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I see my godfather almost immediately. He sits at the high table with the other faculty. If he recognizes either of us, our night will be over before it’s begun, so grabbing Poppy’s arm, I slide behind a column.

Our cohort finds us before we find them. Hugo shouts to us from where they’re all seated at a table. He’s in an eggplant-colored suit that is just the sort of flamboyant thing he loves. His mask is one of those funny theatrical ones with a long, curling nose and smiling mouth. I gesture at him to hush, and Poppy and I duck toward the table. My grin is back in place as she and I kneel beside the table to keep out of sight.

“What are you doing?” Ollinde asks dryly as I steal a buttered dinner roll from Hugo’s plate. They’re dressed in an olive floral waistcoat and a silk shirt with some of the most absurd ruffles I’ve ever seen paired to a mask covered in gems. Their hair is still a luxurious golden blond, falling in curls past their shoulders.

“We couldn’t let you have all the fun,” I say as I bite into my roll. It’s at that moment that I steal a glance at Lonan, and I’m shocked by the expression I see on his face. He keeps his eyes half lidded and dispassionate, but there’s something to the way he watches me with painfully sharp focus—he’s angry. So angry his mask is slipping, and not the one he wears on his face. With his glasses, he can’t wear one over his eyes, so instead a smooth black mask covers the lower half of his face. Always a creature of the Dark.

I look away, unable to hold that blazing gaze a moment longer. Instead I notice the way Poppy’s and Hugo’s heads are bent together, the way she’s picking at the food on his plate like it’s hers.

“Why are you ducking under the table like a dog?” Orla says, delicately holding her goblet. “You’re embarrassing us.” Her dress looks rather like she’s attending a funeral—black fabric from a high neck to the floor and sleeves that cover her arms to her wrists. Her mask is just as tenebrous, with raven feathers adorning the side. I’m sure Cavendish and Caldwell would love that.

“Well, let’s just say I’m not strictly allowed to be here.” I pick up a fork and sneak some of Hugo’s duck à l’orange. He’s so preoccupied with Poppy that he doesn’t even notice.

“Then you shouldn’t be here,” Lonan says, his voice low and menacing.

I meet his eyes. “Oh darling, you’ve said the magic words,” I say with a smile. “The best way to ensure I do something is to tell me not to, you know.”

I expect him to bicker with me, for us to fall into our usual verbal sparring match. But he doesn’t. In fact, he looks like he might be about to snap. And that’s when I catch the hint of a shadow curling around his fingers. I shift my gaze between him and his hand, and he catches my meaning, blinking and relaxing back into his seat, his shadows barely withdrawing.

Light magic is sourced from the world around us through reason and logic. Dark magic is its opposite in every way. It’s birthed from within, incubated in raw emotion and instinct. Normally Lonan’s self-control over his emotions is legendary. I’ve never seen him slip like this. At least not in front of people who don’t know what he is.

Hugo stands, taking Poppy’s hand. “Let’s dance, party crasher.”

“My foot,” Poppy objects.

“Balance on the good one, and I’ll help you hop about. We’ll invent a new step. You watch—it’ll be all the rage by morning.”

As they head to the dance floor, Poppy glances at me over her shoulder, miming a squeal of delight. I make obnoxious kissing faces at her in return.

Hugo has always been all jokes and fun, but I can tell from the strain at the corners of his eyes that he does it because most of what we do at Gossemort is so heavy. I never mention it. Humor is his way of coping, and honestly, we need him just as he is. He cuts through the high-strung personalities like Orla, Ollinde, and Lonan. He makes us feel like a team, a family. It’s why he and Poppy are meant for each other.

Still smiling, I turn back toward the others, finding no friendly faces. Orla and Lonan certainly still look peeved at my appearance. At least Ollinde is decent enough to appear apathetic.

“Well, you lot are no fun. I’m going to find some champagne.”

“Fontaine,” Lonan whispers harshly after me, but I ignore him and disappear into the crowd.

It takes one glass of champagne for me to lower my guard and stop keeping track of where my godfather is in the room. It takes two for me to kick off the beautiful but painful silver-white shoes and loop arms with anyone and everyone on the dance floor. I laugh and dance and spin in circles, leaning into the absurdity of this evening. I suppose living under the threat of war and fiendlings will do that to you—make you take chances, live without regrets, leave nothing unsaid. We were reminded of that this afternoon when Poppy was attacked.

It’s nearing the end of the hour when my godfather ascends the staircase at the head of the room to tower over the rest of us. He has a sharp, focused look in his eyes tonight. I find Hugo nearby and duck behind him and Poppy.

“Students, faculty, guests of Gossemort,” Lord Van Asten begins, his cool gaze passing over us. “Congratulations on another term completed. At the close of each semester, I’m thankful for the brilliance of our students, their promising growth, and the strength of the Light. You know how vital our mission is here at Gossemort. I don’t have to remind you all—you know it well. We are the last stronghold of the Light, the final fortress against—”

The main doors to the hall crash open. My godfather’s speech is cut off as rain and wind breach the room. Students stumble away from the open doors. Standing in the gap of the arched doorway, dripping a puddle onto marble and wearing an expression of pure death, is Lonan.

His expression is just as sharp as it was when he glared at me across the table earlier, but he’s changed. He’s dressed in a very damp navy-blue military uniform, and a ceremonial rapier, different from the sword he uses as an anchor for his Light, hangs at his waist. His mask is gone. He paces into the room, his soaked hair curling at the ends.

I blink, using Hugo’s shoulder to steady myself. “What the . . .” I glance at Hugo, whose expression is as confused as I feel. “What’s he doing?”

“Saints if I know. Where’d he get those clothes? They’re ridiculous.”

I have never known Lonan to be ridiculous.

He marches toward Lord Van Asten with intention. His back is straight, his shoulders square, and his expression austere.

And Lord Van Asten, to my complete bewilderment, bows deeply, and says, “Welcome, Your Highness.”

Chapter Eight