Pyre had thought of everything, that sly bastard.
That was when she noticed the pair of elbow-length, delicately embroidered lace gloves that were also set on the bed for her, as well as a plain white box that sat next to the mask. While the gloves were pretty, they were not practical. If a situation went south, she did not want anything to restrict her movement.
She moved to the bed, her dress rustling softly. With care, she opened the box and blinked. It was a silver choker adorned with opals, diamonds, and sapphires. She blinked again. How in the hell did he come by something so fine? It rivaled anything she’d seen worn in court, even the jewels the king had gifted Temp. Her fingers shook as she pulled it from the box and clasped it around her neck, the cool metal embracing her skin.
Next came her weapons. A garrote hidden in a bracelet Dima had gifted her when she’d won her first match against him. Poisoned hairpins from Aleks that he’d given Tempest when she’d managed to discern the top ten most deadly poisons in Heimserya. And finally, the daggers Maxim brought back for her when he’d returned from a trip to the Fire Isles. She strapped them to her thighs and hid one in each boot.
Feeling a bit more like herself, she reached for the final item.
“And now it’s just the mask,” she whispered, picking up the beautiful wolf mask and inspecting it. The mask was made of porcelain or something similar. It was fragile and liable to shatter, but that only made it more precious. With gentle fingers, she tied the silver ribbon of the mask around her head and hid it beneath her braids, so that it looked as if the mask was sitting on her face unaided.
She faced the mirror and studied her reflection. A warrior princess stared back at her. She spun on the spot, testing how much movement she had in the skirt, and was surprised further by how easy it was to move in the dress. The bodice was tight, but not rib-crushing like the dress she had worn at Destin’s request. This was the kind of dress she could easily fight in, regardless of the several feet of feathery material trailing behind her.
Her gaze trailed to the necklace. It looked… like a collar. Tempest huffed. The Jester couldn’t be trusted to be generous in everything.
Time to go.
She pulled open the door and half-expected Pyre to jump out at her, but no one was there. Tempest ran her hands down the skirt and then lifted her chin. Now was not the time to be self-conscious.
The corridors leading to the masquerade ball teemed with people. She ignored their stares as she worked through the crowd and entered the ballroom. While the masks hid everyone’s identity, her hair gave her away. Masks swam before her gaze—swans, snakes, lions, dragons, cats and…
A kitsune.
The unmistakable figure of Pyre, dressed in the resplendent, deep claret outfit Tempest had initially seen him trying on weeks ago in his cave in the forest. His golden fox mask covered the top part of his face, and he paused as he caught sight of her, his goblet of wine hovering near his lips in his hand. A slow smile curved his lips, and his amber eyes seemed to glow behind his mask. Her steps slowed, and her heart beat a little faster.
Calm down.
He set his goblet down on a nearby table and excused himself from his company, the crowd parting for him as he made his way over to her. She took his arm when he proffered it to her, eyeing his costume and then her own. The color gradient they made together—white to silver to blue to lilac, to claret to crimson to gold—it became clear to Tempest why the Jester had picked this specific dress for her to wear.
“You are a vision,” he murmured into her ear, a mischievous look on his face that told Tempest he very much enjoyed the attention they were gathering.
“Will I ruin the vision if I open my mouth to speak?” she asked, feeling just as mischievous as Pyre himself. There was something infectious about the night, and her dress, and the masked ball-goers, that made Tempest feel distinctly like another person.
You’re not. Get yourself together. Focus on allies.
Pyre snickered, his lips touching the shell of her ear. “That entirely depends on what you say, Tempest.”
He led her farther into the masquerade hall, which was full of elaborately dressed people, strange masks, and heartbreakingly beautiful music played by a string quartet on a central plinth. Soft lantern light glittered off decorations all around the vast, cavernous hall, from silvered candlesticks, crystal chandeliers, and ensconced torches alike.
There were spices on the air—vanilla and cinnamon and something floral beneath them—that Tempest eagerly breathed in. When a passing servant handed her a spindly glass filled with a pale gold, sparkling liquid, she gladly accepted, if only to do something with her hands. Drinking was not on her list of things to do. She needed her wits about her.
“Why am I a wolf?” she asked Pyre as they circled about the room, stopping here and there for him to say his hellos and to introduce Tempest to the guests she had not met before.
“Is it not obvious?”
“True,” she murmured, taking a delicate sip of her champagne. A wolf mask was a fitting symbol of her status as Hound. A wolf among sheep. “But you always have an alternate reason.”
He shrugged. “The mask has been in my possession for a while. When I met you—the first time I met you in the tavern—I thought your face was perfect for it. I cannot really explain it; but it was meant for you.”
“I’m sure Brine won’t appreciate the dog being a wolf for the night,” she remarked with a wry grin.
“Oh, you and I both know that he likes you more than he lets on.” Pyre chuckled. “You’re a part of his pack now whether he’ll admit it or not.”
A flicker of guilt licked Tempest’s stomach, and she was reminded of her actual goal for the evening. She had to work out who might rally behind her… and tell Pyre about her intention to marry King Destin. Though she had convinced herself before that he could find out second hand, now that she was level-headed and no longer sick, she knew it wasn’t the right decision. Pyre might be sneaky and underhanded, but she couldn’t be that way. Even to him.
She allowed Pyre to essentially show her off to all the factions, using the introductions as an opportunity to put names to voices and masks. But, as they wandered, her skin began to prickle. It felt like her time was short.
“What is it?” he asked after almost an hour of snatched conversations and throwaway comments.
She shook her slightly. “I… Pyre, you told me this masquerade was about securing support. About maintaining goodwill between factions for the war.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Your point being?”
“It seems as if everyone is already prepared for war,” she said, waving around them. “Everyone is behind you—that was clear as day to me. There is no support to gather. They’re all… ready.”
“Dance with me,” he murmured, pulling her toward the dance floor before she had the chance to refuse.
“You really are like two completely different people,” she said, studying his jaw as he took one of her hands in his. She gingerly placed her other hand on his shoulder. When he slid a hand around her waist to the small of her back, Tempest shivered in an entirely pleasant way. Damn it.
Pyre’s fingers roamed just a little higher up her back, a knowing smile on his lips, clearly enjoying her reaction. “I could say the same about you, you know,” he replied as they began dancing, quickly becoming one with the rhythm of the music. Tempest had never been one for dancing before, but it always came naturally. She chalked it up to swordplay. It was essentially the same thing. Except for the killing.