A man in a white marbled mask steps in her way and blocks Lottie from her vision.
“Who is this exquisite creature?” he says loudly. Lottie’s only response is a scoff, which he does not take kindly.
“Are you going to make me fight for your affection?” he says as he approaches and grabs Lottie’s face. “Because I will fight, if need be.” The moment his hand rises, Marigold all but leaps into action as she runs to them. Her hands are on his wrists; her anger strains her voice.
“Get your hands off her.” She throws his wrist out of her grip hard enough to make him stumble. Her body shields Lottie from the man, braced as if she is ready to take a bullet if she has to.
“Come now, I only ask for a little fun.”
She recognizes this voice. She still hears it in her nightmares. The man behind the mask is George Tennyson. Her gaze moves to his left hand—no ring. He did not marry Priya.
“What happened with your betrothal, George? Did she realizeshe was too good for you?” She knows she’s breaking a cardinal rule of the masquerade by identifying him and using his name, but she doesn’t care.
Taken aback, he says, “How dare you—” His eyes narrow, then glimmer with recognition. “I know that dress. My, my, Mari. When did you return?”
She grimaces. “That is not your concern.”
“I disagree. From my understanding, my proposal was the reason you left.”
She cannot help but laugh. “You misunderstand. I left for something far more important than you.”
Lottie takes her hand and glares at George. “Leave my girl alone.”
My girl.Marigold’s whole body ignites with passion.
George laughs. “I have no interest in her. I am here to dance with you.”
“She is mine,” Marigold growls in a voice too angry to sound like her own. Even she is unaware of what is coming over her. Never has she felt so enraged, so defensive, and so protective of another person. Energy buzzes and clicks at her fingertips. A mild wind encircles them—something that should be impossible inside the tent. There is a deafening crash of thunder above them, as if the sky is colliding with itself, snapping the clouds like brittle bones. The entire tent gasps at the sudden sound. She stands perfectly still, solid as a spire, and her magic pours out from her in a way she has never experienced before. Her imagination runs wild with visions of George getting struck by lightning, of the entire crowd being consumed by hungry wind. Torrential rain pours from the opening of the tent, and she grins. George’s eyes grow wide with fear as he turns, running into the hectic crowd until he disappears.
Lottie grabs Marigold’s waist. “Mari, is this your doing?”
“I will not let anyone touch you,” she growls.
“He’s gone now. You must stop. People will know this is unnatural if it grows any further. It’s not safe!”
Lottie is right, but she can’t stop. She doesn’t know how.
“Mari, please,” she whimpers. “I’m scared of storms.”
She freezes, feeling the terror radiating from Lottie’s body. She wrestles with her rage and swallows her murderous desires. The rain slows, but it doesn’t stop. As she starts coming to her senses, she feels disgusted with herself. How could she lose herself so much? How could she give in to such bloodlust? What would Althea say if she could see her now?
With all her might, she starts pulling her magic back into herself. It feels like trying to move a mountain with only ribbon and twine. Her limbs shake as magic floods her blood. She’s drowning in it. She can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t move. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot force the air back into her lungs. Blackness pools at the edges of her vision and her knees give out, but Lottie does not let her fall. The wind and thunder quiet, and a tense silence consumes the room until the people begin chattering anxiously around them. The string quartet awkwardly resumes the music, and people slowly start moving again.
Adrenaline pushes through her blood after the shock of her magic starts to wear off. She works to stand up on her own, pulling her weight from Lottie’s arms.
“How did you do that?”
“I do not know,” she manages to say. She has never performed such a feat, and her grandmother never spoke of an ability like this—creating a storm from nothing. She was so close to losing control of it. If Lottie had not held her there and kept her grounded, there would have been irrevocable destruction. “Are you all right?”
Lottie’s lip trembles as she takes Marigold’s face into her hands. “No one has ever fought for me like that before.”
“I cannot help myself. My need for you makes me wicked.” She presses her forehead to hers. “I would do anything to keep you safe, Lottie. Anything.”
Lottie looks at her lips. “We need to run away. I need to be alone with you.”
“I know a place,” she says, taking her hand and racing through the crowd.
They run hand in hand out of the tent, each holding up their skirts to move faster through the garden. They nearly fly through the entrance of the hedge maze, leaves and branches scraping against their exposed skin.
