Page 19 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

I grin even wider. “Oh, it should.”

“Youdonotlooklike a boy,” says Mary as we stand before my bedroom mirror. I wear the clothes she fetched me: a pair of worn, baggy breeches, a dust-colored tunic, stockings, thick-soled shoes. “You can get away with it as the Ivy Mask when you have a cloak. But this is different.”

“We can work with this,” I say, looking at myself from all angles.

“Boys don’t have hips. Or—”

“Yes, yes, but we’ll figure out how to disguise that. I think I’m going to need a size larger of breeches to make this look convincing. And some sort of chest binding—”

“You think a few scraps of tightly bound fabric will suffice?” She points at my chest.

I wince. “I’ll just . . . have to skip a few meals, wear baggy clothes . . .” My mind works as I keep surveying myself.

“You’re going to cut your hair.” Mary groans. “Saints preserve me.”

“We’ve got to go all the way for this to be convincing! And it must be convincing by the time Lord Boreham comes to propose to me. I need to be gone by that morning.”

We don’t cut my hair just yet. I skip the noon meal with my stepfamily, claiming a headache, and only emerge from my room midafternoon to join them in the drawing room. I’m shaking so hard I prick myself multiple times with my needle as I try to distract myself from my gnawing hunger with my embroidery. My stepfamily says nothing to me, and I say nothing to them. We sit in silence filled only by Edith drilling the same section of her piece on the harpsichord over and over again.

“Katherine,” says Agatha, “you should be aware of a rumor that is circulating.”

I tense. If she brings up Lord Boreham one more time—

“There are reports that a fae has moved to town and intends to marry.”

Not Lord Boreham. I relax and wave my hand. “Baron Cranswick’s son told me that at the ball.”

Bridget looks up from her own needlework. “But did you hear that he arrived today? Mellie Thompson said one of her servants saw him—and he’s terribly frightening. She said he’s taller than any man she’s seen, and he’s got long, pointy ears. You know what they say about fae beauty, don’t you? Apparently, it’s true. Mellie said her servant said—or maybe it was a friend of the servant’s—that he is tremendously beautiful and very strange.”

Edith scoffs from her place at the harpsichord, mercilessly pounding out the section of the piece she’s drilling. She shouts to be heard over the noise. “She also said he has white hair. Before you know, the reports will continue until he’s over seven feet tall, with a nose the shape of a candlestick, bright purple skin, and biceps made of iron.”

“Ladies!” Agatha chides. She closes her eyes briefly, in which Edith and Bridget exchange an amused look. I glance between them, hoping to be included, but they don’t look at me. “Nothing has been confirmed except his arrival. His intent to marry is also uncertain, but it seems highly likely. You should be aware, Katherine, of his possible attentions.”

Why does everyone think this fae is going to be interested in me? I doubt they would want my money; Faerieland runs a different currency.

“He’s not going to take two looks at either of us, that’s for sure!” Bridget says sourly.

Edith lifts her chin, never pausing her drilling. “I don’t want to marry a seven-foot-tall monster with purple skin and a candlestick nose. Katherine can have him to herself.”

“He’s not seven feet tall, you imbecile! And are you a devil from hell sent to torment us with your music?” Bridget finally snaps, whirling on her sister. “The rest of your piece is getting lonely from your worship of those four measures!”

Edith bangs on the keys. “I don’t enjoy it either! Botsov is a misery, and no one does his work justice, so the unfortunate duty falls upon me.”

I’ve suffered in their presence long enough. It’s time I do what I came to do. When no one is looking, I stick my finger in the back of my mouth. Then I heave, grabbing the nearby scrap basket.

“Kat!” shrieks Bridget, shooting up as I empty the meager contents of my stomach into the basket.

“Mary!” calls Agatha. “Take Katherine to her room at once. She is ill.”

“No, I’m quite fine,” I say, wiping my mouth and pressing a hand to my hollow middle. I’ve got to put up at leastsomestruggle here. “I feel much—”

“You are ill. Go upstairs. Mary will tend your needs,” orders Agatha sharply.

I nod and find myself actually needing to lean on Mary as we make our way up the stairs. “I feel so weak.”

“It’s your own fault for pursuing this harebrained idea.”

“Do you have a better plan for getting me out from under Agatha’s thumb?” I hiss. “While having the privilege of spying on someone who could give me the information I need to more effectively do . . .business?”

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