Page 6 of Losing Wendy

I had been healed, and the sun seemed to shine down on me for a while. John was brought back to the manor. My parents were aristocrats, so though my mother fretted over finding me a husband, she acknowledged there was no genuine need for concern.

Who wouldn’t want their daughter for a wife?

When I reached maturity at twelve, the Mark appeared, a smattering of golden freckles like glistening dewdrops collecting on my upper left cheekbone, falling at its cusp and tracing my jawbone, where they slowly trailed away at the curve of my neck in a smudge of liquid gold.

That’s when my parents knew they’d been tricked, for what man would marry a girl Mated to another man? Sure, it was common knowledge that the chances of a Mated individual ever crossing paths with their match were slim, but jealousy is not a rational advisor.

“We’ll beat the curse tonight, Mama,” I say, regardless of whether I believe the words. “You, Papa, me, John—we’ve all thought this through. Planned for every possible outcome.”

My mother actually raises her delicately trimmed fingers to her mouth and begins biting on them. “Of course. Of course we will.”

Of course you do.

The memory of the shadow’s voice is so clear, it’s almost palpable.

And as the maids place the finishing touch upon my bridal attire—a pearl mask designed to obscure the golden freckles snaking over my cheek—I wonder if, from the shadows, I truly can hear a rumbling laugh.

CHAPTER 3

This is not my first ball. Such is the life of a girl who’s attempting to avoid the shackles of a curse through the bonds of matrimony—balls with their bloated guest lists tend to be efficient. But it is my first masquerade.

“Well. The Darling line has officially given up on any sense of propriety and honor,” John says, adjusting his tight collar next to me like it’s irritating him. His metallic half-mask hardly covers the upper half of his face, but it’s nothismask he’s referring to.

His russet eyes linger on my pearl mask in disapproval as we wait on the dark side of the door to my parents’ buzzing ballroom.

“I thought you wanted this to work,” I say. “And look at you—scolding me for making my best attempt.”

I nudge John on the shoulder lightly, but he’s too tense tonight to notice.

After a moment of silence, I escalate to poking him. “I truly am sorry, John. I know when news of our deception gets out, I’ll either be married or…” I pause when he gives me an irritated glance. “Well, either way, it will be your name and your prospects that will suffer.”

“You think I care anything about my name?” he asks, incredulous. “Wendy, have you ever considered what a pompous aristocrat—a possessive aristocrat—might do to you once he finds out what that mask is hiding?”

A shiver curls around my forearms, but I straighten my spine and shrug my shoulders. “That’s tomorrow’s problem.”

John glances at the grandfather clock on the wall. Even in the faint lantern light, I catch his pallor tinge green. He opens his mouth to say something else, but it’s no use. My father’s voice rumbles from the inside of the ballroom, no doubt introducing me to a room full of unsuspecting suitors. In a moment’s notice, the doors fling open, and I step into my fate.

At least, what I hope will be my fate.

As if they can hear me, the shadows chuckle.

My appearance must workas Mother intended, because the crowd of eligible bachelors goes quiet as I step onto the raised platform at the forefront of the room. I’m dressed from head to toe in gleaming ivory, the color of coastal trade coins and the full moon, long said to bestow good fortune.

More importantly, it’s also the color of wedding garb.

Mama thought dressing me in a wedding gown would prepare the suitors’ minds for the idea of marriage. When I had countered that my generous dowry would doubtless prepare their minds for marriage more than any color ever could, my mother had sighed knowingly.

Still, it appears she was correct.

Except for the few brutes who holler and whistle as John escorts me onto the platform, the crowd of men goes silent. Some of their mouths hang ajar.

I shuffle, trying and failing to wriggle my toes in my stiff heels.

I would have thought I’d recognize the ballroom that has hosted so many events like this one, but as this is our last hope for my freedom, my parents have gone all out. Faerie dust not only lights the tips of the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, butsomeone has taken its liquid form to the indigo velvet wallpaper. It’s as if someone handed my youngest brother, Michael, a paintbrush and a jar of faerie dust paint, and encouraged him to flick it across the walls, the pillars, the silk tablecloths.

Everything glistens, even the guests, in the gentle glow of the faerie dust.

I can’t imagine what my parents must have spent to fetch paint dabbled with faerie dust. The city of Jolpa paid a steep price to use the rare substance in the streets’ lamps, but deemed it worth the tariff given faerie light is a sustainable source of light, one that doesn’t have to be replenished like gas or oil.

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