Not wanting their attention to linger, I do my best to ignore them and mix back into the crowd whenever they gather too long. When I notice very few others being harassed by wisps, it makes me wonder, why me? Is it only because I’m not dancing? Because they can sense my unmet desire to sway, move, and play? Or is it because my heritage is of the wind? Since wisps are creatures of both air and fire, we share an element in our blood.
I’m in the middle of evading a rather persistent cluster of said stalkers when my stepmother’s voice reaches my ears. “Ember, dear. Oh, there she is.”
My heart leaps into my throat at her tone. Never has Mrs. Coleman called medear, and I certainly wasn’t expecting her to sound happy to see me should we accidentally cross paths tonight. Until now, my attempts to keep my distance from her, Clara, and Imogen have been successful.
I pause and turn toward the voice, glimpsing her glamour behind a chatting couple. My wisp pursuers catch up to me, but after looping once above my head, they retreat with a squeal. Smart on them. I too dread whatever reason Mrs. Coleman has sought me out for.
“Ember,” she says, skirting around the guests to reach me. When she does, she lays a hand on my shoulder as if to claim me. As if—for once in our relationship—she’s eager to demonstrate our connection. Her smile is wide, and my first thought is that she’s been tricked by some fae creature, put under an enchantment or compulsion. Or perhaps she drank the bad kind of fae wine. Then I see the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. And she’s not alone.
A man stands at her side. His hair is dark, reaching just past his shoulders, and his clothing is modest, especially for someone at a masquerade. Dressed in all black, his trousers are well tailored, his jacket buttoned to the top of his neck, leaving no sign of shirt or cravat. The style of jacket tells me he must be a man of the clergy. The top half of his face is obscured in a simple black domino mask, making it hard to tell quite how old he is. The stubble-free jaw and lack of creases around his lips tell me he’s likely no older than four-and-twenty.
Of course, age can be a tricky thing in Faerwyvae. When the wall that once divided the humans from the fae came down twenty-one years ago, fae magic was freed over the entire isle. While magic can only be wielded by the fae, it still affects human day-to-day life in visible ways—infusing the land and giving each court distinct climates and terrains, powering our electricity through webs of ley lines. Additionally, there are many hidden ways magic can impact human life, the most recent discovery being a decrease in aging. Not all humans seem affected, but evidence has shown that those closest to the fae, especially those in loving, intimate relationships with them, begin to age slower. Only time will tell if that means immortality for such humans or just a lengthy lifespan.
As half fae, I expect I’ve already begun to stop aging. But for the stranger before me, he could be four-and-twenty or four-and-forty, for all I know.
Hand still on my shoulder, my stepmother faces the man. “Brother Marus, this is Ember Montgomery, my stepdaughter. She’s half fae.”
“A pleasure,” he says with a nod.
I belatedly return it. My mind feels slow, still reeling from not only being acknowledged by Mrs. Coleman, but openly referred to as half fae. She’s never once wanted me to show my teal hair or speak of my heritage. Why would she be so open with this Brother Marus? What church is he from that has her so eager to make him my acquaintance?
Then I see it. The tiny emblem at his lapel—a pair of crossed swords over a black flame.
Brother Marus is from Saint Lazaro.
The church that sparked the rebellion.
The rebellion that killed my mother.
I try to take a step back, but Mrs. Coleman squeezes my shoulder, holding me in place. Brother Marus’ forehead wrinkles above his mask, a concerned expression not lost on my stepmother.
“Forgive her,” Mrs. Coleman says, pinning me with a glare. “She does not mean to be rude.”
He offers me a tight-lipped smile. “I take no offense, and I understand her trepidation, but Saint Lazaro is not what we once were. We no longer have radicals hiding in our midst who wish to rebel against our fae monarchs, and our gracious kings and queens have publicly acknowledged that. As my church’s representative at court, I have the queen’s ear, rooms at the palace, and vast influence over the court. You’ll find me quite civilized.”
“Oh, how nice,” Mrs. Coleman says with wistful warmth, but his words do nothing to placate me. Eleven years of obedience and a few royal privileges won’t change what Saint Lazaro did. Furthermore, I find it hard to believe it was only their radicals who promoted violence with their claims that fae aren’t people but the progeny of demons. Many died for those beliefs. Both humans and fae alike.
My mother was one of those fae.
I still remember her final days. The way the life was leached from her as black veins of iron poisoning crisscrossed her body until it covered every blue inch. The way I couldn’t even hug her or feel her touch because the pain of the iron bullet embedded in her stomach made it impossible for her to return to her seelie form. Instead, she was trapped in her unseelie body—her sylph form—blue and incorporeal with an iron bullet fused within her. Impossible for the surgeons to operate on.
Forced to suffer.
Forced to die.
Always be wild. Promise me.
I try to wrench free of my stepmother’s grip, but her nails dig into my skin. “Hold still,” she hisses under her breath, and I dare not fight her further for fear that she’ll use our bargain to enforce the order.
Brother Marus steps closer, and his eyes slowly sweep over me, his gaze like knives sliding over my flesh. “Is this her true form, or does she wear a glamour?”
“She wears no glamour,” Mrs. Coleman says.
He reaches a hand toward my face, and I flinch back. His grin widens. Keeping his eyes on mine, he grasps an errant strand of my hair between his fingers. My fear tells me he’ll pull it, but instead, he twirls it around his fingertip. “Blue,” he whispers, “the same shade as your eyes.”
Panic, anger, and disgust storm through me. Despite his gentle tone, his smile, and the pleasure in his gaze, I can’t look at him without seeing my mother. Without seeing everything Saint Lazaro’s zealots did eleven years ago. I burn him with a glare, my chest heaving with suppressed rage.
He releases my strand of hair and turns to my stepmother with a light chuckle. “She’s exactly as you described.”
