Page 170 of Resurgent

“Name for the reservation?” The clerk asks, wearing the perfect customer-service smile on her face.

“Sophie Beaumont,” I say, sliding my new ID and credit card across the counter.

After a few seconds of looking in her system, she smiles back up at me.

“Welcome, Ms. Beaumont. You’ll be in room 309. Should you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call down. Elevators are around the corner to the left,” she says, handing me an intricate brass key.

My room is quiet when I close the door behind me. Sunlight spills across crisp white linens and pale wood furniture. Everything is opulent.

Walking across the room, I head to the bedside table and type my code into the built-in safe.

The contents seem simple, but I can’t breathe as I pick up two envelopes, a drawstring bag, and two boxes.

Opening the smaller envelope with the hotel crest in the corner, I read over the simple note from my handler:

Ms. Beaumont,

Welcome to the capital city, or Ambrial as it’s known by the locals.

As requested, your hair and makeup team will be to your room tomorrow at noon. Your ride will arrive at precisely four in the evening.

Should you need any additional assistance, please dial “0” and ask for Kahli.

Thank you for being our guest at Stonebridge. We hope your time here is a success!

Sincerely,

Your Stonebridge Team

Next, is the cream-colored envelope, embossed with the Clowessian Royal Seal.

The invitation.

I gently pick it up and, for the first time in my life, use the letter opener on the nightstand to slice the envelope open. The expensive texture of the invitation and the elegant script have me kicking my feet with momentary excitement. I never, in my wildest dreams, would have dreamed of attending an event like this—but then I remind myself that I’m not truly a guest, and my mission is to kill the very man I’m coming to celebrate.

Get it together, Annalise.

Sophie Beaumont,

By decree of the Crown, you are cordially invited to attend The Royal Engagement Celebration honoring the betrothal of His Royal Highness, Prince Lockwell, and Lady Everleigh of Ashbourne.

A smaller insert falls from the envelope with the details for the event, including an emphasized “Masquerade masks not optional”.

A snort escapes me. Who has a masked engagement party? Are they really that unhappy with what the other looks like that they will make everyone wear masks?

Setting those together on the nightstand, I peer into the bag, already knowing what I will find.

The smallest glass vial, clear and unlabeled.

Poison.

Not the crude sort that burns or causes the unsuspecting victim to convulse, but a spell cast poison that slips through the body undetected, until it’s too late. Within minutes, the blood vessels around the brain will tighten, a sharp headache will last for mere seconds, and then the unfortunate soul will be gone before their body even hits the floor.

And when that happens tomorrow night, I will have the smallest window to get away before the castle goes into full lockdown.

Grabbing the boxes, I walk to the closet, gasping when I see my gown.

The midnight blue gown with small crystal embellishments that mimic the night sky has a halter neckline that will wrap gently around my neck, drawing the eye up. At the same time, a narrow vertical keyhole cutout runs from my collarbone to the bottom of my ribcage, adding to the drama. At my waist, the smooth, sculpted silhouette falls into a fluid skirt with a thigh-high slit, showcasing a dagger, as fashionable in upper society here.