Taron subtly and pointedly nods to the far back of the hall, where I see, along with the competitors, clusters of diplomats and aristocrats have gathered. Jewels drip from their elaborate gowns and overcoats, their faces powdered and their hair glossy.
Among them, I notice two men wearing matching red velvet overcoats and flared trousers. It’s hard to miss them and even harder not to stare.
The men are tall and commanding, with sharp, angular jawlines and sparkling eyes framed by thick, dark lashes that give them an almost smouldering quality. They’re two sides of a coin – blond and chestnut, bronze and fair – but they’re beguiling in equal measure.
They laugh, and the guests around them all laugh along. One of the men speaks. I feel the urge to drift closer and listen in. My chest is hot. My palms are clammy. I’ve never seen two people more handsome, and I immediately know who they are.
They must be Fritz Perry and Harry Keegan, victors of the last Reckoning, who wished the world’s beauty upon themselves. When two of this year’s competitors, a boy with cropped copper hair and a girl with a sleek black ponytail, approach the men with a copy of their memoir to be autographed, I can only roll my eyes.
“It’s such an honour,” the guy breathes. “We hoped you’d both be here tonight.”
“Do you mind?” The girl extends the memoir. “We’re, like, your biggest fans ever.”
“I’m sure you are, doll,” says Fritz. He retrieves a pen from the inside of his overcoat and signs the book with a haphazard scribble.
Harry repeats the process. Once he’s done signing, he takes the girl’s hand and gives it a peck. She giggles uncontrollably, unable to form a coherent thank you.
I exhale loudly, and Taron chuckles. “Having fun?”
“Not my kind of party.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, swiping a few salmon cream pastries sprinkled with caviar off a silver tray. The tray glides through the air past us, one of many orbiting a passing server. “It could be worse.”
“If you say so,” I say. “What are we supposed to do now, anyway?”
“You mean apart from stuffing our faces with free food?”
“You’ll ruin your appetite.”
“Not likely.” Taron reaches for another canapé. “I don’t know … why don’t you mingle or something?”
“You mean, make polite conversation with a room full of people who all want to kill me?”
He offers a wry smile. “See, you get it.”
I sigh. The idea of making small talk in this artificial situation seems impossible.
“Hi, again,” says a voice behind me. “I totally love your dress.”
It’s Kara, the girl from the tavern. Her teammate, Savannah, stands by her side, their hands lovingly interlocked. They look stunning in tight, glittery jumpsuits: Kara in turquoise and Savannah in yellow.
“Thank you,” I say. “I, uh, you too. I mean, your jumpsuits.”
Taron says nothing, just watches.
“You’re those servers from the tavern, right?” Kara says. “I must say, you’re brave for going up against Cyrus like that.”
“Stupid is what I’d call it,” Savannah smirks. She’s a vision with her midnight-black hair artfully arranged in a series of buns atop her head, adorned with bejewelled strands that gracefully frame her face.
“We didn’t need your help,” Taron bites out. “We were handling it.”
“I’m sure you were,” Kara says, ignoring his rude tone. “But I know how Cyrus can be. We were at the Solarflare Institute together. He’s always wielding his father’s power like he’s the one in charge.”
“His father can’t help him where we’re going,” Savannah adds. “He’ll have a rude awakening once he realizes that.”
Kara laughs. “We never got your names, by the way.”
This is it. Time to get into character. “I’m Maeve,” I say, trying to make myself believe it. Taron remains silent, soI speak for him. “And this is Wren. Don’t mind him. He’s more of the silent, brooding type.”
