“It’s like you read my mind,” Emmy says.
“Agreed,” I add.
“Obviously,” Faith says.
Olive just nods, her finger firmly in her mouth.
We’re halfway down the stairs when Olive stops suddenly. “My bracelet!” she exclaims. “It must have come unclasped. Just one moment, I’ll be back.” As we wait, I stare up at the tree that reaches the ceiling, its green leaves quaking slightly, the very tops brushing the honeycomb glass.
I felt such determination the first time I saw this tree on the day of the Pact Parade. Now I just feel wrung out.
Olive comes bounding down the stairs a few moments later.
I’m half expecting the footmen or royal guards or the queen herself to stop us, but the six of us stride right out the door and across the lawn to our cottage, with no fanfare at all.
Marion is waiting for us, sitting at the dining table, where the cook has laid out an impressive lunch.
She pops up, her eyes wide with surprise. “What happened?”
Emmy plops down at the table and grabs a scone. “We decided you were right.”
Marion’s eyes get misty with tears, but she doesn’t say another word. Faith sits down next to her and lays a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Lunch passes with the tense silence of children expecting a scolding. We all flinch at the slightest creak in the floor, expecting some consequence for walking out of the queen’s second trial.
At teatime, there’s a sharp rap at the front door. We startle. “I’ll get it,” I say. Standing there is a footman with a package wrapped in brown paper. He hands it to me. I peel back the paper to take a peek and find an achingly familiar shade of green.
I run up the stairs to my room. “Who was it?” Olive calls.
“Just a letter from my mother!”
I toss the book on my bed and tear the paper open to reveal the cover. In gilded lettering it readsFaeries of the British Isles.
I flip open the cover to find a note from Bram.A book about magic, for a girl who already has plenty. —B.
It’s the same edition as the one I had as a child. There’s anannotation inside the front cover.From the Library of EJB, 4 Waters Lane, Alton, England. 1702.
I clutch it to my chest, savoring the smell of it, then tuck it under my mattress.
Tonight we’re expected at the Welbys’ masquerade ball. Count and Countess Welby are some of the younger members of the peerage, with reputations for throwing full-on bacchanalia. Tonight’s party doesn’t even begin until after ten and is anticipated to rage until sunrise.
The cottage turns into a tornado of silks and jewels and feathers. Olive runs back and forth from our room to Marion’s in nothing but her chemise and a pair of butterfly wings. Greer’s enormous peacock feather backpiece is too large, and she is momentarily lodged in the stairwell. Emmy has to push her through, both of them laughing so hard they’re on the verge of tears.
All the while, Lottie holds me still in front of the mirror, painstakingly placing crystals in my upswept hair. She even uses little bits of paste to stick a few to my cheekbones and at the corners of my eyes.
My dress tonight is midnight-blue silk, with sleeves that fall wide at my wrists and a daringly low neckline. It’s embroidered all over with a golden spray of constellations.
Lottie gestures for me to stand and then ties a cape around my neck that shimmers with hundreds of falling stars.
The final piece is a tiara made of stars, with one crescent moon in the middle.
Even I can’t help but gasp upon seeing myself in the mirror. “Oh, Lottie, you’ve outdone yourself.”
She smiles proudly. “He’s going to faint when he sees you.”
I bite back a smile, picturing Emmett’s stunned face across a crowded ballroom. Then I immediately wipe the thought away, angry that it was there in the first place.
The party is roaring by the time we arrive. The grand front steps of the house are aglow with torches, everyone in their fancy dress spilling out into the night.
