I bite back my response, keeping my eyes fixed on the scenery out the window. It’s hard to begrudge the sorry condition of our cab when it offers such a lovely view of the countryside. It reminds me of the lands outside my childhood home. Despite my visual distraction, I can feel my stepmother’s glare burning into me. My scalp still hurts from where she scraped it with the hairpin. She never did finish helping me with my hair either, so I was left to complete the haphazard job myself. Which, of course, has given my stepsisters plenty of fuel for their insults. As if they needed more. I tap my fingers against my thighs, wishing I had piano keys.
“Your gloves are stained,” Clara says. When I don’t respond, she says it again, bumping her shoulder into mine.
I pull my gaze from the window and turn my palms over, finding the white silk has turned to gray. It doesn’t surprise me, considering these are the only formal gloves I own. The last time I wore them was when I played piano for the Winter King’s ball last year. The only other ball I’ve attended. Even then I served as a musician, not a guest.
“Unlike mine,” she says, holding out her hands to examine the pristine silk gloves she got from Madame Flora’s shop. The glamour attached to them has her dressed in a lavish emerald gown covered in peacock feathers, her face shimmering with gold dust, lashes composed of curling green feathers. It looks so real. And whenever her skirts brush mine or her feathers tickle my arm, I’m surprised to find the glamour feels real too.
“Don’t tease,” Imogen says. Her glamour is woven to a black feathered hair clip, her hair turned a similar shade and piled high upon her head. Her glamoured gown is midnight blue with raven feathers adorning the bodice. Her kohl-lined eyes lock on mine, and her voice turns cruel. “I’m sure she already feels ugly enough as it is, dressed in that plain gown when we have such stunning glamours. Besides, we have our dear stepsister to thank for tonight’s invitations.”
“Ember knows it’sshewho should be grateful,” Mrs. Coleman says. Her glamour, bound to a ruby necklace, covers the top half of her face in a black mask swirling with moving galaxies. The conjured gown is black and silver with a high neck and long, flowing sleeves.
And then there’s me. Simple, beautiful gown. Plain unglamoured mask. “I am grateful,” I say, although what I really am is anxious. Ever since my argument with my stepmother, I’ve felt more and more unsettled, a feeling that weighs heavy in my gut. Contrasting that, my heart races faster the closer we draw to the palace. Perhaps I’m finally feeling some of that excitement I earlier yearned for. Or is it dread?
“Youshouldbe grateful,” Clara snaps. “Have you any idea what an honor it is to go to a royal ball?”
“I do hope the ball is civilized,” Imogen says. “Wearing a glamour is already quite vulgar as it is.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. If Imogen thinks a glamour is vulgar, just wait until she meets our host.
“The prince is hosting the ball for human society,” Mrs. Coleman says. “I trust a prince must know the difference between a ball and a revel. Even though he is of the unseelie reign.”
Clara shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “The prince isn’treallya vampire, right?”
Imogen shrugs. “I’ve heard he’s an emotional vampire, whatever that means. I’m certain he doesn’t drink blood. Prince Franco is said to be one of the handsomest royals. No one sane would say that about a bloodsucker.”
I doubt anyone sane would call the prince handsome when there are several equally true adjectives to use about him. Of course, I don’t say so out loud.
“I heard he has tattoos, though,” Clara says. “Is that not vulgar as well?”
My stepmother waves a dismissive hand. “Never mind any of that. Prince Franco is an eligible royal, and that’s all we need to concern ourselves with. I’m sure the ball will be quite a proper event.”
* * *
Our cab approaches the palace,pulling up behind a long line of far more elegant coach-and-fours. I catch my first sight of the palace, an extravagant structure of moonstone columns and walls of opal and obsidian.
“Get out, quickly,” Mrs. Coleman orders.
Clara’s mouth falls open. “But we aren’t even there yet.”
“I don’t care. We’ll walk the rest of the way. Get out before anyone notices where we came from.”
The three of us obey, pouring out of the cab with haste. My stepmother drops the fare into the coachman’s open palm, then leaps away as if he could burn her. Then we walk the rest of the way up the sprawling drive. The fuller the palace comes into view, the more awed I become. I’ve never been to a palace, much less a glamoured ball. As we approach the front steps, we join the swarms of guests filing out of their coaches. Each person’s glamour is more fantastic than the next. I try not to gape as we begin our ascent up the stairs alongside them. I do, however, trail behind my stepfamily like I always do. It allows me to take care with each step and resist lifting my skirts too high. Owning no pair of dancing slippers like my stepsisters wear, I’m determined not to reveal my plain, worn shoes hidden beneath my hem.
Halfway up the stairs, I hear the first strain of music coming from inside the palace. As it hits me, it nearly steals the breath from my lungs. The tune is lively and upbeat, the musicians expertly weaving a song that already makes me want to dance. My fingers flinch, eager to play along. A steadying calm mingles with the buzz of excitement, like a playful wind that makes my feet feel lighter, my heart less heavy.
Perhaps this won’t be a miserable occasion. I may have no interest in dancing with strangers or casting nets to lure in marital success, but that doesn’t mean I must dread what awaits. I might even be able to accept that tonight could potentially be…dare I say, fun?
We reach the top landing and approach the door to the main hall. My stepmother hands over our invitations to an impeccably dressed fae footman. His ears are pointed, his hair a shade of crimson rarely seen on a human. Beneath his nose extends a ridiculously long, curling mustache of the same vibrant red. Mrs. Coleman’s shoulders go rigid as the fae studies the four cards. His eyes widen, and I glance at his hands to see a sheet of ice crystallizing over the invitation bearing my stepmother’s name.
“Ember!” she hisses, snapping her fingers at me.
For a split second, I consider remaining in place out of spite. If I hold still, will the ice continue to grow? Will it shatter the cards? The thought of destroying my stepmother’s schemes is almost tempting enough to root my feet in place.
But now that I’ve heard the music…
I dart past my stepsisters and stand before the footman. Mrs. Coleman takes a step back, and from the set of her jaw, I can tell she’s furious at having to do so. The footman glances from the invitations—three of which have now been coated in ice—to me. I offer him a smile, and when our eyes fall back to the four cards, all are in perfect, iceless condition.
The footman chuckles, making his mustache twitch. “Powerful magic.” Then, with a nod, he ushers us through.
