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“Of course not.” She scowled. “You’re not to blame for the fact that supernaturals here are afraid to admit to their true natures.”

“Nor are you for the fact that our king has burdened you with a task that may well be impossible and no useful means of researching it.” His eyes narrowed as his hands stroked gently up and down her back, spreading warmth and comfort with every move. “Shall we abandon this quest after all and turn back to the Black Forest? We still can, you know. King Thomas may be outraged if we leave, but we’ve long passed the era when either of us could be beheaded or thrown into the Tower merely for snubbing our ruler’s wishes. And for all that I value my personal honor, I value your comfort, safety, and happiness far more.”

It was, Margaret had to admit, a tempting offer. For a long, hopeful moment, acceptance tingled on her tongue.

But...

“No.” Her shoulders sagged. “If this peace attempt fails due to waltzing nonsense, we could lose years of time in the Black Forest while war rages across the continent. We might have to abandon all thought of that new research center—even if the inn itself didn’t end up burned to the ground and our friends left homeless.”

“Very well. We’ll stay and do battle together then, for a future with far more travel and opportunities.” Lord Riven stifled a yawn as he spoke his final words; his eyebrows furrowed. “Unfortunately, at this particular moment...”

“Of course. You must perform your ablutions before the dawn catches you out.” Margaret ran a caressing hand through his smooth, fair hair—cut short now in the modern style. It looked entirely unlike the old-fashioned mane that it had been when they’d first met, but it still felt beautifully soft and silky to her touch. “We’ll speak again this evening.”

“We will,” he agreed, catching her hand for a kiss. “And from now on, we’ll make our decisions together.”

Buoyed by their conversation—and by a truly delicious breakfast—Margaret made the most of the next several hours. Little though she might care to admit it, her long sleep had been refreshing. With her head no longer hurting and her emotions safely vented, she reorganized her plans for the day ahead—and ruthlessly limited her own waking hours to make certain she was well rested for that evening’s ball.

In times of trouble, her natural instinct was always to seek out a library. However, she had spent more than enough hours throwing herself at that unwelcoming option over the past few days. If neither her king nor the local librarians were willing to be of any use, it was time to turn her thoughts to less official resources. So, after a morning spent poring through the pages of that illicitly borrowed book on local herbal lore, she sent out her footman to visit the closest apothecary and deliver an urgent missive.

That evening, when she stepped ahead of her husband into their hired fiacre, her eyelids still felt damp and sticky with the infusion she’d prepared...and Madam Amalie sat in the shadows beneath the hanging top of the fiacre, waiting for them.

“Oh, I am glad you’re here.” Margaret sat down with deep relief on the unshielded seat across from the lorelei, while her husband took his own seat beside her. “It was generous of you to give up your evening this way.”

“How could I resist such an intriguing request?” Amalie’s voice was wry and her face shadowed by the hood of her black cloak under the overhanging roof as the carriage rolled into movement. “I’m not likely ever again to attend a royal ball, I assure you. Are you quite certain that you can smuggle me in wholly unobserved?”

“Fortunately, we have a secret weapon.” As the fiacre turned onto the main Ringstrasse, Margaret pulled out the silver cloak from her reticule and shook it out before her. “If you wouldn’t mind changing now, before we find ourselves surrounded by too many observers?” Other fiacres were rattling along the broad ring road as they spoke, but the pavements were far more distant here than in the first district, making it the safest opportunity for a shift.

“Ahh...” The lorelei’s tinglingly beautiful voice expressed her wariness, but she obediently pulled off her own cloak and accepted the silver cloak from Margaret. Then she paused, letting out a low, uncertain hum as the fiacre rolled into movement. “This fabric feels...”

“...Strange?” Margaret supplied. “Uncanny, perhaps? It is a supernatural artifact, but I promise it won’t do you any harm. I’ve worn it several times now with no ill effects.”

Lord Riven cleared his throat. “Are you quite sure you won’t need it tonight, my love? I recall it being of some use at our last visit to a ball.”

“Yes, but this time, I've no intention of allowing myself to be shuffled off to any other rooms, so I won’t need it,” Margaret informed him. “I’ve also spread an infusion of eyebright to help me see through any illusions.” As she’d learned from her borrowed book, the herb was not only useful for that purpose but conveniently local to the Vienna woods and commonly used in medicinal teas, so easily available from the closest apothecary. “If you wouldn’t mind indulging me, I’d quite like to take part in the supernatural waltz itself tonight, to get a different perspective on it.”

“You know I’m always happy to partner you.”

“But I still don’t understand,” said Amalie. “What do you think this cloak will do?”

“It will render you perfectly invisible,” Margaret said briskly. “Once you’ve pulled the hood over your head and fastened the cloak around your throat, you needn’t worry about any bits of your skin that may become uncovered, but do not pick up anything that others can see. Whatever you’re holding will be visible to everyone until you hide it beneath the cloak, and that will bring unwanted attention.”

“I can only imagine.” Amalie shook her head slowly as she sat forward in her seat and obediently pulled the cloak around her. “May I ask...is this a common sort of adventure for you to partake in, Lady Riven?”

“Oh, yes.” Margaret laced her fingers through her husband’s in the hidden space on the seat between them and smiled as the lorelei disappeared from sight across from her. “I did mention how exciting my research is, did I not?”

“You did,” Amalie agreed, “and I am beginning to believe it.”

As their fiacre turned off the ring road into the narrow, crowded streets of the first district, the lorelei fell discreetly silent. Indeed, Margaret could almost have believed her to have left if it weren’t for the unmistakable scent of heavy perfume that lingered. Hmm. Margaret had forgotten to factor that aspect of Amalie’s reanimated nature into her calculations.

“You had better stick close to me at first,” she murmured.

Once they reached the ballroom, there would be too intense a jumble of scents for anyone to note Amalie’s scent in the confusion. First, though, they had to run the gauntlet of the royal reception line—and she could only hope that Amalie was agile enough to avoid bumping into any fellow guests or officiants along the way.

By the time they reached the head of that royal queue, Margaret was so focused on keeping track of her invisible coconspirator’s location that she barely even noticed the Damenspende gift she was handed. It was only when she heard her husband let out a soft hiss through his teeth that she finally glanced at the small object she’d been handed—and her nostrils flared with immediate distaste.

A small, palm-sized silver mirror reflected her own face—and made evident the lack of reflection just behind her, where her husband stood. “What—?” she began.

“Ahem.” The closest officiant cleared his throat, steering her forward to the evening’s host, King Manfred of Saxony. “Your Majesty, may I present Lord and Lady Riven?”