“What do we do now?” Fordham asked. “We can’t just let this stand.”
“No, we can’t,” she agreed. She rubbed her temples. “I have an idea.”
“Is this going to get me expelled from the tournament?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “You no longer have to be a part of this.”
He reached out and dragged her to a stop. “I’m a part of this. We’re in this together. What do we do?”
“Do you still have that party invitation? The one that I picked up the other day?”
“I believe so. Why?”
“I have an idea on how we can draw Basem out.”
“With a party?”
“Yes.”
“And how will we get out when Helly just confined us both to the mountain?”
Kerrigan’s lips lifted at the edges. “I’ve lived here my entire life. You think I only know one way in or out?”
39
The Party
Curly hair sleeked and pinned to perfection, Kerrigan stood resplendent in a Parris original gown, red velvet that fell to her feet with a fitted bodice and dainty off-the-shoulder sleeves. Her bright red hair had been dyed a temporary chestnut brown, and her features were obscured by a small black mask. Only her emerald-green eyes and cherry-red lips were visible against her pale skin.
“Why do I feel like this is a bad idea?” Hadrian asked from her side as they stepped up to her father’s home on the Row.
“Because danger goes against your nature.”
“Yes, yes, it does.”
“Don’t worry so much. I don’t look like me,” Kerrigan reminded him. “And no one will recognize Fordham. He’s wearing a powder-blue suit to match the swirling colors of the Row. Not a single person expects the prince of the House of Shadows to be in powder blue.”
Even she had barely recognized him. Though it hadn’t stopped her heart from fluttering at the sight of him in something that showed off his broad shoulders and tapered waist. The way the mask concealed all but his perfect, pouty lips.
“But somehow, you are still recognizable,” Hadrian grumbled.
Kerrigan laughed and tugged him closer. “Just hand over the invitation when we get there.”
Hadrian straightened and cleared his throat as they approached the front of the considerable line to enter Lord Kivrin Argon’s residence. Hadrian himself was in a soft mint jacket with dark trousers. She knew that his patron, Fallon, had impeccable taste in clothing.
The first thing to do had been clueing everyone else in on what was happening. It was much easier to get Hadrian, Darby, and Clover into the mountain than getting Kerrigan and Fordham out. But once she had them on board, the plan was in motion. Clover staked out Basem’s residence and tracked his moves to get a sense of what he did during the day. Then, Darby used her connections to secure a second invitation to the party, which Hadrian delivered to Basem.
Fordham didn’t think it was going to work. but he didn’t understand the idea of someone starting from the bottom and working their way up. If Kerrigan knew anything about wanting to belong, it was that no one who so desperately wanted to fit in would turn down an invitation to the Row. And just to be certain, Clover had found Basem at an off the Row tailor, securing a new evening suit. Checkmate.
He’d be here. Then, they’d just need to enact phase two of the plan.
They finally reached the front of the line, and Hadrian handed over his invitation. Kerrigan stepped inside with Hadrian and allowed Fordham, Clover, and Darby to extend their own invitation to enter.
Her stomach was in her throat as she stared around at her father’s home. She spent most of her life trying to avoid the man who had thrown her out. This went against all her own ideals.
“Breathe,” Hadrian whispered. “You don’t have to see or speak to him.”
Kerrigan nodded, swallowing down the rising bile. Hadrian knew, of course. That part of this plan hinged on her being able to keep it together if she ran into her father. She straightened her spine and adjusted her face mask. She could do this.
Fordham, Clover, and Darby entered behind them, and the lot of them moved off into the shadows.
Fordham irritably messed with his own mask. “Is this really necessary?”
“Shush, you. Enjoy the espionage. If I can dress like this,” Clover said, gesturing to the gold gown instead of her normal shirt and trousers, “then you can suffer wearing blue.”
Hadrian snorted. Kerrigan grinned. Darby just rolled her eyes. She was the only one deliberately dressed to draw attention. Her navy Bryonican dress was in the fashion of Sonali’s household, and she even wore the lady’s crest. Her mask was a shimmery gold lace strip that just covered her eyes.
Fordham assessed them all critically. “I see why you are all Kerrigan’s friends.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, unable to keep the smile from her lips or the challenge out of her eyes.
“They’re nearly as insufferable as you are.”
“And what does that make you, princeling?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Suffering.”
“Okay, you two, break it up,” Clover said. “Let’s get back to business.”
“Yes,” Darby squeaked. “I’m quite put out by this whole”—she lowered her voice—“spying thing.”
“Luckily for you, Darbs,” Clover said, tossing an arm around her shoulders, “you’re just you tonight.”
“Follow orders, as we outlined,” Kerrigan said. “Everyone is to split up and take a portion of the house. If anyone lays eyes on Basem, be discreet and do not engage. We’ll meet up in the gardens in an hour.”
“And steer clear of the drinks,” Hadrian added.
Clover released Darby and poked playfully at Hadrian. “That’s no fun, sweetheart. Just imagine the trouble we could get into.”
He cleared his throat and stepped backward. “It’s just a suggestion.”
“And a good one,” Kerrigan agreed. She nodded her head at her friends and then sent them off into the party. “Good luck.”
Fordham grasped her arm before she could walk away. “Be careful.”
“I will,” she said with a nod.
He opened his mouth to say more but closed it and released her.
Kerrigan headed deeper into the party. Her father’s house was ostentatious on a good day, but somehow, he made all that wealth and extravagance look purposeful instead of out of place. The grandiose affluence of generations of Bryonican royals all on display in one glorious house on the Row. She stepped into a large ballroom, complete with a marble floor, an enormous cherubic painting covering the ceiling, and dozens of guests lining up for the next dance from the string quartet in the corner.
“Would you care to dance?” a gentleman asked in a silk top hat and a crisp lavender jacket.
“Oh, thank you so much, kind sir,” she said, layering on a thick accent. She was desperately glad that her ears weren’t visible. “But I am looking for my beau.”
The man bowed deeply at the waist and then retreated. If someone had asked her to join the dancing, she must look too much like the lady she was masquerading as.