No sooner than we clear the entry does my stepfamily brush past me, forcing me back to my proper place behind them. One warning glare from over my stepmother’s shoulder tells me not to associate with them for the rest of the night. It doesn’t bother me in the least. Not when it means freedom from their cruelty and control. Not when the music grows louder with every step.
I slow my pace to gain further distance from them, letting the crowd of strangers swallow me, rendering me invisible amongst their stunning glamours. I hardly know where to look as I follow the current of guests through the hall toward what must be the ballroom. Everything is breathtaking, from the moonstone walls to the obsidian rafters high overhead.
Finally, we reach an open doorway and funnel inside. The music wraps around me, sings through my veins, dances in my blood. It’s everywhere, filling the ballroom and my heart with its song. I head toward the center of the room, where a large group of dancers perform the quadrille. I watch for a few moments but dare not linger in case I’m asked to join. While I may recognize the dance, I’ve never learned the steps or attempted to perform it. Of course, with so many gorgeous glamours, who would ask the masked girl to dance?
I study said glamours as I skirt around the dance floor, swept away by how creative some of them are. While there are an abundance of glamours featuring dainty beaks and raven feathers—in a rather obvious attempt at paying homage to the prince—I also see a pair of elephant tusks, a lion’s mane, two more peacocks even more extravagant than Clara’s costume, and an array of glamours that are eccentric concoctions of shape and color. A few guests have chosen simple formal wear paired with a mask, much like myself, but they seem to be mostly men.
I reach the far end of the dance floor and turn my eyes to the ceiling where an enormous glass dome rises overhead. Thousands of stars speckle the black sky, brighter and clearer than I’ve ever seen before. There’s no sight of the moon, which makes sense, considering this is the New Moon Masquerade. My eyes leave the dome to rove the perimeter of the room. That’s when I realize the starlight is the main source of illumination, shining off walls of moonstone and opal, giving the dancers a dazzling, dim glow. Adding to this are several orbs of blue light—wisps—fluttering about the ceiling and bobbing to the music.
The music!
I turn toward the sound of the orchestra, only to nearly trip on a stair. Righting myself, I gather my bearings and find a dais before me, which hosts the musicians at the far end. The ensemble is larger than anything I’ve had the honor of playing in, comprising of piano, harp, flute, violin, and horn. My fingers tingle with their desire to claim the keys of the pianoforte, and I can feel my hips starting to sway. The musicians’ faces are bright, their playing so lively and exuberant it almost brings tears to my eyes.
My gaze rests on the violinist, and I’m surprised to find he has pointed ears. He looks otherwise human. His youthful face and the way he grins while he plays reminds me so much of another violinist I once had the pleasure to meet. He was half fae, and the first person to teach me the true meaning of freedom and how it can be found on the road. It was last year, before Stepmother had expressly forbidden me from going out after dark. We were staying in a townhouse at the Spring Court, and nearly every night I’d climb from my window to visit the music hall downtown. Unlike the formal ballrooms and opera houses my stepfamily frequents, the music hall was a place for traveling musicians, where unfamiliar tunes blared from the stage and songs were often accompanied by dazzling vocalists.
That’s when I met the violinist from a visiting band. A half-fae boy whose name I never knew, not even after we spent the night together in a loft backstage. Eager to get home before Mrs. Coleman found me missing, I left before the sun rose, not even offering a goodbye. The next night, a new band had already taken the previous one’s place, and I thought I’d never see him again. To my surprise, it wasn’t disappointment I felt but…comfort.
When I did see him next, we had moved on to the Summer Court’s social season. Again, I sought out the local music hall, and there he was. I expected him to act cross with me if he remembered me at all. But not only did he recognize me at once, he greeted me like an old friend. A lover. Both cherished and stranger at the same time. I still didn’t learn his name that night, but he told me where to go if I sought a life like his—the city of Lumenas, where all music lovers belong, and where almost any musician can get their start.
That’s when I decided, as soon as I turn nineteen and escape my bargain with Mrs. Coleman, I’m going to the Star Court to join any troupe that will have me and make my home on the road—the one place I might finally fit in, despite being different. Too human. Too fae. With a life on the road, I can become anyone. Take a new name. Let my music speak for me. Form no attachments. No bonds.
Freedom. Only freedom.
The violinist catches my stare and winks. I’m frozen for a moment, surprised by his attention. I toss a look over my shoulder to see if it was someone else he’d noticed, but everyone behind me seems to either be dancing or engaged in conversation with someone else. Emboldened by the memory of my former lover, I fix a smile on my lips and return my gaze to the violinist…only to find my previous view blocked by a new figure, one that saunters across the dais toward the obsidian throne.
I clench my jaw, all previous joy flooding out of me at once.
It’s the prince.
10
EMBER
Prince Franco wears a crooked silver crown, a lacy pink shirt unbuttoned to reveal half his chest—which is decorated in black geometric tattoos—and a pair of heeled boots. Strands of black and white beads hang around his neck, and on his shoulders rests a feathered cape. Gone are the wings I saw sprout from his back yesterday, which means he must be able to summon and dismiss them at will. Based on his uneven gait and the enormous golden goblet in his hand, he’s already thoroughly drunk.
Every arrogant word he said to me yesterday echoes through my head and dampens all the peace I felt just moments ago. Part of me wants to step back from the bottom of the dais and disappear into the crowd, but rebellion roots me in place. My chin lifts in defiance, daring him to recognize me.
The music stops as Prince Franco pauses before the throne. The dancers halt as well, and all eyes turn toward him. His guests dip into bows and curtsies, some genuflecting all the way to the ground. I, on the other hand, keep my curtsy shallow. When we rise, applause ripples quietly over the crowd, a reminder that—despite the fae luxury and wild glamours that surround me—this is a human ball, not a revel.
He extends his arms and raises his hands slightly, as if he’s a conductor lifting the tempo. “You see your prince, and all you have is applause?” His words are slightly slurred, his tone higher than it was yesterday. Further proof of his inebriation.
The crowd claps again, a little louder, but this time, wisps whistle overhead, unseen owls hoot, and the musicians strike a note. Franco lifts his hands again, bringing another wave of hoots and whistles, another note from the band, and even a few exuberant whoops and shouts from the crowd.
With a smirk, his eyes sweep the room from one side to the other. I hold my breath when his gaze briefly lands on me, but it leaves faster than it was ever there. A giddy smile tugs at my lips. He doesn’t recognize me. Not even a little.
Unimpressed with his assessment, the prince scoffs and gives a half-hearted shrug. “Enjoy the New Moon Masquerade.” With a dismissive wave at the orchestra, the musicians commence playing, and after a few beats of chaos, the dancers fall back into the quadrille. Franco slouches onto the throne and swings a leg over one arm while leaning his back against the other. Then, as if we lowly humans are worth no more of his time, he turns all his attention to his goblet, which he drains in a gulp. With a snap of his fingers, a female fae with moth-like wings and a petite stature even smaller than mine flutters over to refill his cup. I don’t miss the heated gaze that passes between them, the finger she brushes along his arm, the way he bites his lip in response, or how his eyes linger on her backside as she flutters away.
Shaking my head with disgust, I turn away from the dais and, to my regret, the musicians upon it. If I have to look at that vile prince a second longer, I just might vomit.
* * *
I spendthe next several songs wandering the ballroom, watching the dancers, and even indulging in a glass of wine. No one seeks an introduction to me nor does anyone ask me to dance—which is exactly how I want it. My beautiful ballgown seems to be serving its purpose perfectly, helping me blend in with the crowd while rendering me delightfully invisible. The only creatures who pay me any heed at all are the fae servants and the wisps. The servants, which includes the moth pixie the prince had ogled, only notice me when I approach the refreshments table. The wisps, however, are far more eager to interact with me. They hover over my head from time to time, tempting and teasing with their tiny mischievous voices.
“Sway to the music.”
“Fly with us.”
“Dance on the dais!”
