Part of me wanted answers. Part of me wanted to see Emrys flinch. And part of me—traitorous, curious—wanted to sit across from him and hear him speak. To watch his face shift under candlelight. To see if his wings would cast shadows on the walls.
I set the brush down and stared at my reflection one last time.
“Don’t be stupid, Daphne,” I muttered. “Don’t fall for shadows on the wall. Milan and Paris await you. You’ll sing. One day, you’ll sing.”
But I still reached for the shoes.
And I still walked toward the door.
****
The dining hall was too grand for a house this empty. It swallowed the candlelight, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows. Heavy tapestries lined the walls, their faded figures half-forgotten. A great fireplace blazed at the far end, but its glow barely touched the cold that clung to the stones. Above it hung a familiar face. An old family portrait: a stern father, a gray-haired mother, and a boy—
I flinched. The boy from the piano room. His face was frozen in a shy smile as if asking me to enter. The similarity between him and the man in the portrait was undeniable. So this was the power-hungry lord who sacrificed his own child. Terrible as it was, I found some relief in this revelation.
This was one murder Emrys was not guilty of.
My steps were a little lighter as I approached the table. It stretched far too long, an expanse of polished ebony disappearing into the dimly lit space. Only two chairs, facingeach other. Disturbingly close. It seemed… deliberate. A silent invitation, a game waiting to be played.
I hesitated, smoothing the creases of my borrowed gown. The amber light from the chandeliers reflected in the glassware, their edges catching and fracturing the glow like tiny rainbows. The scent of roasted duck glazed with honey, spiced pears, and freshly baked bread curled through the air. But underneath it all, something colder lingered—dust and old stone, the ghosts of a house that had not truly lived for a long, long time.
Then my eyes landed on him. Emrys sat at the far end of the table, one hand resting on the high back of his chair. The firelight cast deep shadows beneath the sharp cut of his cheekbones. His hair was still damp, dark strands curling to his shoulders, the faintest scent of black sage and clove reaching me as I stepped closer. He had dressed for the occasion but carelessly—his black cravat hung untied, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the powerful line of his collarbone. The sight of it sent heat crawling down my spine, and I looked around, desperately searching for something else to focus on.
He moved with lazy elegance, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his golden skin catching the firelight. I shouldn’t find him beautiful. He was a monster. He saw me nearly drown without doing anything to help.
His expression quickly shifted to bored arrogance when our eyes met, and I wondered if he wore that as a mask. No doubt there was a flicker of curiosity and maybe a tiny bit of excitement when he saw me approach.
“You came,” he said simply.
I lifted my chin, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “You invited me,” I said, stepping forward.
“That I did.”
He gestured toward the seat across from him, and for a fleeting moment, amusement flashed in his silver-gray eyes. Like he knew the effect he had on me.
I refused to give him the satisfaction.
Sinking into the cushioned chair, I reached for the delicate crystal glass in front of me. The wine inside was deep and dark, the color of garnets. Or blood.
His hand rested lightly on the stem of his glass. Not drinking. Just watching.
A decadent meal awaited—too extravagant for just the two of us. My stomach tightened.
“I’m sure you’d appreciate Liang’s cooking skills. Definitely an improvement compared to Vexley’s canteen, I guess,” he said, filling his plate.
I grabbed the knife and sliced through the tender meat. Took a bite and barely suppressed a moan. It was delicious, rich and perfectly spiced.
And still, he hadn’t touched his food.
“You’re not eating,” I said, setting down my fork.
