Illusions of Fate

“Yes,” I answer, careful to keep my voice controlled, though I feel as if it should be two octaves higher. “How strange that Eleanor should purchase gowns so clearly the wrong size.”

“The ways of women are a mystery to me.” He holds out his elbow—in all the time we have walked with each other I have never taken it—and says, “Shall we?”

I slip my hand into place, and my voice trembles as I say, “Yes.”

For some reason, it feels as though I am answering a far more important question.

Twenty

FINN TAKES MY HAND AS I CLIMB OUT OF THE carriage when we arrive at the Royal Hall. It’s near the palace, across the river from the courthouse. All these are buildings I have walked by many times but never dreamt I would enter. Four soaring spires mark the corners of the Hall, the stone elegant and carved over arching stained-glass windows and massive scrolling iron doors. This is where the queen was wed, where her husband’s funeral was held.

On Melei, the monarchy is officially ours, too, but we all grow up knowing the pale, unsmiling portraits in our schools are nothing like us—and care nothing for us. So, while I do not hold the monarchy in any regard, it is still more than a little intimidating to walk on such ceremonially important grounds.

When we pass guards in the queen’s deep purple livery, Finn does not hand them the invitation as I expect him to. One of the guards holds out a golden platter, in the center of which a single sharp needle sticks up.

“Lord Finley Ackerly,” he says in a deeper voice than I am used to. I had not known Finn was a nickname and feel both embarrassed and strangely privileged to know him as such. He then pricks his finger on the point. A spark ignites and the guard nods, withdrawing the platter.

I am cold with fear that he will expect me to do the same but Finn guides me forward without hesitation. “What was that?” I whisper.

“No one outside of the gentry is allowed at this concert. You’ll understand why.”

“Need I remind you I am not gentry?”

“But you are my very special guest, and no one enjoys telling me I cannot do things.” He smiles confidently, and we walk through mingling clumps of people. I do not mind that I stand out so horribly this time, but I can feel many eyes on me.

Several people greet Finn as “Lord Ackerly,” and he nods in acknowledgment but stops to talk to no one. He stays at my side, a hand at the small of my back, and leads me to our seats. We’re on a private balcony overlooking a grand ballroom. People are drifting toward the seats set up on the floor. Two chairs beside us are open, and I wonder if anyone will fill them. The vantage point feels both privileged and exposed. I can see everyone, which means everyone can see me.

A small, raised stage in the center has a semicircle of chairs about a dozen in number, but no one is there yet. The walls of either side of the room are lined with guards—one group in the royal purple livery, the other in blue and gold.

Finn feels both too close and too far away, sitting with our arms nearly touching. I need something, anything, to cover my inner flutterings.

“What symphony will they be performing? Am I terrible if I admit I find Alben music dreadfully dull and somber?”

“I am terrible right along with you, then. But have no fear. It’s an international group of musicians from the royal families of several continental countries.”

“Ah. Thus the strangely liveried guards. I’ve always been partial to art and music from Gallen.” The country immediately east across the channel from Albion, Gallen seems to suppress passion less.

“Spirits below,” Finn says under his breath, shifting in his seat and angling himself toward me so half my view of the room is cut off. He smiles, but it is too bright, too forced. “I am so sorry. I had it on good authority that he wasn’t coming tonight. Still, there is not a safer room for you in all of the city at the moment.”

“Downpike?” I startle forward and there, in a balcony directly across from us, sits the nightmare man himself.

He raises a glass filled with bloodred wine in mock cheers and then takes a dignified sip, his eyes never leaving me.

My hand aches, spasming into a fist, and I want to flee, be anywhere but here with that man so close. I nearly ask Finn if we can leave, but the expression on Lord Downpike’s face is too smug. It’s not even a challenge. I’m not worth it in his estimation. Sitting straighter in my chair, I meet his horrid gaze from across the room and raise my right hand in a cheerful wave, being certain to wiggle all my fully functioning fingers. Then I fix my eyes firmly on the stage, resolving not to look that direction again.

“Well done,” Finn murmurs.

Another couple joins us, the man maybe ten years our senior, handsome with reddish-brown hair. His wife is dripping in ostentatious jewelry, her face neither pretty nor plain, rather severe but offset by heavily curled blond hair. She gives me a slight nod and then settles in the farthest chair.

“Lord Ackerly,” the man says, and I recognize his voice—Lord Rupert, Eleanor’s uncle the earl. “I did not know we would have the honor of sharing a box this evening.”

“The honor is mine. Might I introduce Miss Jessamin Olea?”

Lord Rupert takes my hand and inclines his head, but his eyes are shrewd, and he obviously knows who I am. “Charmed to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you, my lord. I am fortunate enough to count your niece, Eleanor, as a friend. She is a credit to your family name.”

“Quite, yes.” He sits next to his wife, whose chin is already bobbing into her pearls. Apparently, I am not the only one who thought to use the symphony as an excuse for a nap.