Page 45

44

WHEN I WAKE up late the next morning, Alice is already gone, and a text is waiting from her on my phone: At the library!

My grandmother is still there inside me, snoozing.

For the first time all week, I let myself miss Nick. I see the hurt on his face and feel the shame of causing it. What must he think of me now? That I used him, I think. That as soon as I got what I needed, I dropped him and everything we’d found with each other. In truth, I did. I used him and accepted his kindness along with everyone else’s. Leaving was bad, but leaving things like I did was worse.

I can’t move forward with this hanging over my head. I tap Alice’s text and stamp out a quick response.

Hey, do you have Charlotte’s number? I’m gonna need both y’all’s help.

While I wait for Alice and Charlotte to come over, I take the rest of the day to wash my hair—and it’s the most therapeutic, loving thing I could have done for myself. Condition, detangle, deep condition with a heat wrap, paint my nails and watch a movie while I wait, rinse. I emerge from the shower with my hair wrapped in a microfiber towel and rub the foggy mirror until I can see the genuine, full smile on my face. Tangles gone. Scalp clean. Curls moisturized and bouncy. Head and soul lighter.

More me than I’ve been in months.

Charlotte ends up bringing over a dozen dresses and a chest full of jewelry—and they aren’t just hers. Some are from her friends down the hall and on the floor above us. “Kappas, a few Sigmas,” she says. I’m grateful she’s such a busybody, because otherwise I wouldn’t have any options two hours before the gala.

I expect Charlotte to dig for details about why I need a dress; it’s far too early in the semester for most Greek orgs and groups to hold their formals. But Alice already explained that it’s for a society gala, and that seemed answer enough for her. When Charlotte doesn’t mention Evan getting similarly dressed up, I wonder what lie he told his girlfriend about his plans for the night. Beer and PlayStation? Boys’ night? Whatever it was, it’s keeping her safe.

I try on ten dresses that are clearly meant for someone with smaller boobs and hips, sending Charlotte running from the room to go on another search, phone in hand.

After I shimmy into the eleventh dress, Alice gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth.

When I turn to the full-length mirror on the back of our door, my witty, self-deprecating retort disappears. A low squawk of disbelief falls from my open mouth instead.

“Oh, Bree. This is the one,” Alice breathes. She drops down to where my knees are hidden beneath the long, floor-length layers of tulle and pulls the material out until it fans around my feet. “You look amazing.”

When she stands back up, I see in the mirror that her eyes are glistening behind her glasses. “Alice Chen, no crying. It’s just a dress,” I say, but it’s not true.

It’s not just a dress. It’s a gown, fit for a court.

She wipes at her face and smiles at me in the mirror. “It’s just that you look like her.”

My chest and throat seize up together, my emotions a swirling cocktail.

There’s no way I can respond, so I grab her hand. She drops her head onto my shoulder with a sigh, and we stare at our reflection. We squeeze each other’s fingers tight, because there are some moments that are too empty, and too full, for words.

The Carolina Club is a fancy event space used by alumni, faculty, and staff in the center of campus. While its exterior is modern, the interior is antebellum chic. Charlotte insisted on dropping me off at the entrance so I don’t walk all the way across campus in my gown, and as I make my way up the stairs in blessedly low borrowed heels from another tall girl on the second floor of Old East, I have to admit, she had a good point. Even with a heel, my dress is long enough that I have to hold the sides up so it won’t drag.

A doorman in a black suit and white gloves welcomes me, a smile lighting up the rust-brown planes of his face. As I pass through the door, he murmurs, “All right, sis,” and I grin back. It’s just the little bit of encouragement I need to cross the elegant foyer with my head held high and walk through the wide double doors leading to the ballroom.

The club ballroom is impressive, with windows along the back wall, a dance floor and stage on one end, and round dinner tables covered in white linens on the other. The jazz band onstage, called “The Old North Greats” according to the logo on their drum, is playing an upbeat swing rendition of a popular song. Overhead, chandeliers hang from exposed mahogany beams that cross the ceiling like great wooden fingers.

There must be at least three hundred people here. News of the demon attacks and murmurs about the imminent gathering of the Table had spread. Nick had said to expect Legendborn and Vassal families from all of the Lines, some even from as far away as Europe, all in attendance to hear an update on the attacks while taking stock of the current class of Scions and Squires. Tables are clustered by color, identifying which Line those Vassals serve.

Older women in long, striking dresses sit together, catching up at their tables while sipping glasses of wine. Several small groups of men in tuxedos gather at the two cash bars in the corner of the room. They look comfortable in their formal wear, smiling and laughing like it’s a reunion. I wonder if Sarah’s father is here, and if I’ll get to meet him. Even with the formal invitation clenched between my fingers, I feel out of place.

“Bree!” Felicity is the first to find me from across the room, waving as she gets up from a half-empty table to walk over with a glass in her hand. When she says my name, Tor’s and Sarah’s heads pop up, and they shove back from their table to follow her.

As she and the others approach in their Line-colored dresses, I feel the tingling sensation of Sel’s gaze, but I can’t find him in the crowd. He knows I can feel his attention now. I don’t know how I feel about that. Or the fact that, even though he knows I can feel him, he’s still looking at me.

Felicity makes one long squeal out of a string of words. “OhmyGod, Iloveyourdress!” The tiny bit of slur tells me she must be on her third glass of wine. At least.

“Thanks,” I say, passing nervous hands down the front of my gown.

Alice couldn’t have known this when she complimented the dress, but the gown is perfect for saying goodbye to the Order and finding my own place in root. While the A-line skirt is simple and elegant, flowing down from my waist in layers of champagne tulle, the halter bodice is an explosion of red and gold. Vines of lace and appliqué flowers climb up from my hips, flow across my chest and ribs, and gather together into a collar at my throat. Charlotte was right about my lacking accessories: I definitely didn’t have the strappy gold heels, or the sun-gold earrings, and would have never thought of smoothing my hair away from my face with a wide gold band. Behind the band, my hair stretches in shining black-brown curls that reach upward like the proud crown of a tree.

Felicity’s still admiring my dress. “Nick is going to lose his whole entire goddamn mind when he sees you.”

In a singsong voice, Sarah says, “Speak of the king…”

When I follow her eyes over my shoulder, I see Nick striding toward us, a vision in black and white. He’d opted for a black suit, but Jesus was it tailored for every inch of his wide shoulders and long legs. I freeze, bracing myself for his anger, his rightful disappointment, but I get neither. His expression shifts from shock to something very close to relief, and by the time he reaches my side, it settles into that heart-stoppingly handsome smile that makes my mouth go dry.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly.

“Hey.”

Nick bites his lower lip, and I want to both run away and fling myself at him. “You look amazing.”

“And you,” I say, “look like a newly recruited secret agent.”

“Oh yeah?” He spreads his arms wide and looks down at his ensemble. “Green and eager, but he’s got what it takes?”

“The one that intimidates the aging senior agent at first, but then, begrudgingly, the veteran takes the new kid under his wing.”

“And at the end, the new kid’s earned the vet’s respect. And maybe a new code name.”

“Yup.”

We hold each other’s gaze steadily, the familiar tug thrumming between us, until Sarah clears her throat. It’s only then that I realize the others have been watching us intently. Their expressions range from fascination on Felicity’s face to annoyance on Tor’s.

“Ugh,” the blond girl says, walking away. “That was gross.”

Nick ducks his head, scratching a thumb across his brow to hide his blush.

“Scion Davis?” An older man appears at his elbow, nodding apologetically for interrupting. I stifle a gasp at the sudden loss of Sel’s gaze. I’d gotten used to it and forgotten he’d been watching my entire exchange with Nick. And listening, too, I’d bet. “Your father would like everyone to be seated.” The man gestures to a table behind us. “If you would?”

We follow him, sitting at a table with eight place settings. As we walk, Nick leans in close and gives a wry grin. “You don’t text, you don’t call.”

“I know. I’m sorry for shutting you out—”

He wraps his hand around my wrist, his face warm and forgiving. “We can talk later. Right now, I’m just glad you’re here.”

I nod, because he’s right. We can talk later. Our final goodbye, our real one, should be in private.

Whitty and Greer are already seated when we arrive, and Evan and Fitz walk up at the same time we do. Tor and Sarah sit across from me and Nick.

Greer tips their head in my direction and waves. “There she is!” They’re looking sharp in a navy check three-piece suit and a matching Lamorak red tie and pocket square set. Tonight their long hair is completely up in an elegant crown braid.

The others greet me with smiles and raised glasses. The only sullen expression is on Fitz’s face, but even that I ignore. If my friends could accept that I’m here without dragging me over the coals, then I could, maybe, do the same.

Nick catches me looking around the room. “Who are you looking for?”

I smile, feeling rude for not paying attention to my own table. And, for some reason, sheepish about looking for Sel. “Is Vaughn here?” I ask.

Nick’s eyes darken. “I asked that he be seated on the opposite side of the room.”

Across the table, Fitz rolls his eyes. “He’s a good fighter, Nick.”

“He fights dirty.” Nick pulls his cloth napkin from the table and settles it over his lap.

Fitz snorts. “You think the Shadowborn fight clean?”

“Last I checked, it was my decision who my Squire is, Fitz.” Nick’s face is the picture of civility, but the steel in his blue eyes says the conversation is over.

“Hey, hey.” Evan leans forward, holding out a hand. “Let’s not bring drama to the dinner table. Let’s talk about how we get the waiters to serve the under twenty-ones instead, hm?” Evan waggles his eyebrows. “Or maybe rank everyone’s attire tonight on a one-to-ten scale? Bree, you’re a ten, obviously.” He makes a chef’s kiss motion for effect.

“Agreed,” Nick says, raising a glass with a wink in my direction.

A white-gloved hand holding a salad plate crosses my field of vision. When I look up, I see a pair of softly tilted brown eyes in a golden-brown face. The woman smiles and moves on to hand the next plate to Greer. The man to Nick’s right pours sweet tea into our waiting glasses, and I see that he’s brown too. I feel my brows draw into a line when I see that all of the waitstaff at the other tables in the room—all of them—are Black and brown people. Another reminder that this isn’t my world. I’m just here to say goodbye, the right way.

The back of Nick’s knuckle brushes my hand. “Everything okay?”

I blink. “Yeah,” I say, and his smile in response is achingly sweet.

The rest of dinner passes in a flavorful, multicourse blur: seared duck with parsnips, sautéed squash and zucchini with fresh strips of basil and pine nuts, and a vegetable risotto.

It’s not until the band starts up again during dessert that I remember that there’s a dance floor. We’re just finishing our bread pudding when Nick nudges my elbow. “Wanna dance?”

I do a double take, but he seems serious, so I stammer a yes and walk with him to the dance floor to the sound of Evan’s not-so-subtle whoops. Luckily, most of it is covered by the movement and noise across the room.

“Does that guy ever let up?” I mutter.

“Not that I’ve seen.”

We stop at an empty corner of the dance floor, but before we can begin, the band transitions to a loud swing beat. Nick wraps a hand around my waist and grins. There’s no talking to be done here. All we can do is dance—until a long-fingered hand taps him on the shoulder.

The man standing behind Nick is a silent ghoul in formal wear. Yellow-red eyes the color of dying leaves are set deep in a pale face under hawkish black brows. Underneath his black suit is a dark red shirt and thin black tie. He has a severe and undeniable beauty, but it’s been channeled into unsettling qualities; like an ancient Gothic structure, he’s all arches and sharp, aggressive features. The acrid, cloying smell of his signature collects in the back of my throat like bile.

A Merlin.

“Isaac.” A chill runs up my spine at Nick’s stiff greeting.

This terrifying man is Isaac Sorenson.

Lord Davis’s Kingsmage.