Slowly, he lowers his paper and frowns at me.
Our eyes lock.
A spike of panic squeezes my chest, something that isn’t uncommon when I make eye contact with someone, especially a stranger. Whether it’s due to my magic or some automatic reaction of my own, I know not. I let the uplifting effects of my tincture carry the momentary discomfort away and shift my attention to how my magic feels. It surges from its constant low hum to a roar. As it blankets me in its smothering embrace, his expression shifts. Annoyance turns to curiosity as his impression of me forms. Were I in a sour mood, he’d see his worst qualities reflected back at him. But since the Crimson Malus tincture has me as content as a bunny in a meadow, he’ll see what he considers his best assets.
I keep my lips curled in a neutral smile as I study him. He too changes before me. Or—more accurately—everything about him becomes more telling. The set of his shoulders radiates arrogance, the tilt of his chin screams superiority, and the cut of his jacket is edged with pride in his wealth. He relishes his own confidence. He considers his domineering nature a great virtue.
As he straightens in his seat, I know this is what he sees in me now too. Instead of my secondhand skirt and blouse, he’ll get the impression I’m wearing something custom-tailored and new. Instead of the bobbed cut of my blue-black hair, he’ll perceive perhaps an immaculate updo, not a strand out of place. He’ll interpret every one of my features and characteristics as qualities he likes best in himself. Nothing of my true face will show through.
Now that his impression has formed, it’s time to see how he responds to it.
He stares at me a few beats longer, cheeks blushing pink. Finally, his eyes turn hard. “You are too bold, Miss. We are unacquainted. You should not sit with me so brazenly.”
“Then let us be acquainted, for I’d much like to meet you,” I say, even though I already know exactly who he is. Lies roll off my tongue with ease. That’s the benefit of the human blood I inherited from my father. Unlike full-blooded fae, I can lie. “My name is Miss Mallory Mansfield. And you are?”
A tic forms at the corner of his jaw. “Onto your scheme,” he says, rising to his feet. “I’ll not fall for it. You can try to swindle another man’s fortune. Good day, Miss Mansfield.” He takes his paper and leaves.
I purse my lips to suppress a chuckle as I return to my table. The man must value his own cunning for money to have reacted to me in such a way. Despite our meeting being far briefer than I expected it to be, it tells me everything I need to know.
* * *
“Orson Carver likes submissive women,”I say to the human female sitting at the table across from me. The room is warmer than the cafe was, with only a small iced fan to cool the heat streaming through the shuttered windows. The space is modest in size and lit only by the muted sunlight, the walls papered in crimson damask that casts everything in a pink glow. Yet it does nothing to mask the red burning in Miss Hampstead’s cheeks. Even more telling is how her face falls.
I’m not the least bit surprised by her disappointment. I knew from my first meeting with Miss Hampstead that she was a bold woman, much like the version of myself Mr. Carver saw an hour ago. The fact that he reacted so adversely to me tells me exactly why Miss Hampstead has never been able to catch his favor.
“Submissive women,” she repeats.
I nod. “And he has no patience if he thinks a woman is after his money. He seeks a wife who is quiet and demure and will allow him to take the lead. He does not care for an attractive mate, only an obedient one.” These observations were some of the first I made over the last few days I’ve spent spying on him. It was easy to catch the changes in his composure when he’d interact with different people. I can’t fathom how Miss Hampstead didn’t see it herself. Then again, I’ve grown adept at noting such subtle shifts in other people. Being all but invisible myself, I’ve had many opportunities to practice the art of studying other people’s reactions.
Miss Hampstead lifts her chin. “I don’t know how you can call yourself a matchmaker, Miss Lottie Lovecraft, if that’s all you can do for me.”
I shrug. With the Crimson Malus still warming my blood, her irritation has no effect on my mood. “I described my services to you in full detail during our first consultation. You knew the information I brought back would tell you precisely how to best earn Mr. Carver’s favor. The rest is up to you.”
“You are blunt in your honesty, I’ll give you that.”
I don’t bother with a response. So many times I’ve heard the phraseyou arefollowed by everything I’m not.
You are kind.
You are cruel.
You are beautiful.
You are the most hideous girl I’ve ever met.
There was only one person who was ever immune to my magic. One person who saw the real me.
And that person is dead.
“Very well,” she says and hands over a small velvet pouch.
I peek inside and find six spheres of glittering opal—the currency of the Fire Court. “We agreed on ten opal rounds, Miss Hampstead,” I say flatly. I anticipated her attempt to underpay me as much as I expected her disappointment in my report on Mr. Carver. She may be ridiculously wealthy, but I knew she valued being a miser from the first time I met her eyes.
With an exasperated sigh, she opens her small, beaded purse, takes out four more opal rounds, and places them on the table. “Good day, Miss Lovecraft.” In much the same manner as Mr. Carver departed my company an hour ago, Miss Hampstead leaves the room, not bothering to close the door behind her.
I rise from the table and tidy the little room in her wake, arranging the red silk pillows against the walls in neat, comfy-looking piles. Not that they’re anything more than props to help set a mood appropriate for a brothel. In the adjoining rooms, the pillows and furniture are used for all manners of romantic transactions—ones I’d rather not ponder too long. Ever since I set up shop at Madame Desire’s Pleasure House, the only thing that ever gets used in this room is the table, and that’s only for the sake of consultations with my clients. Still, I keep the pillows. I like the way they look. They’re cute and they make me feel warm and cozy.
A figure darkens my doorway, and I find Madame Desire leaning against the doorframe. She wears a red, skintight, spider silk dress that covers nearly every inch of skin while somehow leaving very little to the imagination. The skin she does show is pale pink, standing in contrast to her crimson hair that flows around her in rippling, weightless curls. One side of her perfect tresses is pinned up with a heart-shaped comb, revealing a pointed ear—a sign that she’s full fae. My ears, on the other hand, are round like a human’s.
