“I should have brought my crown,” I murmur, tucking my hand around Christoph’s elbow, turning us as we move toward the elevator.
The rest of the world rushes back in. The royal guards shift around us, Roz and Greg flanking us while another guard secures the elevator. Two more guards have already gone up to secure the clubhouse level.
“You’re always wearing it, Mirth,” Christoph says, completely serious. “A wreath of purple vines and flowers across your brow, little goddess. Myrtle, I think. Like the first-century fresco they uncovered in Pompeii.” He notices me staring up at him, mouth unbecomingly agape. “Is it the art reference that’s throwing you, or …?”
My breath rushes out of me, and for a moment, I can’t get it back. “You can see … essence?”
“I can see essence,” he says, as if it’s a regular everyday thing. “I just couldn’t see yours until …”
Until I unleashed my power in the theater. “My mother can see essence,” I say, feeling weirdly hollow in my core, yet perfectly stable on my feet.
I catch Christoph’s confused frown in the reflection of the mirrored elevator doors right before they whoosh open. Roz and another royal guard whose name I haven’t retained precede us within.
“Anne?” he says. “Is that a cath palug trait?”
“No. My birth mother,” I murmur as we step into the elevator. Greg follows us, pressing the button for the upper level. “She … named me. Insisted on it. I thought it was just some odd family thing, even though I was … you know, bred for a purpose.”
“Ah …” Christoph tucks me tighter against his side in the somewhat crowded elevator. “Euphrosyne … the goddess of joy. Or mirth.”
“One of the Greek Charites,” I murmur.
“Maybe it is a family thing,” Christoph says, still perfectly matter-of-fact about it all. “Maybe it runs in your blood or comes with the purple eyes.”
“Please.” I laugh, a little sharply. “If my father thought my mother’s bloodline was descended from …”
I trail off, mind whirling. Because my father had always been clear about what was expected of me, from me. And when my power manifested … I refused it. I refused it so utterly that I lost access to most of my secondary abilities as well. “But … my mother is no great power.”
Christoph shrugs. “These things skip generations.”
The doors whoosh open. I didn’t even notice the elevator moving. Christoph twitches right before the three royal guards step around us and into the quiet corridor beyond. The twitch was subtle — just him stopping himself from stepping out and pulling me with him — but I squeeze his elbow, reminding myself that I’m not the only one currently navigating life-changing events … hour by hour.
Situatedbehind a dark wooden lectern emblazoned with the Racetrack logo, the host glances up from her tablet in the barest of acknowledgments. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” I say, already glancing behind her into the crowded dining room.
“I’m sorry, we’re very full —”
“Not to worry,” I say. “We’re meeting someone.”
A brown-haired woman in a pale-blue dress straightens from a table next to the windows overlooking the track below, raising her hand to wave. Her hair is smoothed back into a pretty French twist today, makeup flawless and covering her previously-more-obvious ski tan, bright-blue eyes welcoming.
Isla Merton.
A dark-blond, slim, tan-skinned male in a light-gray designer suit sits on her left. Isla and Archie’s chosen, Noah.
Every patron between Isla and me pivots to see whom the Merton heir has waved to so enthusiastically.
I raise my own hand in acknowledgment. Just not as high.
“Name?” the host asks, getting just a touch irritated.
A hush begins to muffle the vigorous chatter that normally fills the clubhouse dining room, radiating out from Isla into the far corners.
“That’s not for you to ask,” the royal guard whose name I still don’t know snaps.
The young woman’s head jerks up, eyes flashing with ire. Her reply dies on her lips, face paling as she truly looks at me. She gasps, then starts to stutter. “I … I … I’m … so … sorry …”
I sigh, though only inwardly. Then I turn, remove my sunglasses, and deliberately make eye contact with Roz. Roz, who should be the guard standing just ahead to my left, no matter how pissed she is at me for sneaking out last night. I deserve her ire, of course. But the host doesn’t deserve to be put in her so-called place this way.
