Back in my room, I climb under the covers and turn to the first page. I enter the story, finding it very unlike what I normally read. There seems to be no pulse-pounding romance, no handsome hero, no heated scandal, which should help save my sanity for the remainder of the night. Instead, I find a bittersweet tale of an orphaned boy who meets an outcast street dog, and the bond that develops between them. I read late into the night, finding myself laughing and crying in equal measure. At the end, the dog saves the boy’s life at the expense of his own, and I’m left a sobbing mess.
With the book clutched against my chest, I turn off the lights and burrow beneath my blankets, feeling a deep throb in my heart that’s both sharp and warm at once. No wonder Elliot hates books after reading this one. The books I read have happy endings, not…whatever this is. Then again, I could never wish to erase what this story has given me, for alongside loss came growth and love and friendship. Maybe Elliot was right. Maybe books are a strange form of human sorcery. For how else can a story feel so satisfying and agonizing at the same time?
I hug the book tighter, breathing in the scent of its pages—the classic paper smell mingled with another aroma of earth and pine, one that’s becoming increasingly familiar and can only be described asElliot—and a calming peace falls over me. Sleep begins to tug at the corners of my consciousness, bringing with it an echo of the king’s earlier question.Is it worth it?
My answer is the same as it was before.Yes, Elliot. It’s worth it.
* * *
The dayof the ball arrives, and I’m thrown into a flurry of activity no sooner than the sun rises. Just like with the dinner, we’ve hired staff for the day, and I set about instructing them in their proper places and duties. Foxglove arrives to put some final touches on the ballroom, bringing with him Ember and a violinist he’s hired to accompany my friend as our modest orchestra for tonight’s music. Amelie comes shortly after to ensure Elliot has no issues with the outfit she picked out for him. Elliot himself is nowhere to be seen, however, and I can’t blame him. With the manor thrown into such chaos as the day draws closer to dusk, I too would rather be away somewhere in a quiet room. But as steward, management of tonight’s ball is my responsibility. There will be no breaks for me. No hiding.
The thought is my constant companion, nagging at the back of my mind as I go about my work and continue overseeing all preparations. No matter how busy I make myself, I can’t shake the fact that, even though I won’t be dancing tonight, I will still face public display. As floor manager, I’ll have to interact with most of our guests, responsible for introductions and ensuring each dance set is full. And despite Imogen’s assertions that this will be a small and private event, her guest list says otherwise. It seems her confidence in Elliot’s attention has grown since our dinner, considering she’s invited some of the most well-bred men and women in town. Although I know any decent ball requires a vast number of willing dancers, I’m surprised how many young and eligible ladies she’s invited. Probably to show off what she thinks she’s won.
As much as that makes my stomach churn, I must let it comfort me instead. This is what we’ve been working for—Imogen’s attachment, her pride in Elliot’s affections. Internal arguments rail against me, and I try to take additional comfort in Imogen’s eventual demise, for once she breaks his curse, the king will turn her away, and her smug grin will be wiped from her face forevermore.
When none of those thoughts help, I remind myself of the five petals that have fallen each of the last few days. Based on my calculations, we have anywhere from one week to nine days left to break Elliot’s curse. Imogenmustbe convinced she’s in love tonight.
She must.
At least I have true comfort in the few invitees I’ve added to the guest list, which includes Foxglove, Amelie, Nina, and the bookseller, Mr. Cordell. Unfortunately, Nina’s invite requires one for Father as well, so I must steel myself against his forthcoming presence.
The sky is nearly dark and the ball just over an hour away when I can safely say the manor is ready for tonight’s event. Standing at the entrance to the dining-room-turned-ballroom, I give it a nod of approval. The lighting has been lowered to a warm, elegant glow, and the marble floor gleams with a dazzling shine, the very essence of the room screaming romance. Ember and the violinist are set up at the far end, practicing for the first few songs, strains of their lovely music floating upon my ears to ease my frazzled nerves.
I sigh. It’s perfect. This will work.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
I whirl at the sound of Elliot’s voice, my pulse hammering at the sight of him in his shirtsleeves. “I could ask the same of you. What are you thinking, walking around like this?”
“I’ve been in the garden,” he says, voice quiet.
My stomach drops. “Anything I should be concerned about?”
He shifts his jaw. “Nothing but the usual. Four petals have fallen. I’m sure the fifth will fall by the end of the night.”
His tone has me reaching for him, and before I realize what I’m doing, I lay a gentle hand on his arm. My palm buzzes at the contact, sending a rush of heat through me, but I don’t release him. Instead, I give him a soft squeeze, and he relaxes, shoulders dropping. “It’s going to be all right, Mr. Rochester,” I whisper. “If all goes to plan, I’ll speak with Imogen tonight.”
His face flashes with a pained expression. “What if she doesn’t—”
“No,” I say, voice firm. “No what ifs. Just stick with the plan. Dance with Imogen. Treat her like a queen. Smile at her, converse with her. Use that clever fae deception and pretend she’s the most desirable creature you’ve ever beheld. Can you do that?”
It takes him a few silent beats to answer. “Yes.”
I slide my palm from his arm, ignoring how cold it feels hanging loose at my side. “Good. Here’s what to expect. The ball will open with a minuet, so you’ll need to wait for the second, which will be a waltz. That’s when you will ask Imogen to dance. The sixth dance will be the polka, and the tenth will be the gallopade. Three dances with Imogen. Three chances to demonstrate your favor.”
He nods along, as if memorizing my verbal itinerary.
“Now, go get dressed. Hurry!”
He takes a step away but pauses. “Shouldn’t you get dressed as well?”
The question has me assessing my state of disarray. Even without a mirror, I can tell my hair has gone limp, loose strands hanging around my face. And although my dress is clean, I can’t deny I feel less than fresh, considering how much my anxiety has caused me to sweat. “I suppose you’re right. The floor manager mustn’t appear so ragged as I look now.”
He extends his arm with a crooked smile. “Let me escort you to your room, Miss Bellefleur.”
I quirk a brow. “Why? Are you afraid I’ll ignore your suggestion to change as soon as your back is turned?”
“Perhaps. Besides, we can practice conversation on our way and help me get comfortable.”
