Right. With Sauven’s guards watching his house like they thought it would catch on fire any second. I seriously doubted it.
I put the paper down, reached into the pouch, and pulled the metal thing out. A beautiful hair ornament with three simple white flowers. They looked like little forget-me-nots, with five petals and a tiny spark of a golden gem in the center. Around the flowers, slender silver branches held small triangular leaves. Each leaf was a bright breathtaking green crossed by bands and swirls of darker and lighter shades . . .
I almost dropped it. This was the hair clip Ramond’s father gave his mother on the day of their engagement. The flowers were cut from the white opal that was a sister to the one in Selva’s crown and the leaves were malachite from the throne in Wilkair. It looked simple, but it was anything but. I was holding a priceless treasure passed down through the Everard Family. A crown meant to go into the hair of Selva’s duchess.
That fool. That epic fool.
He couldn’t possibly mean it. It would be ridiculous. And he was coming here tonight. What the hell was I going to do?
I would have to give it back to him. That was the only . . .
A soft melody made me pause. It floated around me, suffused with magic, enchanting, seducing, captivating, like a soft mirage that faded in and out of existence. The male voice that sang it curled around me, caressing my skin.
Ice drenched me.
I turned. Clover stood at the edge of the wall. She held very still, and her eyes were oddly blank.
Silveren stepped out from behind her. He was walking on his own. He didn’t seem pale or injured. His eyes were cold and vicious.
How?
“Hello, Mother,” he said.
Fuck me.
I took a step back.
He hummed, and Clover stepped onto the stone rail bordering the wall.
I froze.
“Good call,” he said. “What’s in your hand?”
I made my mouth move. “A hair ornament.”
“Show me.”
I raised my hand.
“I like it,” he said. “Put it in your hair.”
I slipped the flowers into my hair, locking them in place.
“Lovely.”
“How are you alive?”
“No thanks to you, clearly.”
He flicked his fingers. A big dursan plunged down and landed on the wall, straddling it.
“Get on the dursan, or I will sing her off the wall,” he said.
All the advice I’d ever heard about being assaulted started with “Do not let yourself be transported to another location.”
“I can just jump off the wall instead and save you the trouble,” I offered. “It’s a long fall, and I’ll break my neck.” I would survive it.
“Where would be the fun in that?” He hummed a note.
