“Charming?” Mal offers.
“I was going to say ‘mortifying.’“
“Tomato, tomahto.”
A waiter passes with a tray of canapés. Mal snags two, handing one to me.
“Eat,” he says. “You’re tense.”
“I’m not?—”
“You’ve been white-knuckling that champagne flute for the past twenty minutes. Eat.”
I take the canapé. It’s some kind of smoked salmon thing on a tiny piece of toast that tastes expensive.
“Better?” he asks.
“Marginally.”
“Progress.” His hand finds the small of my back—the part left bare by my dress—and his fingers are hot against my skin. “Would you like to see something interesting?”
“Define ‘interesting.’“
“Come with me.”
He guides me through the crowd, past the silent auction tables and the champagne fountain, toward the far side of the ballroom where floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the gardens. The view is spectacular with fairy lights strung through the old oak trees and stone pathways gleaming in the moonlight.
But that’s not what he’s showing me.
“Look at the windows,” he murmurs, close to my ear. “Not through them. At them.”
I frown but do as he says. The windows are tall, multi-paned, reflecting the light of the chandeliers and the movement of the crowd. Nothing unusual.
Then I see it.
One of the reflections is wrong. It’s subtle—so subtle I almost miss it. But near the edge of the window, where a group of guests is clustered around Mayor Hammond, one of the figures doesn’t quite match. The reflection is too tall. Too thin. Its movements are a half-second behind everyone else’s.
I blink. The wrongness disappears.
“What—”
“Fae,” Mal says quietly. “Lower courts, by the look of them. They like to attend human gatherings. Social observation.”
I stare at him. “Fae.”
“Mmm.” He takes a sip of his champagne, utterly casual. “They’re harmless. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Don’t make direct eye contact with any reflections that smile at you. Other than that, you’re fine.”
I turn back to the window. Now that I know what to look for, I can see other wrongnesses. A shadow that moves against the light. A figure that’s too still among the swirling crowd. A pair of eyes that flash silver for just a moment before returning tonormal. How long has this been happening? How much have I missed?
“You’re opening my eyes,” I say slowly. “Aren’t you? On purpose.”
His expression is unreadable. “You were always capable of seeing. You just weren’t looking.”
“Why now?”
