Emmy nods emphatically. “My parents, my siblings... I can’t fail them like this.”
“So what do we do?” Marion prompts again.
“We could stab her in her horrible little back,” Faith grumbles, now fully horizontal, staring up at the ceiling.
“If anyone figures out how to make that possible, I’m all ears,” Marion jokes. I nearly choke.
“What if we all make an agreement,” Olive offers, her voice small. “Whoever wins will be a princess, right? She can petition the queen to rethink the punishment of the other girls’ families.”
There’s a beat of silence as we think on it.
“We could be sure to ask her while she’s in a good mood,” Emmy says.
“In front of Bram!” Greer adds excitedly.
You could be queen.
A familiar feeling curdles in my stomach. I have to win, not justto protect my family, whose titles are all the protection they have, but to protect everyone. If Emmett and the others get this right, we could unseat the queen, end her centuries of torture, and I could ensure everyone in this room and their families are safe from her.
This is the first time she’s directly threatened our lives. If her patience with us is wearing thin enough to consider being rid of us completely, there is no room for error.
I have to find a way to tell Emmett.
“Deal.” I stick out my hand to shake.
“Deal.” Emmy agrees.
“Wait, how do the boys do it?” Marion asks. Then she spits into the palm of her hand.
The rest of us follow suit and clap our sticky hands, one on top of another. Even Olive and Greer. The dying embers of the fireplace flicker, and the comradery feels crystallized, but I know it will fracture tomorrow once Bram is in front of us and reality sets in.
“May the best girl win,” Marion says gravely.
“May the best girl win,” the rest of us agree.
The Doncasters’ ball is a decidedly dull affair. The count is pushing ninety, and his stifling manor doesn’t exactly encourage merrymaking.
Viscountess Bolingbroke is in the drawing room playing whist with some elderly friends, so I wander off to go find Emmett. This isn’t the kind of thing he’d usually deign to attend, but I caught a glimpse of him earlier, sneaking in through a side door in a navy-blue waistcoat.
I’m wandering down a corridor of closed doors, far from the noise of the ballroom, when I hear his voice.
“Emmett?” I hiss.
I get no reply, but hear the low rumble again. I swing open a door just in time to see him lean in to kiss Faith Fairchild.
I jump back as if I’ve been burned, then close the door silently. Neither Emmett nor Faith even realized I was there.
My heart is pounding as I exit the long hall and, in a daze, go to the garden to catch my breath. My skin is too hot. I need to be outside.
I lean both hands against the cool stone balcony and wipe at my stinging eyes. The sound of blood rushing in my head is so loud, I don’t hear Bram approach.
“Are you quite well?”
I must not look it, because when I turn to him, his perfect face crumples in concern.
It’s like I can’t catch my breath. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel panicked, not since the Pact Parade, at least. That’s what this season has been: a perpetual drowning.
“Just breathe,” Bram whispers. “I’ve got you.”
