Nura and Olivette drifted toward the musicians, but I remained standing, soaking in the grandeur of the room. And I couldn’t help myself; I looked for Phelan among the black jackets and top hats.
He was nowhere to be seen, and I buried my disappointment just as the countess caught sight of me.
“Miss Neven,” she said, and I sank into a deep curtsy. “I am honored you have accepted my invitation.”
“Thank you, lady. The honor is mine.”
“Come, take a turn around the room with me,” she invited. “We are still waiting on a few more guests to arrive, but let me introduce you to an old friend of mine in the meantime.”
I fell into a stilted stride beside her and soon realized she was taking me directly to the duke, who was standing beside a man I recognized—the smith who had created the shields for me and Phelan.
“This is Lord Deryn, the Duke of Bardyllis,” the countess said. “And this is Aaron Wolfe, the most renowned smith in the province, as well as Olivette’s father.”
“Miss Neven,” the duke greeted me with a languid smile. “A pleasure, as always.”
“Your Grace.” I curtsied, and then looked at Olivette’s father. “Mr. Wolfe.”
“I shall leave the three of you,” the countess said suddenly, as if it had been her task all along to deposit me at the duke’s feet. And perhaps it had been, I thought irritably as I watched her stride across the room.
“Were the shields a success, Miss Neven?” Mr. Wolfe asked. His face and voice were so carefully guarded that I couldn’t tell if he was surprised to see me here tonight.
“Yes, Mr. Wolfe. Thank you.”
The smith nodded, and there was an awkward lull until he glanced at the duke and said, “I should go say hello to my daughter.”
I wanted to beg him to stay, to not leave me alone with the duke, but I held my tongue. When Lord Deryn stepped closer to me, I flinched.
“I trust you received my letter today,” the duke said in a low voice, offering me his arm.
I hesitated, but only for a breath. I rested my hand in the crook of his elbow and permitted him to slowly walk me around the edges of the room.
“Yes, Your Grace. I apologize that I have not had time to write a response.”
“You saw the knight’s face?”
“I did.”
“Can you describe him to me?”
I envisioned my father’s face. The words rose to illustrate him, but I couldn’t speak them. Even with his betrayal, I couldn’t find the desire to expose him. “No, Your Grace. I fear it was a dark night. It would be impossible for me to describe it in detail to you.”
“Then we are in luck,” the duke said, coming to a stop.
I glanced up at him, but his gaze was elsewhere, cutting across the room.
“Did the knight perhaps look like that man?” he asked, indicating a new dinner guest.
I turned to see who he spoke of, and the hair rose on my arms.
My father stood just within the ballroom, speaking to the countess. Clean, his beard trimmed, his hair slicked back. He was not a miner but the magician I had always known him to be. He wore a top hat and white waistcoat and black jacket with a rose in his lapel. On his arm was my mother, dressed in a bloodred gown overlaid with a net of black stones. And trailing them was none other than Imonie, wearing a blue dress with lace sleeves, her steel-blond hair swept up in a loose bun.
I froze, but my mind flooded with anger, shock, a multitude of questions.
What were they doing here?
My silence was answer enough for the duke.
“Good, Miss Neven,” he said, amused. “I am glad Mr. Madigan could whet your memory. Now, if you will excuse me.”
My hand slipped from his elbow as he rejoined the countess. I continued to stand, stranded. My father sensed my stare, his eyes rising to meet mine.
He appeared just as surprised to see me, his mouth going slack. If not for my mother guiding him away, distracting him with a flute of champagne, I’m sure my father and I would have fought in the countess’s ballroom, ruining my guise for good.
Even Imonie paused, setting a tense gaze on me. I almost went to her; she had always been my refuge, a safe place for me to call home. And yet tonight she was like a stranger.
Ignore them, I told myself. You have never seen them before. . . .
The ice thickened in my chest. I was cold, calm, poised. A girl with a stone trapped in her ribs. And then I felt his stare.
My eyes scanned the ballroom until I found Phelan nearby, standing in one of the archways, draped in shadow, watching me. I wondered how long he had been leaning against the frame, observing my precarious walk around the room. But the moment our gazes met, the glittering, firelit world faded around us. There were only shadows and a path that connected him to me, a path that felt treacherous to walk in the sense that it might undo me.
His face was smooth of expression, his eyes inscrutable. I wanted to know what he thought of me, when he had started to suspect I wasn’t who I claimed to be. And I didn’t know if he planned to expose me, or if he would ever forgive me. I told myself not to care, but a small fracture was within me now, and my regrets began to trickle through it.
Even the deepest of ice eventually gives way to fire, Mazarine had once told me.
I turned away from Phelan, unable to look upon him a moment longer.
I found my way back to Nura and Olivette, who were in high spirits.
“Oh, there’s Phelan,” Nura said, looking beyond me.
“Why isn’t he joining us?” Olivette wondered, waving him over. “Have you spoken to him yet, Anna?”
“No.”
Nura exchanged a swift glance with me before saying, “I’ll go speak with him.”
She left me and Olivette, and I tried to focus on conversing with her, but my worries tugged, and I watched Phelan speak to Nura across the room. He was saying something solemn to her. She frowned, listening. And then she glanced back to where Olivette and I were standing, and I thought for certain he had just exposed me.
“Shall we go speak with your father?” I asked Olivette with a hint of desperation, lacing my arm with hers. But no sooner did we begin to approach Mr. Wolfe did my parents begin to speak to the smith, and I came to a halt.
“What’s the matter?” Olivette asked.
“Do you know those people? The ones speaking to your father?”
She studied my parents. Papa looked up at me, held my gaze for a beat too long.
“The woman is Sigourney Britelle, one of the most esteemed performance magicians in the province. Have you ever been to one of her shows, Anna?”
“No, I have not.”
“Phelan should take you to one soon, then,” Olivette said. “As for the man . . . I’ve never seen him before, but he seems familiar with her.” She paused and then added with a hint of anger, “And he keeps looking at you. Do you want me to say something to him?”
“No, but thank you, Olivette.” I narrowed my eyes at Papa. He finally ceased glancing at me with that worried gleam.
Sweat began to bead my skin and I reached for a flute of champagne, a tremor in my hand.
I watched Imonie next from the corner of my eye, and when the countess walked a loose circle around her . . . my dread turned into a leaden thing, weighing me down. Their conversation didn’t look friendly; I openly observed as the countess finally ceased her predatory walk about Imonie, and their lips moved but I couldn’t read them from where I stood.