A faerie dressed in a gown that looked sewn from butterfly wings landed beside us, extending two glowing orbs. “Congratulations on your engagement,massini. May the Skies bless you both.”
“Thank you, Lydia,” Remo said.
I surmised he knew her name, because she was one of his many girlfriends. Why else would Remo Farrow learn the name of someone so far beneath his station?
I plucked the orb from Lydia’s hand and squeezed it until it morphed into a goblet of faerie wine. I wasn’t fond of the stuff because it was full of bubbles, but I wanted something to sweep my mind off my predicament, however fake it all was.
Since Lydia was still staring at him as though he’d invented faelight, I leaned toward him and whispered, “You should take Lydia back home to celebrate.”
His eyes swung to mine so fast I had to pull my head back so our noses didn’t bump.
When he glowered, I smiled, then dipped that smile into my wine glass. I might’ve given off naïve fumes, but I wasn’t naïve. My eyes were open, and I was watching him. Waiting for him to stumble and commit a faux-pas that would take him out of the running for the crown. Sure this was a sham, but wouldn’t it be lovely if he lost my hand by his own fault? It would paint me as innocent—which I was—and him as wicked—which he was. I’d love nothing more than for Neverra to see Remo Farrow’s true colors instead of the bright, young, disciplinedlucionagahe made himself out to be.
Lydia offered him a golden orb. “Wine?”
He slowly looked back at her. “Thank you, but I don’t drink.”
“Since when?” I asked.
“Since forever.”
Gregor approached, and Lydia flitted upward, out of his path. He held out his goblet to mine, and even though I didn’t want to clink with him, I docilely lifted my cup.
When metal met metal, he said, “You know, back in my day, when a woman was unbound, she could be claimed by any man superior in rank.”
I wrinkled my nose. “How savage.”
“Could unbound men be claimed by higher-ranked women, or I guess, men?” Remo asked.
“No.” Gregor’s thick white hair flounced as a faerie flew over our heads bearing a platter of lettuce-wrapped friedoctas. “The world didn’t work that way.” He grabbed two wraps and chucked them both into his mouth.
“I’m so glad our world has evolved,” I said.
Remo didn’t say anything. Knowing him, he probably mourned our new customs.
Gregor’s eyes settled on something behind me. I turned to find Iba’s mother, Addison, walking arm-in-arm with Angelina. As I watched them air-kiss the other guests, I wondered if Angelina was aware that her son might be alive.
The day Kingston had supposedly been put to death, Angelina’s dark hair had become streaked with white and her eyes had turned perpetually glassy. I’d thought it was because of heartache but learned, from overhearing the adults talk, that after Kingston’s failed coup, Addison had consoled Linus’s consort with copious amounts of purple fluff. Now, they spent their days cooped up in my grandmother’s living room, lounging about the velour boudoir, inhaling the hallucinogenic plant, and bonding over their disappointment in men.
“Granddaughter, don’t you look ravishing tonight!” Addison proclaimed much too spiritedly.
Her breath and pale lavender hair reeked of mallow—sweet and pungent with a side of nauseating. I tried to step away, but this would cause me to bump into Remo. I chose the better of two evils and stayed close to my loopy grandmother.
“Doesn’t she, Angelina?” Addison asked.
Angelina’s eyes rolled in their sockets. I wasn’t sure my image was even registering on her pupils, but she cooed and whispered. “Your eyes look violet.” Her nostrils flared. “You even smell purple.”
My grandmother’s eyes widened in wonder. “Oh, but she does!”
Behind her, Nima shook her head, murmuring something into my father’s ear that pulled him away from Silas.
“Addison, you’ve arrived!” He took his mother’s elbow and guided her to the bow-shaped wooden dining table weighted down by the prepared feast. “Why don’t I get you settled?”
Angelina, whose arm was still wrapped around my grandmother’s, stumbled as her feet caught up with my father’s brusque movement.
“Lost her mind when she lost her son, that one.” Gregor grabbed a handful of paprika-fleckedpanemleaves.
Usually the buttery scent of bread that wafted from the heart-shaped leaves made my stomach growl, but my insides were twisted into too many knots to produce sound. “I’m guessing it would haunt any mother to birth an evil child, and then watch that child be put to death. She did witness the execution, didn’t she?”
