Heart of the Raven Prince

Book : Entangled with Fae

by Tessonja Odette

Genres: Gaslamp; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; fairy tale retelling

Synopsis

A playboy prince in want of a decoy bride.
A servant girl desperate for a disguise...

Raven shifter Prince Franco is every social climbing debutante's dream. He's handsome, heir to the Lunar Court throne, and deliciously single. Every young woman wants to bed him, wed him, or steal a moment of his time. Except, of course, for Ember Montgomery.

Half-fae Ember craves freedom from her conniving stepfamily. As if they weren't enough to deal with, a chance encounter with the arrogant Prince Franco leaves her humiliated and in a fiery rage. Nothing could convince her the prince is anything but a rake. But when the opportunity to evade her scheming stepmother falls into her lap, she'll pay the price—even if it means impersonating the prince's newest flame...

To prove himself a worthy heir, Prince Franco must marry a princess. But after far too many unsatisfying trysts, he's given up on love. With the social season in full swing, and bringing with it a horde of husband-hungry socialites, he'll do anything to delay the pressures of both marriage and the crown. And what better solution than an alliance with a desperate servant girl glamoured as his false future bride?

Locked in a bargain, Ember must pose as a princess until midnight at the full moon ball. Until then, all she has to do is wear the glamour, pretend to court the prince, and above all else, not fall in love. But when feelings emerge on both sides, she starts to wonder if there's more to their contrived courtship than either of them planned...

Can Ember and Franco find love when the masks come off? Or will illusions and lies prove stronger than their hearts?

ACOTAR meets Bridgerton in this standalone fairytale retelling of Cinderella. If you like slow burn romance, fake engagements, and snarky fae royals, then you'll love this swoon-worthy story in the Entangled with Fae series.

*NOTE this book is upper YA/NA featuring mature situations and some adult language. The romance is slow burn but leads to moderate steam.

Heart of the Raven Prince is a complete stand-alone novel set in the same world as The Fair Isle Trilogy. Journey back to Faerwyvae or begin your adventure for the first time with this enchanting tale. Each book in the Entangled with Fae series can be read on its own and in any order. Happily ever after guaranteed!

Release date: August 13, 2021

Publisher: Crystal Moon Press

Print pages: 506

Sample

Chapter One

EMBER

There’s a certain music about being alone. One I rarely get to hear outside of a single hour each morning. It’s my peaceful respite before the sun rises, before anyone seeks to fill my day with a cacophony of demands. After dawn, I’ll have to climb down from my rooftop hiding place and return to my chores and obligations. But for now, at least, I hear it. The subtle song of a sleeping city.

The hoot of an owl brings my attention to the adjacent rooftop where a pair of bright yellow eyes in a dark silhouette watch me. The owl hoots again, as if eager for me to acknowledge his contribution to the predawn song. “I hear you,” I whisper, then lean my head against the brick chimney behind me. My legs, shielded from the chill air by thick wool hose, extend along the flat narrow ledge that rests between the two sloping sides of the roof. This, in all its unkempt, soot-dusted glory, is my sanctuary. My seat at the unseen orchestra.

Closing my eyes, I let the music wrap around me—the owl, the soft wind whispering in the black sky, the echo of crickets chirping from the countryside surrounding the city. Then I hear a familiar beat, the pitter-patter of a raccoon approaching the many waste bins that clutter the narrow alley between my apartment building and the next one over. “I hear you too,” I tell the raccoon and wrap my wool coat tighter around my nightdress.

I let the lullaby continue to play around me while I bask beneath the fading moonlight that kisses my closed eyelids. It’s only a matter of time before the sun’s light will conquer the moon’s territory. Not even here in the Lunar Court are we free from daylight’s domain and the bustle of activity it brings. Of the eleven courts on the isle of Faerwyvae, Lunar is the only one that hosts a perpetual twilight quality during daylight hours, diffusing the sun through an eerie haze. Still, the morning hour will bring the chiming of bells, just like any other court. The city of Evanston will wake from slumber.

And I will face another day paying off the stupidest bargain I ever could have made.

At least I have this moment.

Soon, I’ll have more moments like this. Soon, music will fill my days and illuminate my nights. Soon, I’ll be free from my stepfamily, free from my past and everything I’ve had to endure. I’ll be able to become someone new.

Only then will I find a place I belong.

The thought brings a smile to my lips. I open my eyes and reach into the pocket of my coat, retrieving a treasure I always keep at my side—a train fare voucher—my literal ticket to freedom. In two weeks, I’ll be leaving everything I know behind and boarding a train from Evanston Station to the city of Lumenas in the Star Court. As the music capital of Faerwyvae, Lumenas is famous for offering boundless opportunities to aspiring musicians. I have every intention of joining a musical troupe once I’m there. After that, it’s the open road. No attachments. No stifling bonds. Music at my fingertips.

I caress the smooth paper, careful not to smudge the date or proof of fare. After saving for nearly a year, I was finally able to purchase the ticket in secret last week. Now I can hardly believe it’s real. That freedom is truly so close.

So close.

Two more weeks.

The ticket suddenly flickers a shade of blue. With a startle, I look up to find three bright blue wisps bobbing above my head. I’m surprised to see them. While Faerwyvae is both ruled and inhabited by the fae, Evanston is a primarily human city that is seldom frequented by wild fae creatures like the wisps. This close, I can see their tiny faces amidst their bright, round, flame-like bodies, and their stubby arms and legs. They stare down at my ticket with curious expressions.

“Traveling, yes?” one says with an ethereal, feminine voice.

I gently fold the ticket and place it back in my pocket, saying nothing in response.

“Why take a train,” says another, her voice slightly higher than the first, “when we could guide you where you want to go?”

I snort a laugh. Everyone knows wisps are not to be trusted, especially when it comes to journeys or directions.

“Come with us,” says the third. This one has a more masculine tone. “We will take you there now.”

“I’m not ready to go right now,” I say, which is only half true. If it were up to me, I would have left my stepfamily long ago. But the bargain I made deems it impossible until the day I turn nineteen.

“Then perhaps you should play with us instead,” says the first. She floats in a spiral higher overhead. “Come fly.”

I level a stare at her. “I can’t fly.”

“You’re of the wind,” the second one says.

A hollow ache throbs in my chest. How can she tell? “I am. My mother was a sylph.”

“Was,” she echoes.

“She died eleven years ago.”

“Then fly with us,” the male wisp says. “Honor her.”

“I already told you I can’t. Just because I’m half fae doesn’t mean I can fly like my mother could. I’ll not let you use my grief against me.”

The first wisp clasps her hands in an innocent gesture. “But you’ll miss the sunrise. It’s nearly at the horizon. Don’t you want to see it?”

Sunrise. That means my peace is almost at an end. My heart plummets at the thought of all the chores, mending, and verbal insults that await once I return to the apartment. I glance toward the horizon but can see no evidence of the sun, not with the towering smokestacks that invade the view. Yearning tugs at my unruly fae side, urging me to give in. With it comes an echo of a promise made long ago.

Always be wild. Promise me.

Setting my jaw, I rise to my feet, keeping my balance steady on the rooftop ledge. I pivot to face the chimney. Extending my arms, I rise to my toes and grasp the chimney’s crown, ignoring how the soot darkens my hands. The wisps swirl around me, giggling as I pull myself up. Climbing has always come easy to me because of my mother. She taught me to climb my first tree, helped me scale the roof of our manor so we could watch the sunrise together. The memory threatens to pull me down, but I use it as fuel instead. Once I’ve heaved myself onto the crown, I rise to stand, bracing my feet on opposite sides of the gaping flue, and face the horizon again.

“Jump. Fly,” the male wisp begs, but I ignore him.

“Sing,” says the first wisp, a hint of taunting in her eyes. “I know you want to.”

My shoulders tense at the dare while a sudden tightness in my throat begs to be freed. Climbing this high up, giving in to even a portion of my fae nature, always tempts me to sing. Just considering the action of setting my voice to a tune, letting it mingle with the quiet music of the morning, sends a painful longing through me. My throat bobs, pleading for a hum, but I swallow it down.

I shake my head. “I don’t sing.”

Not anymore.

The wisps continue to taunt and tease, but I tune them out. Instead, I focus on the view, gazing above the smokestacks and factories that make up the Gray Quarter, a neighborhood as bleak as its name. I look out at the rest of the sprawling city beyond my neighborhood, then at the mountains and countryside in the distance.

I don’t notice when the wisps get bored and float away, but soon I’m alone again, frozen in place, letting the breeze rustle my coat and dance through my hair while I listen to the shift in music.

First comes the beat of opening and closing doors, then the quiet pound of footsteps on cobblestones as the factory workers leave nearby apartments and workhouses for another grueling day of labor. Next comes the rhythm of horse hooves and carriage wheels, then of gears turning, of machinery roaring to life. My fingers flinch at my sides, eager to tap along to the tune, each digit haunted by the ghost of piano keys. It’s been months since I last played. Months since I felt that comforting, familiar weight of ivory against my fingertips, of sound reverberating through my bones. Even though I refuse to sing, I still find comfort in playing the piano. Still find a connection to my mother through it.

Or at least I did. Before my stepmother sold my pianoforte.

Sinking into the song, I allow my fingers to tap against my thighs. A crying babe screeches out, disrupting the melody like a missed note. As if on cue, the first blush of sun peeks over the mountains beyond the city, painting the sky in muted shades of blue and gold. I watch as it bathes the countryside at the base of the mountains. My breath hitches. Somewhere amongst that gold-flecked green lies my childhood home. The modest country estate where I spent the happiest years of my childhood.

Until it all changed.

Until the last time I sang.

And killed the only living person who loved me.

I swallow the searing lump in my throat and return my attention to the rising music, listening to it grow louder and louder, letting it drown out my hidden sorrow until it’s nothing more than a whisper in the audience. The tempo both quickens and slows as multiple musicians battle in disharmonious tandem. My fingers resume their tapping, chasing one beat, then the next.

Then I hear it. The chime of morning bells.

Good sense tells me I should get down and cleaned up before my stepmother seeks me out, but as the sun continues to rise, I find myself unable to look away. I remain in place, watching the golds grow brighter. The sun kisses more and more of Evanston. Any moment, it will illuminate even the Gray Quarter.

A flash of panic rushes through me, but a rebellious fire has my feet rooted to the chimney’s ledge. I will remain. Just a second longer…

“Ember!”

The grating voice has my back stiffening as it reverberates through the apartment below, sending all prior sense of rebellion leaking from my bones.

“Ember Montgomery!” my stepmother calls again.

Closing my eyes, I clench my jaw and reach for the locket at the base of my throat. Squeezing it tight to steady my nerves, I take a deep inhale and a slow exhale. Then, releasing the locket, I climb down from the chimney. From peace. From music.

All to fulfill a bargain I never should have made.

Chapter Two

EMBER

Every human on the isle of Faerwyvae is taught never to bargain with the fae. It’s a tenet learned long before the human lands merged with the fae lands twenty-one years ago and unified under fae rule.

And yet, no one ever tells a fae—or a half fae like me—never to bargain with a human. I often wonder…if I’d grown up with a warning like those the humans are given, would I have gone through with the bargain three years ago? Would my grief and guilt still have been so overwhelming that I would have neglected to pause long enough to see the truth? The lie? The deception?

Not that the question does me any good. It won’t change that I’m bound to the bargain I made. Bound to my stepmother.

For two more weeks, that is.

I hear my name called again, closer now. Driven by urgency, I drop from the rooftop ledge to the awning over my bedroom window. Luckily, the apartments in the Gray Quarter are rather narrow, leaving me very little space to traverse. Still, I always get a rush of panic in the split second between letting go of the ledge and feeling my slippered feet touch the awning. Like always though, my feet meet their mark. Then it’s a matter of careful balance as I drop from the awning to the windowsill, through my window, and onto my bed. On swift feet, I hurry behind my faded dressing screen. A second later, my door swings open.

“Ember!” my stepmother barks. “Why aren’t you downstairs?”

“So sorry, Mrs. Coleman,” I say with as much regret as I can fake.

Her footsteps approach the dressing screen but—thankfully—stop on the other side. If she sees the state I’m in, she’ll know I’ve been outdoors. “What excuse do you have today?”

I clench my jaw as I pour water into my washbasin and begin to rinse the soot from my arms. “It’s barely sunrise, Stepmother.”

She releases an irritated huff. “We have errands to run first thing this morning. If we don’t get to Sonsbury Square before…” She trails off as if realizing I’m not worth explaining to. Instead, she uses the same weapon she battles me with time and time again. Her words come out slow, her tone laced with a sinister chill. “Do not argue with me. Just obey.”

The fear hits me first, then the pain. It’s sharp, like an iron blade twisting in my gut. I bite back a cry as sweat beads on my brow. My fingers grip the edges of the washbasin so hard I fear the porcelain might shatter beneath my hands. I’m obeying, I’m obeying, I repeat to myself until the pain starts to lessen.

That’s my least favorite part about bargains. They hurt when broken. If I were full fae, my disobedience could kill me. Since I’m only half fae, the mysterious magic that rules fae bargains isn’t as detrimental.

“I’m obeying.” This time I say it out loud, my voice barely above a whisper.

The magic seems satisfied by my assertion, for the pain quickly retreats. It’s still enough to leave me quaking with the reminder of what happens when I truly refuse my stepmother’s direct orders.

Mrs. Coleman takes another step closer to the screen. “Did you hear me?”

I clench my jaw, my body still trembling in the wake of my momentary agony. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even as I say, “I’ll be down as soon as I’m cleaned up and dressed.”

A long pause. Then, “Very well. Be quick about it. And close that damn window! You’ll send a draft through the entire apartment.” With that, her steps retreat.

My fear shifts to rage, my unspoken retort swirling through my mind like a storm. My bedroom is always drafty, regardless of the window being open or closed. That’s what happens when a bedroom is an attic, you breezing daft cow!

I bite the inside of my cheek, glaring down at the dirty wash water. “Two more weeks,” I whisper. That’s all I have to tolerate. After that, I’ll be nineteen and free from this stupid bargain. Free from her.

With a slow exhale, I release the washbasin and finish scrubbing my arms. Then I strip off my nightgown and hose, replacing them with my regular daily wear—stockings, shift, corset, chemise, blue wool skirt, and a cream cotton blouse. All articles are faded hand-me-downs from my stepsister Clara, and the corset is so tattered I’m surprised I haven’t been impaled by my own stays yet.

Honestly, that sounds like a picnic compared to how I spend most of my days.

I pat my locket and arrange the gold chain around the high collar of my blouse. Then I don my manacles. Actually, it’s a bonnet, but it might as well be a ball and chain. The bonnet suppresses the part of me my stepmother hates. The part she wants no one outside our household to see.

My hair.

Unlike my mother’s pale blue, mine is turquoise, the same color as my eyes. A shocking thing to see amongst the stuffiest circles of human high society, setting me apart, providing proof of my fae heritage and evidence that my sylph mother lives on in me.

Always be wild. Promise me.

Gritting my teeth, I pin every teal strand beneath the bonnet. Not only is the hat hideous—a monstrosity of floral-patterned linen and nothing like the pretty bonnets that were fashionable twenty years ago—but it is also enormous. Perfect for keeping my face in shadow while making me look utterly ridiculous.

With a deep breath, I enjoy one last beat of being gloriously and peacefully alone, then join my already-bickering stepfamily downstairs.

***

A half-hour later, I trail behind Mrs. Coleman and my two stepsisters as we make our way through the Gray Quarter toward the heart of the city. The three figures walk clustered together, nearly identical in looks and height, all with blonde curls and pale, snooty faces. Clara, the shortest of the three by an inch or two, is seventeen—a year younger than me—while Imogen, a near-spitting image of Mrs. Coleman, is nearly twenty. They wear their best dresses, hats, and coats reserved only for public outings, a façade to hide the truth of our poverty.

Following the rule that I must act as a maid in public and remain separate from the family unit, I maintain several steps behind as we continue our walk, weaving through the outskirts of the Gray Quarter to avoid the foot traffic of factory workers. Soon smokestacks and industrial buildings are replaced by rows and rows of tightly knit apartment buildings, just a slight increase in luxury from ours. My stepfamily keeps a hurried pace, as if that will help them flee their association with the Gray Quarter. Finally, we cross Chairman’s Street where the housing grows sparser, larger, giving way to townhouses. The colors are brighter here, the streets cleaner. Mrs. Coleman releases a heavy sigh and slows to a more causal stride.

“Remind me why we came back here,” Clara whines. “Why couldn’t we have stayed in the Earthen Court? Things were fine there.”

“Fine, but going nowhere,” Mrs. Coleman snaps. “Neither you nor Imogen managed to secure a husband yetagain. We’ve attended every court’s social season, one after the other, for three years in a row, and still, my daughters fail me.”

Imogen scoffs. “We haven’t been to every court’s social season. Why won’t you take us to Autumn or Fire? Doesn’t Aunt Marie have a cottage near Maplehearth Palace?”

“Marie leads an impure and unchaste life,” Mrs. Coleman says, her tone sharp. “I won’t have you associating with her ilk.”

“But why did we have to come here?” Clara asks. “Couldn’t we have entered the Lunar social season in a different city? One where we could live somewhere nicer than the Gray Quarter? Or couldn’t we have asked to stay at the manor?”

At first, I’m confused by what she means. Then I realize she’s talking about my father’s house, where we all lived together before he died. After his death, Mrs. Coleman didn’t hesitate to sell it in exchange for funding a lavish lifestyle chasing social seasons. Since each court hosts their month-long social season during a different month, there was always somewhere new to go all year long. A new house to rent. New dresses to buy. New schemes to get closer to the aristocracy.

Look where that’s gotten her. Where’s it’s gotten all of us.

“The manor doesn’t belong to us anymore, Clara dear,” Mrs. Coleman says. “We can’t simply ask to stay somewhere uninvited.”

“We could if we knew anyone important here. At least we had friends in the Earthen Court—”

“You know why we’re here, Clara,” Imogen says, silencing her sister. She then casts a withering glance over her shoulder at me. “It’s almost time for Ember to claim her dead father’s fortune.”

I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge her mention of my dead father and my inheritance. I harbor no doubts about whether they’ll try to steal it from me, for they most certainly will. Even though it’s only a modest fortune, my stepfamily’s financial situation has fallen greatly the past couple of years, and I know they’re growing more desperate by the day. Regardless, they’ll never see a single moonstone chip—the currency of the Lunar Court—after the money is legally mine. Neither will I, in fact. I’ll be giving it to charity as soon as I claim it. That way Mrs. Coleman has no one to steal it from. No one to hound and harass.

Besides, while Mrs. Coleman is undeserving of my father’s fortune, so am I.

I’m the one who killed him, after all.

“Your sister’s right,” Mrs. Coleman says. “When it’s time for Ember to claim her father’s wealth, we’ll need to go to Selene Palace. This is as close as we can get while still maintaining somewhat respectable company.”

There is some truth to that, considering the city of Evanston is the only human city within a twenty-mile radius of the unseelie palace, where my inheritance is being held until the day I turn nineteen. It’s not normally the duty of the unseelie ruler to deal in human matters of life and finance, but after the death of Father’s executor earlier this year, his estate was turned over to the crown. His will and finances were moved to the nearest royal vault, which is, of course, at Selene Palace.

My stepmother lowers her voice. “Just think. If the late Terrence Montgomery’s executor hadn’t joined him in the grave, we wouldn’t have this chance to visit Selene Palace at all.”

Imogen eyes her mother with a smirk, expression calculating. “Did your decision to bring us here have anything to do with the fact that Prince Franco is still unwed?”

I suppress a groan at the suggestion of yet another scheme to marry Imogen to fae royalty. Prince Franco is the brother and heir of Queen Nyxia, the Unseelie Queen of Lunar, and he is just as unlikely to fall for Imogen’s nonexistent charms as every other royal she’s tried to woo.

Mrs. Coleman lifts her chin and returns her daughter’s sly look. Her voice takes on a sing-song quality. “Perhaps. Can I count on you to snag his attention?”

Imogen purses her lips, all amusement leaving her face. “Of course, Mother. That is, if we ever manage to steal a moment in his presence.”

“We will, my dear. I promise.”

“Before Ember claims her inheritance? I won’t be wooing the Raven Prince over the fulfillment of contracts. Not when Ember could very well ruin everything.” Imogen says this last part under her breath, but her words reach me just the same. As does the scowl she burns me with.

“I have my ways,” Mrs. Coleman says, a swagger in her step.

Clara gasps, eyes going wide. “That’s why we’re going to Madame Flora’s shop, isn’t it?”

I furrow my brow in surprise; I hadn’t known of our destination until now. Madame Flora is a fae glamourist who specializes in weaving glamours for human entertainment and cosmetic purposes. While I’ve never been to her shop, I know her wares don’t come cheap. Why would Mrs. Coleman spend her dwindling finances on a visit to Madame Flora?

Imogen must have the same question as me. “What is your latest scheme about, Mother?”

She gives a haughty shrug. “One must be prepared should an invitation to a certain glamoured ball—one hosted by the Raven Prince himself—come their way.”

My stepsisters exchange a delighted glance, but Imogen’s excitement quickly sobers. “Mother, the New Moon Masquerade is tomorrow night,” she says. “How do you expect us to procure an invitation if we haven’t already received one?”

“I told you, my dear. I have my ways.”

I shake my head at my stepmother’s back. Of course she has no reservations about wasting money on a ball she has no invitation to. Of course she scrimps on food and coal for the furnace in favor of the latest fashions. Of course she sells my pianoforte—

As if she can sense my burning resentment, Mrs. Coleman whirls around in time to catch my frown before I steel it behind a neutral mask.

Imogen catches it too. “What was that look for, Ember? Jealous you won’t be going to the ball?”

I don’t bother answering her. The truth is I’ve given up on being envious of my stepsisters. It used to hurt more, being treated as a maid, forbidden from attending balls or coming out to society. But after three years of helping my sisters prepare for one grand event after another, I’ve learned society dances are less about the parts I like—the music and dancing—and more about marital schemes and following a careful set of rules labeled as frivolity. I’ve come to believe the best place to be during a dance is in the orchestra, not on a man’s arm.

“Wipe that sour sneer off your face,” Mrs. Coleman says before facing forward, even though I know I wear no such expression.

Imogen, however, continues to eye me with disdain. She snorts a laugh. “Is that soot on your cheek?”

I try to hide my alarm, but a flush of panic rushes through me. Did I forget to wash my face this morning? With the sleeve of my coat, I wipe my cheeks.

This seems to amuse Imogen even more. “Just because your namesake places you amongst ash and cinders, doesn’t mean you should seek cosmetics from a chimney.”

“At least an ember still burns,” I say under my breath.

Clara joins Imogen to smirk at me. “You think you’re a poet now? Little orphan Ember with her clever words and nothing to show for it.”

“Ignore her,” Mrs. Coleman tells her daughters, as if I was responsible for the teasing. “It doesn’t matter how brightly one burns if no one cares to look.”

***

We arrive at Madame Flora’s shop with fifteen minutes to spare before it opens.

“We’re too early,” Clara says, shoulders slumping.

Mrs. Coleman’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. “We’re right on time.”

Imogen studies her mother’s expression. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll see. Now we wait.”

“Can’t you just tell us?” Clara peeks through one of the windows, but it’s obvious the lights are off inside the shop.

Mrs. Coleman tugs her daughter away from the window, then ushers her and Imogen close. “I have it on good authority…” Her back stiffens, and she whirls around to face me. “Why are you here?”

I clench my jaw. “You gave me no indication I shouldn’t be here, Stepmother. You brought me along.”

“Don’t talk back to me, girl,” she says through her teeth. “You know what I’m asking. Why haven’t you made yourself scarce? Did you honestly think we’d bring you into Madame Flora’s with us?”

“You’ve yet to send me on any other errand. Oddly enough, I can’t read your mind.” I know I shouldn’t have said the last part, so I plaster on a pleasant smile.

Mrs. Coleman’s nostrils flare, her eyes shooting daggers. After a tense pause, she reluctantly reaches into her purse and retrieves a piece of paper. I take it from her, finding a short list of food items. Nothing but the essentials, of course. Especially since every other moonstone chip will be spent on my stepmother’s frivolous fancies.

She shoos me with a wave of her hand. “Go, and don’t you dare come back until we’re done. If you finish early just…wait in the alley.”

The alley. Of course.

Two more weeks. Then it will all be over. Just go through the motions and obey.

“Very well,” I say, voice flat. I leave my stepfamily behind, but not before I catch a few words of Mrs. Coleman’s whisper.

“…the Lunar Prince!”

Imogen and Clara’s excited squeals are the last thing I hear before I round the corner toward the market.

Chapter Three

FRANCO

“You’ve truly outdone yourself,” I say to the fae standing next to the mirror.

Madame Flora claps her dark, slender hands. “I thought you would like this one,” says the floating porcelain mask that is her face, her voice deep yet feminine. She has no neck to connect the mask to the rest of her short, stout body, which is covered in an elegant black robe. The robe’s many folds writhe around her like shadows pulled by a nonexistent wind.

I turn in a slow circle, assessing my reflection, and try my hardest not to laugh. Not that Madame Flora would be offended if I did. It’s more that I must learn to keep a straight face while wearing this ridiculous—no, marvelous—glamour. Satisfied with my product, I remove the black silk cravat from around my neck. As soon as it leaves my flesh, the glamour disappears.

Flora takes the cravat from me and reverently folds it within sheets of tissue, then packs it into a gilded black box. No matter how many times I’ve told her not to waste such pretty packaging on the likes of me, she ignores me. Hisses, actually. That one request is the surest way to offend her. “Would you like to try the other?” she asks, the painted red mouth on the porcelain mask never moving.

“Absolutely.” I take the strand of black tourmaline beads she offers and face the mirror, then drape the necklace around my neck and settle the length of it over my chest. My reflection shifts in a flash, leaving…me. Same silver hair, haphazardly parted, drifting just past my jaw in places. Same pointed ears. Same eyes. I crack a smile and find she’s even managed to weave in the elongated tips of my canines.

Flora floats over, assessing me with her painted, unblinking eyes. “A near-perfect imitation, is it not?”

“Better, I’d say. How did you come up with this outfit?” I turn from side to side, admiring the cape of black feathers that trails almost to the ground, the heeled boots, the tight pants that hang low on my hips. I brush the cape to the side, and—as if it were a real cape—the glamour obeys, revealing the back of my pants. “My ass looks amazing. Did you make it bigger?”

“I had to cater to your vanity, didn’t I?”

With a grin, I release the cape and face forward to study the front of my shirt, a flowing confection of pink ruffled lace. Free of waistcoat and cravat, the neck is left unbuttoned. I pull the collar aside and find a hint of black ink. “You even got my tattoos right.”

She shrugs. “It wasn’t hard to do.”

I face her with a smirk. “Is that because I rarely care to don a proper shirt?”

“That’s part of it.” Even though her face reveals no expression, I hear the amusement in her tone.

“Well, I learned from the best. Have you seen what Nyxia wears?” I keep my eyes on my reflection as I remove the necklace. In an instant, the real me returns. I look mostly the same but without the flamboyant costume. In its place are black trousers and an indigo linen shirt. As tempted as I am to replace the glamour and wear it for the rest of the day, it’s far too early for pink lace. Or is it too late? The best parties that involve ruffles and lace last at least until sunrise…

Flora takes the necklace from me and wraps it just as carefully as she did the cravat. “Speaking of your sister, how is she?”

The question sends an iron weight to my stomach. “She’s…doing well. Aside from the fact that she’s abandoning me and all.” I try to say the last part in jest, but wince when I hear the bitter note that mingles with my words.

The fae pauses and gives me the expressionless equivalent of a pointed look with her mask. “I take it you aren’t pleased about hosting the human social season.”

“It’s my duty,” I say, not bothering to hide my dark tone this time. I turn away from her, hands in my pockets, and walk slowly along the row of floor-to-ceiling shelves that line the walls. On each ledge rests a seemingly innocuous item—a pair of gloves, a hat, a necklace—but I know each holds a different glamour. Some are customized according to the buyer’s tastes, like the ones she made for me, but others are entirely random concoctions from Madame Flora’s brilliant mind. I pick up a pair of cufflinks, wondering what glamour they hold. “Nyxia has been hell-bent on improving my reputation so that I can earn the respect of the human population. To do so, she insists I must host this year’s social season alone. All in the name of training me to be a proper heir.”

Not that it matters, I think to myself. Unless my sister dies, there’s no reason for me to take her place as king. Like all fae, Nyxia is immortal. So, aside from the unlikely chance she’s mortally wounded by ash or iron—two materials that are illegal in Faerwyvae—the odds that I’ll outlive her are slim.

“Isn’t it the seelie ruler’s responsibility to gain the approval of the humans?” Flora asks.

“Yes, that’s how it should be.” Again, my bitterness is clear. And she’s right. Each court in Faerwyvae has both a seelie and unseelie ruler who rule from two separate palaces and serve on the Alpha Council. The seelie ruler oversees the more civilized aspects of the court, such as maintaining peace and integration with the humans, day-to-day petitions, matters of economy and finance. The unseelie ruler, on the other hand, keeps the traditions of the Old Ways and oversees matters of nature and advocates for the wild fae creatures. The unseelie rulers, like my sister, aren’t expected to open their palaces to humans or hear their petitions. At least, that’s how it was before the rebellions. Ever since a few short-lived skirmishes broke out in Lunar, Wind, and Spring eleven years ago, our three courts have taken measures to ensure more cooperation with the human population. Since I butchered our first attempt at demonstrating our goodwill, we’ve now resorted to opening Selene Palace one month a year to host the social season.

This will be my first year acting as host. A fate most cruel indeed.

“Surely, you can handle one month of fine dinners and balls.” Her tone tells me she finds my plight rather shallow. Maybe she’s right, but still…

I huff a laugh. “The last time I took part in such activities, I came out the other side a vile rogue.” I set down the cufflinks to face Flora. “Besides, it isn’t just that. Nyxia wants me to interact with the humans on a deeper level than even she dares to. I am to attend garden parties, visit the theater, kiss the hands of aristocrats’ daughters—”

“How dreadful,” she says, tone mocking. “You’ll have to leave your palace once or twice to visit your subjects.”

“Technically, the humans aren’t my subjects. They should belong to the seelie king.”

“What are you afraid of, Your Highness?”

I put a hand on my hip. “Afraid? Me? What would I have to fear?”

“Only you know that answer.”

My first instinct is to brush her off, but the gravity in her tone has my normally thick defenses growing thin. There isn’t much I can hide from Flora, nor do I find it pertinent to do so. She may be an artisan now, but she once worked in politics. Many years ago, she served on my mother’s advisory council and has been like a grandmother to me ever since. In fact, she’s been in my life far longer than my mother cared to be. Not once in hundreds of years has she shied away from giving me brutal honesty. It’s what I like about her because seldom do I receive that level of candor. Everyone else is more concerned with kissing my ass.

“You know what happened last time I interacted with the humans,” I say, my tone wary. “And now…well, you know how I feel about these ridiculous human practices. I detest their restrictive codes of conduct. Even worse than that are the mothers and fathers who throw unmarried daughters at me, eager for one to snatch me up like I’m some war prize.”

“I’ve worked in this city for a decade now,” she says with a light laugh. “In that time, I’ve learned much about humans and their strange ways. A husband is a war prize, and it’s far from silly. For some women, it’s the difference between comfort and poverty.”

“That’s only because of their own outdated traditions. They choose to follow these strictures of chastity, etiquette, and social hierarchy, values leftover from when the humans on the isle bowed to a human king. When the fae won the war, we liberated them from King Grigory. Now it’s almost as if they expect their fae rulers to take his place.”

Flora steps closer, her tone soft. “It’s what they know, my prince. The isle has only been unified for twenty-one years. You can’t expect them to change so soon.”

“That’s just it. The humans aren’t the ones changing. The fae are. As every year goes by, I can’t help but think we’re becoming more and more like them.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It is for the unseelie,” I say. “If Faerwyvae becomes too civilized, the unseelie will cease to be. You know it’s true.” A shudder runs through me at the thought. Long ago, before humans came to the isle, all fae were unseelie. I wasn’t alive back then, but I’ve heard the tales. Fae were wild creatures, ethereal spirits, forces of nature. Then the humans discovered the isle and made first contact with the fae. They taught us language, shared food, offered clothing. Those who accepted these things began to transform on a physical level, adopting human bodies, opening themselves to human emotions. The result is what we now call seelie. There once was much debate over the right way to be fae. Was it keeping to ancient tradition or embracing evolution? Blood was shed over that very question, battles were fought, won, and lost. At the end of the last war, our isle united under the principle that each side should be allowed to be who and what they want to be.

I suppose that right belongs to the humans as well, for better or worse.

My shoulders slump, an unsettling feeling stirring in my gut. This conversation has put me highly on edge, drowning out all the pleasant mirth I felt mere moments ago. So, I do what I always do when I’m uncomfortable. I make light of it.

“Honestly, Flora. You wouldn’t be arguing if you attended last year’s season. It’s almost as bad as watching harpies breed, minus the only fun part—the sex. No, instead it will be polite conversation, stiff dances, and so many rules.”

She chuckles. “Then maybe I’ll come this year, if only to watch you suffer.”

I brighten at that. “Please do, Flora. In fact, you should take a room at the palace all month. You can even set up shop. You’ll get loads of business, as I plan on making all the dances glamoured occasions. You know everyone wants their next glamour to be even more dazzling than the last.”

“Do I sense desperation?”

“Absolutely. Please save me from boredom. Nyxia will be gone on her lovers’ holiday with her mate all month. The rule of Lunar will rest solely on my shoulders.”

“How can you expect to be bored if you’re running a kingdom?”

“I’d hate to find out. Come on. Your glamours make life so much more interesting.” My words are more than just flattery. While most fae are capable of conjuring glamours, myself included, we are limited by our own particular strengths and imaginations. Flora’s creations are artistic marvels unparalleled by the capabilities of the average fae. She has the distinct talent of connecting a glamour to an object. I don’t know any other glamourist who can do that. And where most fae glamours are nothing more than illusions, hers take physical form, forging with its wearer.

“I’ll consider it,” she says unconvincingly and hands me my two boxes. “Which glamour will you wear first?”

I waggle my brows. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Besides, what if I’m planning to use both at the first ball?”

She says nothing, but I sense an invisible eye roll. Her mask bobs toward the door that leads to the main portion of the shop. “I suppose this might be a good time to warn you that an audience awaits. A horde of women, to be exact.”

I glance back at the door, my eyes widening with horror. “What? They’re waiting in the shop?”

“They aren’t inside yet,” she says. “They’re waiting outside. Regardless, it seems you’ve been found out. Why else do you think I kept you in the backroom this whole time?”

“I thought this was where you serve your most important shop patrons.” My tone is teasing, but the thought of exiting the shop to a cluster of husband-hungry socialites has the blood leaving my face. I wonder who at the palace I have to thank for flapping their loose lips regarding my whereabouts. I’ll have to interrogate later. First, I need a way out. Perhaps if I shift into my raven form…

Flora snorts a laugh, clearly amused by my distress. “Go out the back door. I’ll distract your many admirers.”

“Thank you,” I say, closing my eyes with relief. Flora leads me to the door at the opposite end of the room. I pause and face her, startled when I find her suddenly standing a head taller than me. Gone is the stout body and flowing robes, replaced with a tall, slender figure in a black silk evening gown, her arms covered in long white gloves. Her mask remains, but it now rests over a humanlike head with strands of long, black hair falling around it.

“Is this the form you wear for your human patrons?” I ask. Like all fae, Flora can shift between two physical manifestations—her unseelie and seelie form. A fae’s unseelie form is their natural shape, while one’s seelie form is modeled after human likeness. It’s what some humans refer to as lesser fae and high fae. Which is quite rude, honestly.

“I find it’s more comforting for them,” she says. “There’s nothing like comfort mixed with a dash of mystery to loosen one’s purse strings.”

“The same can be said about bodices.” She swats my arm with her gloved hand but lets out a low chuckle. I shift my tone to a more serious one. “Will you at least come to tomorrow’s ball? Please say yes.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, tone flat.

Holding both of my boxes under one arm, I push open the door, waving as I back out of it. “Thanks for everything, Flora.”

She waves back and closes the door between us.

I turn around with a sigh, relieved to find the alley gloriously empty.

Or…not empty.

Damn.

Chapter Four

EMBER

The nine o’clock bells have come and gone and still, the shop hasn’t opened. I know this because my stepfamily remains outside the door when I return from my errand. Not daring to pause at the end of the street for fear of my stepmother’s wrath, I head straight for the alley to wait. Then I return to check. Then again. And again. Each time, they are still by the door. Not only that, but a line of people—particularly young women around my age—has grown behind them. Can they truly all be here to buy a glamour for the ball? Surely half the ladies of Evanston can’t have been invited. Royal events are far too exclusive.

I return to the alley after what is probably my sixth time checking the front of the shop. It incenses me that I have to wait in an alley at all. What’s the harm of bringing me inside so long as I act as a maid?

I lean against the back wall of the building and release a groan of frustration.

Two more weeks, two more weeks, I repeat to myself, thinking of my train ticket tucked safely inside my coat pocket. That’s all I have to tolerate. Then I’ll be free.

My fingers flinch at my sides, begging for piano keys. It’s been too long since I’ve played. Too long since I’ve been able to release my bottled angst through song. Closing my eyes, I lower my head, resisting the temptation to tear off my bonnet. Then I let my fingers tap against the sides of my thighs, following sheet music in my mind—

A sound to my right startles me from my imaginary song. I whirl to the side as a door swings outward, and two voices come from behind it. I bring a hand reflexively to my locket as I take a step back, then another. Finally, the door closes, revealing a tall, slim figure dressed in fine, dark clothing, and carrying a pair of small boxes. He’s fae, as evidenced by the pointed tips of his ears. Face averted, he looks down the opposite end of the alley and releases a sigh, then turns on his heel toward me.

For a split second, a dazzling, contented smile warms his face, his lips parted to reveal the delicate tips of two pointed canines. I’m unable to move, stunned by his striking beauty. Most fae males are gorgeous in their seelie forms, but this one, with that breathtaking smile…

His silvery blue eyes meet mine and the expression dissolves in an instant, leaving a scowl in its place. I feel cold at the sudden shift, as if a cloud has covered the sun. That’s when an even more chilling realization dawns on me.

Silver hair.

Pointed teeth.

Showing way too much skin above his carelessly unbuttoned shirt collar.

I know who this is. It’s Prince Franco. While I may not have seen him in person before, I’ve heard both him and his sister described. And not just in physical appearance.

Fearsome.

Powerful.

Vampire.

It doesn’t even matter that he supposedly doesn’t drink blood. It doesn’t matter that he’s spoken of as a highly sought-after bachelor. The disdain in his glowering, silver stare is enough to make my knees quake.

“This is a bit much, don’t you think?” he says, his voice a lazy, disinterested drawl.

I blink a few times. When I find my words, they come out with a tremor. “Pardon me?”

With a roll of his eyes, he looks away from me and shakes his head. His gaze remains averted as if I’m no longer worth looking at. “Clever, I must admit. What’s your next move? Pretend to have a fit of the vapors in hopes that I’ll lift you into my arms and fall desperately in love? Or are you the kind to simply throw yourself on me without pretense? Let me guess. You aren’t wearing undergarments.”

His condescending tone has me bristling, my fear blown away like a leaf in a storm and taking my idiotic short-lived attraction with it. On second glance, I see not his lean frame and sensuous lips but his arrogant posture, his domineering sneer. He’s just like every other stuck-up aristocrat I’ve met through my stepfamily. In fact, he’s like them. Like Imogen, Clara, and Mrs. Coleman. My knees cease their trembling, and my fingers curl into fists. I know I should keep my mouth shut. I’m practiced at it. It’s what I do every single day at home. This man being the prince makes it even more imperative that I play the meek and humble servant. I should bow low, move to the side, and pretend I never saw him at all.

I should.

But there’s something about him that sparks a tempest inside me, one that explodes from my lips before I can stop it. “What are you talking about?”

He scoffs. “Playing coy, I see. That tactic is familiar to me as well. Congratulations, you aren’t special.”

My mouth falls open and heat rises to my cheeks.

Before I can form a retort, he speaks again. “No, that was rude. Forgive me.” There’s no apology in his tone, but he returns his gaze to me, assessing me from head to toe with a quirked brow that says he isn’t impressed. He puts his free hand on his hip and stands with a casual slouch. “You were clever enough to corner me back here without alerting anyone else of your scheme. So, go ahead. You deserve it.”

I narrow my eyes. “Deserve what?”

“Tell me what you came here to say. What is your proposal? Shall we run off together and get married at once? Have a tryst against the alley wall? I assure you my answer is no, but you’ve earned my ear for…” he glances at his palm, miming that he holds an invisible timepiece, “thirty seconds.”

My shoulders heave with rage. The sensible part of me screams to swallow my pride and simply walk away. But another part—and I have no doubt it’s my fae side—refuses to be silenced.

I take a step toward the arrogant male. “You assume too much, Your Highness—”

“Ah, so you do know me. I suppose that means we aren’t doing the old I didn’t recognize you bit.”

“—I did not come here to corner you, throw myself upon you, or offer you a tryst against the alley wall.” I say this last part through my teeth. “As hard as it might be for you to believe, not every young woman in Faerwyvae goes weak and mewling in your presence, begging to bed and marry you. In fact, anyone with half a brain would know to avoid you entirely.”

He barks a laugh. “Is that so? Because of my impressive reputation?”

He means his rakish reputation. Everyone knows the prince is nothing but a rogue. I’ve heard the rumors about his many lovers, how he breaks hearts with hardly a care. I never gave these sensational tales much weight before, but now…

“Well, this is cute,” he says flatly, “and yet I’ve heard it all before. You hate me, you find me despicable, you’re not like other girls…and yet it always ends with someone trying to kiss me.” A corner of his mouth lifts in a suggestive smirk that has my cheeks heating further.

“You couldn’t pay me to kiss you!” I say. “I would rather kiss a troll’s—”

“Your thirty seconds are up,” he says, and I startle as an enormous pair of black feathered wings sprouts from his back as if from nowhere. They expand nearly from one side of the alley to the other. I leap back as they lift and beat the air around us, nearly sending my bonnet flying off my head. Then, pushing off from the ground, the prince darts into the sky.

“It was a valiant effort,” I hear him call overhead before he soars over the buildings and out of sight.

“I would rather kiss a troll’s ass! That’s what I was going to say!” I shout at the empty sky but get no response. For several minutes, I remain in place, scowling at the clouds. No matter how much time ticks by, my anger refuses to dissipate and instead roars through my veins. My curled fingers dig so hard into my palms, I’m sure they’ve left crescent moons. I release my clenched fists, shaking out my hands. If I had a piano right now, I’d probably smash the keys to pieces while expressing my rage. With no musical outlet at my disposal, I’m left to growl under my breath. And when that doesn’t work, I point a rude gesture at the innocent sky.

“Ember, what is taking you so long?” I lower my hand and whirl to find Clara standing at the mouth of the alley. She crosses her arms and pins me with a glare. “We’ve been finished for an entire minute at least.”

With a few steadying breaths, I gather my composure, smoothing my skirts with trembling hands. “Sorry,” I say as I hurry toward her. She walks away before I reach her, which allows me a few more moments to try and forget my irritating exchange with the prince.