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Firmly avoiding the gaze of the hovering officiant, Margaret prevented herself from being guided forward. “Your Majesty, I hope you received my messages this morning. Access to the Imperial court library is essential if I am to have any chance of⁠—”

“Yes, yes,” he mumbled. “I forwarded all that administrative nonsense on to Florian. He’ll see to it, I’m sure...unless it offends some ancient, paltry rule of forgotten etiquette that no one else would ever care about. Ha! You’ve never known such a prig. But if you’ll excuse me⁠—”

“Wait! I’ve one more question.” She dug in her slippered heels, ignoring the increasing agitation of the officiant now gibbering behind her. “Would you please direct me to wherever Madam Amalie has been placed for this event?”

“Amalie—? Ahem.” King Thomas looked as if he’d nearly choked on her name. His gaze darted nervously towards the line of his fellow rulers as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “Obviously, she could hardly be invited to tonight’s event. For God’s sake, even I wouldn’t risk that! She’s an opera singer.”

“And a lorelei!” Margaret whispered back. “So, surely...”

“Enjoy your evening!” King Thomas boomed—and then cringed, cradling his head with his free hand as he waved pointedly to the hovering officiant.

“Your Majesty.” Inclining his head, Lord Riven swept her forward before the officiant’s grasping hand could reach her.

“For goodness’ sake!” Margaret seethed as they stepped through the final opening into the vast, chandelier-lit ballroom. Despite its size, it was every bit as stuffy and crowded as she’d anticipated. However, that discomfort was a mere afterthought as she leaned close to speak to her husband over the din of the crowd and the music and the hundreds of dancing feet on the floor nearby, thumping even in their soft evening slippers. “How can he possibly expect me to solve this puzzle without access to any of the resources that might aid me?”

“My dear, I don’t believe His Majesty has contemplated that question for an instant.” Lord Riven murmured the wry words into her ear as he led her through the close-pressed crowd that framed the long room around the dance floor. “Our esteemed ruler does not strike me as the sort of man to voluntarily endure mental gymnastics.”

“To say the least.” Grimacing, Margaret tapped her fingers against her husband’s arm. “Perhaps...”

“I have witnessed one positive development since we arrived, though.”

“Really?” Margaret asked with deep skepticism. “And what might that be?”

Smiling tenderly, Lord Riven nodded down at her. “You, my love. Standing in the midst of a ballroom without fear. I’ve never seen you look so confident at any of these before.”

“...Oh.” Margaret blinked as she absorbed his statement.

It was true. The few balls she’d been forced to attend years ago, under her aunt and uncle’s control, had been exercises in torture as she was berated for every tiny mistake she made. Even in the earliest stage of her honeymoon, when she and her husband had attended balls in Paris, she had felt miserably out of place. Tonight, though, it hadn’t even occurred to her until now to feel any of the aggravating self-consciousness that had plagued her at those events. “It must be because I have a supernatural puzzle to think about.”

“In part, no doubt,” he said agreeably. “But it may also have something to do with our stay in the Black Forest.”

“Hmm.” If so, she couldn’t imagine how; there certainly hadn’t been any crowded ballrooms to endure in that lovely shadowy and spacious inn. Even before the unusual residents there had—to her shock—become true friends, none of them had ever been so judgmental over personal appearances or society manners as aristocrats at balls tended to be.

Regardless, there was no time to parse through his enigmatic statement; the music could shift at any moment. “If you’ll excuse me...” Releasing her husband’s arm, she stepped away, ready to use the excuse of seeking a retiring room to find an unobserved spot and pull out the cloak.

Before she could move more than a few steps through the crowd, she was stopped by a cleared throat and the words, spoken in German in an authoritative male voice, “Lady Riven? The emperor would like a word, if you please.”

“The...?” Instinctively, Margaret turned back towards her husband for support, but he’d already vanished in the close-pressed, shifting crowd. Oh Lord. Wasn’t Emperor Florian meant to be a stickler for punctilious etiquette and rigid propriety?

She knew herself to be the wrong spouse for this situation...

But she had absorbed enough rules of polite society to swallow back her groan as she turned back to the looming, silver-haired Austrian courtier, who wore a colorful sash over his evening jacket to signify his status as an Imperial equerry and looked down his aquiline nose at her with visible impatience. “Of course. It...would be an honor.” She hoped her words didn’t sound as doom-laden as they felt.

Perhaps the emperor wished to discuss her access to his court library. She could handle that conversation. Unless he was planning to test her manners before making his decision?

Ugh.

Well, if worst came to worst, she would simply have to make use of the cloak of invisibility again the next morning and hope that no librarians would look too closely at the card index as she slid open its drawers in pursuit of her investigation.

For now, she followed the imposing equerry as he walked a purposeful and surprisingly quick path around the side of the ballroom, cutting an impressive swath through the crowd. None of the other attendees glanced his way—not a single nod or bow of recognition slowed his path—and yet with every long stride, the crowd parted just ahead of him, like shoals of smaller fish instinctively making way for a shark.

Margaret quickened her own steps to keep up before the crowds could close once again behind him. She didn’t hesitate when he led her to a nondescript door in the far wall and held it open for her, but she did glance over her shoulder as she passed through it...and spotted the reception line still busy at the other end of the long ballroom.

“Wait,” she said, “is the emperor still busy receiving guests? If he isn’t ready to speak to me yet, then⁠—”

“His Imperial Majesty will arrive when he can.” Closing the door firmly behind her, the equerry gestured her onward through a small sitting room that led to a larger, elegant parlor full of cushioned seats and potted ferns. A full glass of wine sat waiting on a side table beside a high-backed silver chair; he gestured to it as she entered. “For your refreshment as you wait.”

“Actually...” Margaret began.