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I tug my ear. “I could tell by how she walked. I tend to notice small details.”

“I sincerely apologize that you were troubled from your evening with such carelessness.”

“No, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s no problem, madam. If you’ll hand them to me, I’ll find who they belong to.” He holds out his gloved hand.

“But my description, it matches one of your servers?”

“My shift just started, so I’m not sure who is all here, but I can find out.”

I grimace. “Thanks. I’ll get them from my purse and find you.”

He departs, and I snatch a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Mynick patrols the perimeter of the dance floor. I look for Abby but don’t see her. I wonder if she’s having more luck. I toss the flute back and tug on my gloves. Think.

“Your dress is just exquisite,” a woman in a simple gray gown with a well-pushed-up bust says, blocking my way. If I appear approachable, I’ve been standing in one place too long. I start toward the dance floor to get a better look at some of the couples. I can’t imagine my mom blending in as a guest. Still, I cannot afford to leave any rock unturned. Dancers spin past me, and not even one looks a thing like Mom. If she had friends in the Houses, maybe she could be disguised, as I am?

Mynick loiters near the entrance to the ballroom before slipping out the door. I spot Abby, roped into a waltz with someone. A sweet, high thrum of a fiddle skips through the air, followed by the patter of a drum and the ting of a triangle. The crowd roars, and the few filled seats that had remained now empty.

A pair rushes past me, practically knocking me over.

“Watch where you’re go—”

Three Draguns enter the ballroom.

My pulse picks up.

They go in opposite directions, surveying the crowd, occasionally stopping a person to ask questions. I have a fistful of my skirts when I notice my hands. They aren’t mine. I blow out a slow breath.

Draguns…

Could Jordan be here?

As if the thought has a magic of its own, my gaze snaps to him as he enters the ballroom with a hardened, scanning glare. An usher lets him through without a word, and suddenly I can’t move. Jordan adjusts his coat, his jaw clenched tight. He is taller than I remember. His top lip curls in disgust as he scans the room. His usual suave swagger is stilted, his steps heavy. Angry or frustrated or something. My gut swims. He’s here, right in front of me. I stumble backward into a chair.

I’m frozen, remembering the last time I saw him with my own eyes. The night I fled Chateau Soleil. “I need you,” he’d cried, begging me to stay in this caged world with him. He gave up on us. On me. It tore me to pieces to hear words I’d longed for him to admit, only for them to not matter anymore.

And there he is. Standing across the room.

My magic startles awake, icing my bones.

My knees are weak, but I move through the crowded room, watching him, careful to keep the commotion of the dancing between us. There’s no warmth in his expression, no mask of politeness that people usually hide behind in public. Instead, hard lines chisel his face in places where they hadn’t before. As if he’s aged years in a matter of months. I dig for anger, but my throat thickens. Looking at him feels like a knife cutting into a nearly healed wound. He said he loved me. What kind of love was it if it could be so easily broken? What did those moments mean between us if he could so easily throw them away? Everything in me wants to march up to him and throw one of these abandoned drinks in his face.

My eyes prick with tears, and I clench my fists, my pain churning into anger. I hate him.

Someone’s hip bumps into me and I move aside, unable to take my eyes off Jordan as he makes his way around the room.

“Are you alright?” the person says, lingering. But I can’t manage a sensible word.

He holds out his hand. “Might I have this dance?” He takes me before I can come to my senses. And before I know it, I’m whirling around with some tuxedoed fellow on the dance floor. The room spins, but with every turn, I keep my gaze fixed on Jordan Wexton.

“How did you spend your summer?” my dancing partner asks. He is quite handsome, with golden eyes, a low-shaved beard, and a teal bow tie. House Oralia. He touches me gently at the waist and ushers me into a spin underneath his arm, and I lose sight of Jordan.

“You look quite lovely tonight.”

I manage to smile and realize he’s not wearing a ring. He isn’t just being polite. He’s flirting. His voice drones on in a fuzzy lump of nothingness, saying something I don’t hear.

When the music shifts, his hand at my waist pulls me closer, and we sway side to side for the next eight counts. He stares at me expectantly.