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“Just ask him!” she hissed.

Then she lunged forward, pulling Amalie with her and leaving her ruler sputtering behind them.

She had just reached the inner parlor and was busy disentangling herself from the cloak when she heard hard footsteps sound outside the door; grimacing, she hurried for the chair, but the door opened behind her before she could reach it.

“Lady Riven.” Prince Metternich pronounced her title with distaste. “You are out of your seat...and once again, your hair is in alarming disorder.”

Setting her teeth together, Margaret drew a deep breath before she turned with the haughtiest expression she could summon, holding her right arm carefully against her side to keep that tell-tale scratch safely hidden. “I,” she said, “have sat quite long enough, especially for a night I had meant to spend dancing. Can you blame me for losing patience as I paced about the room, ignored by your master...again?”

He looked down at her with barely-restrained impatience. “Ours is not to question the emperor’s decisions, madam. Perhaps you would do better to cultivate an attitude of peaceful submission to the decisions of your betters.”

Now, that was far too much hypocrisy to bear from the man who’d just sent a royal ballroom into chaos! Margaret opened her mouth to launch a withering retort...but an invisible hand touched her arm in warning just in time.

After years of fighting to prove herself against overbearing male classmates, it burned to lay down arms in surrender to such condescension. After their earlier conversation, though, she knew exactly what the other woman was thinking.

Even in a crowded ballroom full of aristocratic observers, Metternich hadn’t hesitated to handle her with ungentlemanly force to keep her from spotting any clues. Now, the two of them stood—as far as he knew—alone and out of sight of anyone who could hope to defend her. What more might he dare, unobserved, to protect the illicit scheme he’d worked so hard to forward?

Margaret couldn’t bear to mouth any degrading words of agreement, but she nodded sharply. “In that case, I shall see to my appearance and then return to the ballroom. My husband will be looking for me by now.” Head held high, she started for the next, inner door, which led to the same retiring room she’d used the night before.

“Hold a moment, if you please.” As she stilled, Metternich turned to the empty glass that sat on the small table beside her chair. His gaze lingered on it for a long, unsettling moment. “Did you enjoy your wine tonight, Lady Riven?”

At that unexpected question, her heartbeat abruptly accelerated...and she cursed herself for it as she saw his head tilt in response.

With his keen vampiric senses, he might well have heard her instinctive reaction. Would he take that increased tension as an indication of guilt?

“I...have no complaints about the quality of the wine,” she said tightly.

His eyes narrowed. “And how would you describe its flavor?”

Oh, for goodness’ sake! “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly recall it anymore,” she snapped, “as it’s been so long since I was left here to enjoy it. If you’ll excuse me, sir!”

She swept to the inner door with what she hoped looked like high dudgeon and swung it wide to allow Amalie to slip ahead of her...

But she was uncomfortably aware of Prince Metternich’s suspicious gaze resting between her shoulder blades until the door finally closed behind her.

She was still feeling unsettled ten minutes later as she stalked back through the thankfully empty parlor to return to the crowded ballroom. It was no consolation to see that, once again, the ball had resumed as if that supernatural interruption had never even happened.

With so many layers of illusion required in Viennese high society, how could anyone fully comprehend the truth behind it all? And what would it take to force everyone else to recognize it?

“At last.” Her husband stepped through the crowd to meet her, his expression easing as he looked her up and down. “It’s a pleasure to see you in the flesh again, my love. Have you done something different with your hair?”

“Thanks to Madame Amalie.” As Margaret took his proffered arm, she tipped her head discreetly to indicate where the lorelei stood, still hidden by the cloak. “She was kind enough to help me.” Margaret’s own hairdressing skills were limited to the most basic of chignons; the lorelei had taken one look at her first attempt and tsk’ed impatiently before taking over the task with calm competence.

“Well, the effect is charming.” His warm gaze stroked almost tangibly across her neck, where a few stylish curls had been allowed to dangle. “And are you ready to leave the ball?”

“Almost.” Margaret peered through the crowd, her fingers tapping impatiently against his arm. “Do you think King Thomas has asked the emperor my question yet?”

“I can find out for you,” Amalie murmured. “He already knows that I am here, so there’s nothing to lose by making good use of this cloak. Leave it to me, Lady Riven.”

Margaret frowned. “Oh, no, don’t take any personal risks, please! We can wait a little longer...”

But the lorelei’s perfume vanished an instant later.

Sighing, Margaret settled back against her husband’s side, standing as close as she dared in public. “I don’t like her putting herself into unnecessary danger,” she muttered.

“Ah, the irony.” Lord Riven gave a low laugh. “Now you know how I feel every day. Like you, though, Madame Amalie is an intelligent adult. Her choices are her own responsibility.”

“That is true.” It was also true, though, that the other woman had far less social protection than Margaret—and while Viennese society might suspect Amalie’s singing voice to be preternaturally beautiful, if she was actively discovered using a supernatural item in public, it could ruin her career. After all, even the last empress had been forced to step aside after the uprising twenty years ago, when the Imperial court had shifted to a policy of pretending it was purely human, so...