I rise from bed once he’s fully unconscious, and pray he sleeps through tonight’s revel.
Outside of my bedroom, the house is a flurry of activity. Maids stoke hearths in every room, keeping fires alive against the October chill. Footmen race from room to room, ensuring everything is in tip-top shape for the evening. A bitter taste of fear lingers in the air. I do my best to protect our staff from his wrath, but no one wants to be on the wrong side of King Bram.
I cross the third floor to the other end of my private quarters and have my maids dress me in my evening gown. Among them, Lottie’s face is a perpetual comfort. Emmett’s longtime friend, she is one of the few people I can speak to openly. She is waiting, a hot curling tong in her hand. “You’re late.”
“I’m the queen; isn’t everyone else early?” The joke doesn’t quite land, but Lottie still lets out a hollow laugh.
“How is the king?” she asks as she dresses my hair.
“Asleep,” I answer tersely. She knows me well enough not to push further.
She laces me into a celery-green moire silk gown and places a tiara on my head. I’m dressed more elegantly than I ever was back when I lived in Belgrave Square, but I can’t help but feel I’m wearing a costume. I look at myself grimly in the mirror and exhale.
The tunnel into the revel is draped in a rainbow of streamers that keep getting caught in my tiara.
Emmy reaches from behind me and plucks another from my head. “You’re going to show up looking like a chandelier.”
“They wouldn’t know the difference. They’d probably think it was human fashion and all show up to next week’s revel wearing hats of crepe paper.”
My four ladies-in-waiting—Marion Thorne, Faith Fairchild, Olive Lisonbee, and Emmy Ito—were formerly my competition for Bram’s hand in marriage, but they have since become my closest confidantes.
As a group, we step into the swirling revel. The ballroom belongs to Rhion, Bram’s closest friend and adviser. He was gifted the house next door to ours: fitting, given his position at court.
I’m always on edge at court revels, but tonight my nerves are reaching a fever pitch. Aurelia Vallen will be in attendance and I have a plan to execute.
I clasp my hands behind my back to hide the way they’re sweating and glance anxiously at Faith.
“Just breathe,” she whispers.
Something wet seeps into my silk slipper and I look down, praying it’s punch, but find the floor is smeared with blood. It’s early in the night for it, but I glance to the center of the room and see a group of glassy-eyed humans spinning around and around, their feet raw from dancing. I hate the way Olive stills at my side and grabs my hand for comfort. She’s scared and it’s my fault. It’s my mistakes that allowed Bram to snatch power like this.
There’s a shadowy interior balcony, adorned with dying cherry tree branches and beeswax candles, upon which a band plays a reel on a mix of human and faerie instruments. The thrum of a deep bass drum reaches right down to my marrow.
There is no veil of propriety at these revels. No dance cards, no chaperones, no mamas trying to play the marriage market. There’s no need to sneak away to the darkest corners of gardens to kiss, not when it’s perfectly acceptable to push someone right up against the wall in front of everyone.
“Don’t drink anything,” I warn the other girls.
“Don’t worry about us.” Faith rolls her eyes. “We know by now.”
The Others love a party theme and tonight’s is the Wild Hunt.
The guests are dressed in a mix of classic English hunting dress, red coats and tweeds, and what must be traditional Otherworld clothing, finely wrought armor of gold and rich green tunics. Some are in costume as the animals themselves, a grotesque array of fox masks, boar tusks, and hellhounds.
I wear a quiver of arrows on my back, strung across the front of my gown with a strap of emeralds on a thick gold chain.
Marion nudges me in the side. “There she is.”
Across the chaos of the ballroom, Aurelia Vallen stands against the wall, a golden goblet clutched to her chest. She looks down at the floor, but no one, save the five of us, pays her any attention.
“We better go now, before Bram wakes up,” I say.
Olive still blanches at the thought of espionage, but puts on a brave face.
Aurelia Vallen is a little thing, unusually short for a faerie, with golden hair to her waist and overlarge sea-moss-green eyes. She’s dressed in the fashion of Bram’s court, with bell sleeves that trail to the floor, and an odd mishmash of human fashion: a partially visible hoopskirt, mismatched slippers, a red hunting jacket tied around her waist. To fit tonight’s theme, she’s got a pair of antlers on her head.
“It’ssolovely to see you, Aurelia,” I greet her with a smile. This isn’t my party, but as queen, I’m always expected to act as something of a hostess.
“Rhion’s invitation honors me, Your Majesty.” She bows her head but her voice is thin.
