Page 100 of When the Sky Breaks

“Ihate this,” I said instantly when we walked into the glittering ballroom off Park Avenue.

“Find one positive thing to focus on,” Ansel suggested, “so you can look utterly pleasant and approachable while we terrorize all the suitors Iksura sent you.”

“I like the dress,” I admitted.

“It is truly your color,” Ansel observed. “Though I would have suggested ruffles. Somewhere. They’re typical on ball gowns, you know?”

I smoothed my skirts. The gown was deep emerald-green silk. It had a cartridge pleated skirt with a gathered, V-front bodice—not tiered or ruffled at all—and a subtle row of beetle-wing sequins in a diamond pattern at the hem and repeated along the low, off-shoulder neckline.

“I don’t like flashy,” I said.

“Don’t let him ruin it,” Neal said, kissing me quickly. “You look fantastic. And I’m going to go chase down the butler and make sure I can find something you can eat and not immediately throw up.”

And within seconds some Inner Court nobleman was making eye contact, heading my way. He was tall, blond, probably Scandinavian, with a bright pink silk tie and a pocket square that looked like it took longer to fold than I had spent getting ready. It was strange—to feel annoyance instead of fear when I saw him, even knowing Iksura’s intent. But knowing the legal claim was unfounded gave me confidence, and knowing I could now apparently summon arachnids helped too.

“High Lady Wilson,” he said, lilting accent immediately confirming my suspicion—Danish was my best guess—“Lord Noah Beck, from Viborg. May I have this dance.”

“Oh I really don’t—” I began, but Ansel cut me off.

“Don’t let me keep you,” he said, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. I let Noah take my hand and shot a glare at Ansel back over my shoulder.

“My father tells me you grew up in New Mexico?” Noah asked. “I’ve heard it’s very beautiful there.”

“I like the mountains,” I said, “but it’s dry. Rugged. The kind of place that reminds you nature’s in charge. Not us.”

“Like the North Sea!” Noah enthused.

And for a split second I felt bad. He wasn’t even unpleasant. In another life we could have been friends. But there was no version of reality where I even contemplated a husband other than Neal.

“Do you know how to waltz?” Noah asked as I nearly tripped over my feet.

“Not much opportunity,” I admitted as he pulled me closer and led me through the dance.

I tried to follow the conversation, but quickly the movement triggered the nausea, and I found myself making vague, noncommittal sounds in response to Noah’s enthusiastic discussions about peat bogs and migratory birds. Normally? I would have been interested. Right now? I was dead set on finding a way to excuse myself before I threw up on someone important. Cold sweat beaded on the back of my neck, and I could feel a flush creeping up from the neckline of my dress. Apparently baby hated waltzing as much as I did.

“I am so sorry, Noah . . . Lord Beck . . .” I mumbled, “but I need to go.”

And I shrugged away from his touch and stumbled off the dance floor, my knees hitting the marble floor as I retched into a potted plant. I heard footsteps—multiple people, all men in boots—but ignored them entirely. A few scandalized whispers—mostly women, mostly older, mostly assuming I was somehow already drunk at eight o’clock in the evening.

And then Neal’s voice close behind me: “Oh don’t worry, Lord Beck. She’s fine. It’s just the baby.”

“Baby?” Noah sounded earnestly confused.

“My baby,” Neal said. “No one’s mentioned she’s pregnant?”

“I must have missed that,” Noah said quickly, embarrassment clouding his tone. “I am so sorry to have intruded. I’ll be sure to spread the word.”

If he didn’t know, that meant Iksura was softening her approach—if only by degree—after the fiasco with the surgeon in Washington.

“Good man,” Neal said.

A second later I felt his hands on my shoulders.

“You done?” he murmured, kissing my head.

I nodded.

Five minutes later I was situated in a quiet corner, balancing a mug of peppermint tea and a plate of blueberry muffins Neal had seemingly apparated from nowhere. Neal and Ansel were chatting over glasses of whiskey, giving me space and not at all subtly keeping an eye. Someone was wearing too-strong cologne that reeked of castoreum vanilla and a heady floral that almost smelled like opium. I buried my nose in my tea and tried to take deep breaths, convincing myself—ineffectively—that I wasn’t going to throw up again. I glanced down at my plate, and when I looked up again a tall, dark-haired Elven man in an absurdly expensive arsenic-green tuxedo was standing over me. The cologne smell was stronger now. I glared.