“No. You surpass us all.” Beside me she looked colorless and frail. “You are like a living rose among wax flowers. We may last forever, but you bloom brighter and smell sweeter, and draw blood with your thorns.”
Carefully, I took the mask from her hands. “I can see how you were a writer once.”
Aster looked away.
I lifted the mask to my face, concealing my expression. Gazing at myself, I could only think one thing. I knew Aster was thinking the same. I did look like a queen, but my dress was a funeral shroud. She had made me beautiful to go to my death.
Seventeen
WHEN ASTER and I returned to Gadfly’s stair, the throne room had transformed. Spider-silk garlands looped between the branches, their dew sparkling in the moonlight. Night-blooming flowers shivered on every bough, aglow with fairy lights flickering within them like votives. They bathed the clearing in an ethereal glow in which nothing seemed quite real. Not the tables laden with wine, sweets, and fruits, or the musical flocks of songbirds that swooped low before darting back into the canopy. And certainly not the fair folk, who had stepped straight out of a storybook. Moonlight shimmered on the jewels in their hair and set cold fire to the silver embroidery on their coats and dresses. They danced in pairs without music, a strange, silent waltz furling and unfolding across the clearing below, vignettes glimpsed through eyeholes in my mask. And all of them as faceless as I was: birds and flowers, foxes and deer, their smiles sharper than candlelight striking the curve of crystal glasses.
Everyone was dressed in the pale colors of the spring court, aside from me—and Rook. I picked him out immediately where he stood at the foot of the stair beside Gadfly. Tonight he looked every inch the autumn prince in a sweeping wine-colored coat trimmed with thread-of-gold. His crown winked from his tousled curls, and a raven mask covered the upper half of his face. Reading his easy manner, his smile and the relaxed set of his shoulders, and noting that his hand didn’t stray near his sword, it struck me with grim horror that he did not know; Gadfly had not told him. I was in love with him, and he didn’t know.
The realization weighted my feet like shackles. Each step required an effort, even with Aster’s hand supporting my elbow.
No one noticed us until we were halfway down. Then the entire ball stilled. A hush fell over the clearing. Everyone watched, expectant. I halted, trying to muster the courage to continue. Was this how Rook felt? Always on guard, always trying to hide any sign of weakness that could have the fair folk leaping at his throat in seconds? Without the mask, I would be doomed.
A rose petal tumbled down the step next to my feet, followed by another. Barely suppressing a flinch, I looked over my shoulder to see where they were coming from. Rose petals were strewn in a path behind me all the way up the steps, scarlet against the white woven birch, but I saw no one responsible for their presence.
“The dress is enchanted,” Aster whispered, leaning in. “Petals will appear wherever you step. But they aren’t real—watch.”
A breeze blew, scattering the petals, which vanished like shadows as they stirred. The sight was captivating, and awful. My path through the masquerade would be marked like a wounded animal leaving bloodstains on snow. An appropriate comparison, all things considered.
I forced myself to continue. Finally, well concealed beneath the gown’s loose, flowing hem, my boots touched the ground. Gadfly took my hand and kissed it while, next to him, Rook studiously tried not to react. For the first time I was grateful for his ignorance. If he’d known, he would have drawn his sword against Gadfly then and there, and it would all have been over before we’d had a chance.
“What a delight it is to have our very first masquerade with a mortal in attendance,” Gadfly said. His swan mask’s snowy feathers covered almost his entire face, leaving only slivers of his jawline visible, but I heard the smile in his voice. “And what an intriguing dress Aster has chosen for you. Why, you and Rook make quite the matching pair! Of course, it would be a shame if he kept you all to himself this evening. I must insist on having the first dance.”
My stomach swooped with vertigo, as though I were still descending and had just missed the stair’s final step. I forced a smile over clenched teeth. Gadfly kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word, hoping my polite nods would suffice. Rook shifted impatiently. With so many eyes upon us, I despaired of the chance of speaking to him alone.
Perhaps there was a way to warn him before Gadfly swept me away. Briefly, I pressed my eyes closed. I conjured up the sensation of cold, clawlike hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing, suffocating the life from my body. Dizziness. Terror. Death. Throughout it all, I didn’t let the smile fall from my face. Hopefully it only looked to Gadfly as though I’d modestly lowered my eyes at one of his flowery compliments. More likely it looked as though I had indigestion.
When I looked up, I found Rook scrutinizing me. He’d felt it. Framed by the mask’s dark feathers, his eyes pierced me with shock and concern. I watched his expression change. First confusion, seeing there was nothing wrong with me, followed by dawning understanding. He ran his hands down the front of his coat, assuring everyone he’d only gotten a peculiar look on his face because he was worried he’d forgotten something. He patted at his sword belt and checked his sword. No, he hadn’t forgotten his sword after all. There it was! Beaming, he adjusted the lay of the sheath against his leg. God, he was a terrible actor—what did I expect from someone who couldn’t lie?—but his meaning was clear. Message received. He would be on his guard.
“. . . and that’s how I ended up with the entire wagon of turnips, and Mr. Thoresby was forced to return my second-best waistcoat. But enough carrying on,” Gadfly was saying, quite oblivious, or at least pretending to be, as he admired one of his own cuff links. “I could talk about myself forever, couldn’t I? Let’s take a turn. The night isn’t getting any younger, after all, and it appears everyone is waiting on us.”
As though I were extending my neck to the guillotine, I held out my hand. I had no other choice. He gallantly took my arm and escorted me to the center of the glade. The other fair folk stood at a respectful distance, having paused the waltz in preparation for their prince’s entrance. He placed his free hand on my waist, and at last I had to lower the mask to rest my own on his shoulder. Skillfully, he swept me into the ebb and flow of movement as everyone resumed dancing together. The courtiers flowed around us with inhuman grace, whispers of muslin and silk in passing, but aside from that—silence.
“You look very fine this evening, Gadfly,” I said without feeling.
“Yes, I know,” he replied. “Yet I can’t deny it’s wonderful to hear my suspicions confirmed.”
Within the holes of his swan mask, laugh lines appeared around his eyes, which I had never seen at home in my parlor. Perhaps they hadn’t existed before now: an artful deception, like that single strand of hair he’d allowed to escape from his ribbon on the fateful day I’d learned of Rook’s commission, or spending years as my patron without ever letting slip to anyone that he was the spring prince. His mask was tied with a pale blue ribbon, so that he could watch my face while I saw nothing of his.
“I hear you and Aster spoke of the Green Well,” he went on.
Mouth dry, stomach in knots, I scrambled for a way to draw things out, to maintain my innocence of my fate, to deny Aster’s involvement.
“You needn’t lie to me, Isobel. I have a rather unique gift, even among my kind. But you already know that, don’t you?”
And that was that. There was no use pretending any longer. “Lark told me,” I said, the whispery rhythm of the waltz receding as blood roared in my ears.
“Just so. None of this was set in stone, of course. The future never is. It’s like a forest, you see, with thousands upon thousands of paths running through it, all branching off in different directions. Some things can change, up until the very end. Yesterday I wasn’t certain whether we would do this version, or the version in which you chose not to tell Rook your true name and returned home none the worse for wear, and then due to the fact that I was dancing elsewhere with Nettle, instead of here, with you, a passing nightingale spoiled my lapel as it relieved itself overhead. Which is why I wore my least favorite suit and still ordered the lemon creams specially, just in case.” He gave a rueful sigh. “Alas. We’ll never get to eat the lemon creams now. But at least Swallowtail will have ruined that offensive yellow jacket of his.”