Page 28 of A Deal with the Shadow King

My eyes open wide, and I shift uncomfortably on my seat. “The Shadow King?”

Black curls bounce around Esme’s face as she adjusts the last few inches of the hem. “Yes. When he healed her. She told me it was the most sinful moment of her life.”

“He didn’t touch me, I swear.” A big grimace overpowers my face at the thought of my mother kissing the gold-plated mask of the Shadow King. “I only learned how to run and shoot a crossbow.”

“He means to train you then. As a seed. Interesting.” She hands me back my dress. “Let’s see if it fits you better.”

I wrangle the fabric over my head and smooth down the skirt over my crinoline. Esme fastens the tiny buttons covering the hollow of my neck, the red collar snug around my throat. The absence of cleavage is in stark contrast to the plunging neckline of the dress I wore in Faerie.

I roll my gloves past my elbows and check that they’re in pristine condition for the ball. “What does it entail? To be trained? Is it a good or a bad sign?”

Esme fastens my pearl earrings, the hint of a smile playing with her lips.

Before she can answer, Cece barrels inside the bedroom, holding her ballgown to her chest. “I need to get ready too, you know. The carriage is already here.”

Esme motions for her to sit on the bed and secures my hair up with a taupe hair snood with golden threads and pearl beads. “Let’s hurry, then. We can chat later.”

Once we’re all ready to go, the carriage takes Cece, Esme, and me to the ball, and Cece struggles to hide her leg jitters. As per tradition, autumn balls start at sundown and offer a variety of apple ciders and wines. Women wear warm colors, their gowns decorated with orange, yellow, and red sashes.

The guests stop chatting and dancing to curtsy as the butler announces our arrival, and Esme quickly skedaddles. “I will meet you by the entrance after the cotillion.”

Esme spends these soirées in the adjoining room. Ladies-in-waiting aren’t invited to partake in the festivities, and Esme is regarded as particularly ill-suited because of her lower rank—and suspiciously pointy ears.

Cece links her arm in mine and ushers me deeper inside the ballroom. Stairs run down on both sides of the mezzanine to the ground floor where tables and chairs are set in the corners for the guests. Young, unmarried men and women do not sit, however, and gather in small groups around the dance floor instead.

My heart skips a beat when I see Isaac standing with his schoolmates by the delicacy buffet.

Cece tugs on my arm. “Let’s dance.”

“In a minute.”

Eyes fixed on Isaac, I weave through the crowd and pick off a few grapes from the bushel in the center of the buffet table. Normally, he’d take the opportunity to join me, but he doesn’t meet my gaze and remains safely tucked in the huddle of gentlemen.

Abigail Strauss walks over to me, blocking my view of Isaac. “Good evening, Princess. I’m happy to see you in good health.”

I offer her a quick smile. “Good evening, Miss Strauss.”

Abigail Strauss isn’t what I’d call a friend, but she’s the closest thing to it that I’ve got. Since Esme started tutoring me, I haven’t opened up to anyone about my destiny, my magic, or anything that could betray my secrets. It’s caused a rift between me and the other girls my age. It’s hard to gossip about marriage proposals and the latest fashions when your entire life hangs in the balance.

Abigail plops a tiny piece of camembert inside her mouth. “You look different.”

“I’ve been sick.”

“You certainly don’t look it. Your skin is glowing.” A knowing grin ghosts over her lips.

She doesn’t buy the scripted story.

Being a princess means being able to control the emotions on your face when you’re out in society, so I force my eyes to widen and my brows to lift slightly, offering her the perfect picture of innocence. “Must be the medicinal herbs.”

I might not wear a physical mask like the Fae do, but I’m wearing one all the same. I’ve chiseled it out of necessity.

While Abigail and I chat, Steven Finch approaches us from the side, creating a dent in the boy’s huddle.

“Good evening, Mr. Finch,” Abigail says.

Isaac steals a glance at me, all but forced to angle himself in our direction if he doesn’t want to raise eyebrows. What the crops? Why is he so stiff?

“Good evening, Princess. Miss Strauss.” Steven bows his head to each of us in turn, the bend slightly more pronounced in my direction.

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