Dagmar’s mouth opened, Deryn inclined her head, clearly listening to whatever the woman was saying, and Paloma felt the fire rise inside her. The palm that had held Deryn’s flame recently was instantly hot, scorching. Her vision grayed at the edges, the heat licking at her cheeks and turning her breath ragged.
When the thin, narrow hand lifted and rested on Deryn’s lapel, Paloma nearly crushed the flute in her fingers. Lachlan’srescue of the glass was the only reason Paloma wasn't now holding a handful of shards.
“You know she is doing this on purpose.”
Magdalene Nox spoke from Paloma’s other side.
“When you told me she was attending, I figured it was because she knows I’ve been poking around. Which…is a correct move on her part. To come here, show her face, show us she’s aware we at least suspect her of having something to do with the events occurring on the island. Stake her claim.”
Magdalene drew out the last sentence even as Dagmar patted Deryn’s lapel once more and lifted her arm higher, her fingers not quite touching the wound at Deryn’s temple.
“She has no claim here.” Paloma could hear the note of inherent anger in her voice. “How dare she? When she’s the one who?—”
“We don’t know that. Not for certain, and as long as there is no proof…” Ceridwen interrupted her, but Paloma just shook her head.
She wasn’t about to cause a scene. Not at her own damn ball. Not when she was just days away from winning her election. Not when her goals were within reach.
Then Dagmar’s fingertips gently touched Deryn’s skin, and Paloma saw her goals go up in the smoke of her rage. Her rage and her…fear.
Just at the corners of anger, in the shade of outrage, was terror.
If they were correct, this was the very woman who had ordered someone—since there was no way she had come slinking around the Astronomy herself—to harm Deryn. Her Deryn!
Madre de Dios. “Her” Deryn?
Ceridwen’s hand on hers kept Paloma in place, as she wanted to march to the balcony entrance and… And what?
“I’d ask you to hold my earrings, Ms. Allende, but it looks like I won’t have to go to her. She’s coming here.”
Magdalene sipped from her own flute and snagged a new one from a server. Ceridwen let go of her arm and took two, passing one to Paloma.
“Might as well have something in my hand, just in case I want to slap her.” Ceridwen’s voice was taut.
“You think a champagne flute will stop you?” Paloma gave Ceridwen a sideways glance.
“No, but it might do more damage than just a palm.” Ceridwen’s lips stretched into a thin, dangerous smile. Paloma had not seen this expression yet on the face of the seemingly calm and serene Crowhart, and it sent shivers down her spine. Ceridwen looked like she was ready to tear Dagmar to shreds.
She didn’t have time to say more as the scent of incense and charred wood, coated with aromatic spices, reached her. Paloma raised an eyebrow. It was such an unexpected combination for this woman, who appeared devoid of color with her pale eyes and white hair, yet at the same time seemed to carry all the attention with her.
“Ms. Allende.”
The voice matched. That was all that Paloma could think. The voice matched the persona. Barely a whisper wrapped in barbed wire, so you had no choice but to lean in, to listen, to try to catch every word, and yet you wanted to run far away.
Paloma knew this was nothing but a game, and one she refused to play. Instead of showing her hand or even acknowledging that she knew who she was talking to, she simply said, “Yes.”
She could see the displeasure on Dagmar’s face. And since the expression was so easily readable, Paloma congratulated herself on getting under her skin with a single word.
Dagmar looked around her, and as her eyes landed on John Moss, who fluttered like a butler at her beck and call, she pursed her lips, and he sprang into action.
“Paloma, dear, allow me the greatest privilege to introduce you to Mrs. Dagmar Rathcross. I’m sure she needs no introduction at all, as everyone knows who she is?—”
“Thank you, Mr. Moss.” Dagmar dismissed him with a sharp motion of her fingers. He was gone from her sight in a second, bowing and apologizing.
“Men really have no use in this life, Ms. Allende. And this one is particularly useless, as I’m certain you’ve noticed over the past few months.”
Paloma looked at the extended hand and almost didn’t take it. Almost. She resorted to magnanimity and offered hers. The touch was completely neutral, on the chilly side, and she felt absolutely nothing. It was like there was a barrier between their palms. She had felt more from the flute she was holding.
“Mrs. Rathcross. Welcome to my New Year’s Charity Ball.” She let the words drop from her mouth, watching as Dagmar smiled with her lips alone. The remarkable ice-cold eyes showed nothing.
