Camille looked around the garden.
It had been transformed tonight, she thought; fireflies floated in the trees like golden stars, and violin music wrapped around the long white tables. The air was thick with honey-sweet sticky buns and fairy floss. She could hear the murmur of summer crickets, as well as the slap of water against the castle rock.
Courtiers drifted through the flower gardens, carrying glasses of champagne. A dark-haired woman slumped against a rose trellis, an empty phial of somnium in her hand, sleeping like a princess in a storybook.
"Miss?" a voice asked.
She turned.
A guard hovered near her position on a garden bench, hands clasped behind his back. Camille toyed with the stem of her wineglass. Technically, she should be addressed as My Lady or Lady Rosewood — Brigid had gifted her land after the engagement — but she kept silent.
"Yes?"
The guard shifted his weight. "There are visitors at the gate."
Camille frowned. "We're not expecting anyone."
"Well," the footman said, "there are a half-dozen women on the bridge, so you'll need to decide what to do with them." A pause. "Miss."
This time, the word was deliberate.
Her cheeks grew hot. Ah. So the guard hadn't forgotten her title; he just refused to use it. Camille swirled her wine, trying to decide how to respond to... Morrigan? Corrigan? Yes; that was his name. He'd been one of Arthur's favourite men. On Camille's tenth birthday, Corrigan had stood outside her door and gravely told everyone that she had Pigeon Pox so that she could spend the day in bed reading, undisturbed.
Corrigan was a nice man. A fair one.
But that didn't mean he wanted her as his queen.
Camille straightened. "Do they appear dangerous? The women?"
"No," Corrigan said. "They look... They're wearing very low-cut gowns and perfume. I sense that they conduct a certain form of business." He gave her a significant look. "Shall I turn them away?"
Oh. Oh.
Realization struck her, and Camille's face grew even hotter. She opened her mouth — to say what, she didn't know — when a voice interrupted her.
"No," the voice said. "Show them into the parlour."
Corrigan stiffened. "My Lord?"
Eris strode towards them. He was dressed in a billowing green top, trimmed with golden thread. Like many of the courtiers, Eris wore face paint — swirls of stardust around his eyes and mouth — and a circlet rested on his head. He could have been a woodland faerie, Camille thought, if it wasn't for his abhorrent personality.
"Here." Eris pressed a rukka into Corrigan's hand. "For your trouble."
Corrigan didn't curl his fingers over it. The older guard was looking at Camille, a question in his eyes, and she looked away. A pulse pounded in her ears. She had no power here. Didn't he see that?
There was a long pause.
"My Lord," Corrigan said, voice stiff.
Footsteps retreated.
Eris plopped onto the bench, slinging his arm around the back. His cold fingers brushed the nape of her neck. Camille leaned forward.
"Prostitutes?" Her voice was clipped. "Really?"
Eris lifted a shoulder. "I thought we could use some entertainment."
"This," Camille said, "is a formal dinner." She took a sip of wine. "Filled with foreign diplomats and dignitaries."
"Precisely," Eris said. "I loathe formality; it breeds bad fashion and boredom."
Camille stilled. There was a note of Ryne in his voice, in the clipped and careful way that he spoke. But then Eris smirked, and it was gone.
"Where's your fiancé this evening?" Eris asked.
She swirled her wine. "He'll be here."
"Funny," Eris said. "My cousin has always been... possessive of the things that he loves. I would have thought he'd refuse to leave your side." His green eyes glittered. "Unless, of course, he doesn't love you."
Camille stared down at her wine.
"No sign of Ryne," Eris mused. "No news from Isaac. You must be lonely, dearest Camille."
She stiffened. "I'm not your dearest anything."
He was getting under her skin. They both knew it. But she wasn't like Ryne, Camille thought, or Penny; she couldn't hide how she was feeling. Eris didn't have to search for the bruised parts of her; she wore them on her skin for all to see.
Eris rested his elbows on his knees. "When does Webb return?"
"I don't know," she said.
"I find that difficult to believe."
Camille gripped her wineglass. "I'm not his keeper." She took a sip. "Where's your companion this evening? The Scythe?"
Eris looked amused. "Lyra is otherwise preoccupied. But don't worry; I'm sure she'll be joining us soon."
Camille was spared a response by the crowd shifting. Heads swivelled towards the castle, following the sound of heavy footsteps and the clank of armour. Ryne crossed the lantern-lit drawbridge, his face half-obscured by shadow, but it wasn't him that people were staring at; it was the dark-haired girl at his side, dressed in a green gown.
Anna.
She was staring ahead, her blue eyes like cold flame. The night seemed to follow her, clinging to her in ribbons of black silk. Whispers chased each other around the garden. Camille swallowed. Now that she knew who Anna was — what she was — she was beautiful and terrifying and utterly foreign. Not the girl that had cut up bandages in their infirmary, but a ruler. A queen of dark and shadows.
Eris rose.
"Annalise Cidarius," he said.
She stopped short of the bench. "Eris."
He assessed her. "You're smaller than I was expecting."
Anna gave him a breezy smile. "Didn't get enough calcium as a child."
They studied one another, and Camille thought of hawks circling, deciding who would get the bigger pound of flesh from a carcass. Eris's gaze flicked down to Anna's wrist. Checking for bruises? For manacles?
Eris crossed his arms. "I'm surprised my cousin allowed you out for the evening. Are you enjoying your stay in the Tower?"
"Oh, yes," Anna said mildly. "You'd be amazed at how being tied to a bed can regulate your sleep cycles. I've never been so well rested."
Eris's green eyes glittered. "If I were to tie you to a bed," he said, "there wouldn't be much sleeping involved."
Camille looked to Ryne.
He was watching the exchange with polite disinterest, but there was something about the set of his shoulders that worried her. She could recall her father pulling a sword from the fire, being careful as he cooled it in a bucket of ice; iron would shatter if it grew cold enough. Ryne was like that, too.
Eris stepped forward. Held out his arm.
"Shall we?" he asked.
Anna stared at the proffered arm. It was a boast, Camille thought, that Eris wasn't afraid to touch her. Then again, they'd been lacing her food with blueworm powder for months; it was easy to pet a tiger with its claws and teeth removed.
Anna took his arm. "Lead the way."
They walked to the High Table together, trailed by a flock of guards. Camille touched Ryne's shoulder lightly.
"Ryne," she said, "I must speak with you."
His eyes were scanning the crowd. "Not now."
"But—"
"Cami, please." He removed her hand gently. "After the meal."
Ryne spotted Penny. He tilted his head towards the High Table, and his sister nodded; both Delafort siblings began carving a path toward it. Frustration swelled in her chest, and Camille darted after her fiancé. Courtiers had begun to take their seats, their golden face paint glittering in the darkness.
"This is important," Camille whispered fiercely. "Eris is planning something, Ry." She waited as a servant pulled out her chair. "He's invited—"
Music swelled.
"Ah," Eris said brightly. "That'll be the entertainment."
Ryne — who had been reaching for a wineglass — arched an eyebrow at her, as if to say, what entertainment? Camille gave him her best "I-tried-to-warn-you" look. She gave him that look a lot, actually, now that she was thinking about it.
Fabric rustled.
Six women glided across the lawn. They were dressed in white gowns that plunged to their navels, their faces obscured by delicate masks; golden body glitter swirled around their exposed skin. In any other circumstance, Camille thought, she might be able to appreciate their beauty; right now, a cold stone rested in the pit of her stomach.
Eris rose.
"A gift, cousin," he said, raising his voice. "For you and your lovely fiancée."
The girls parted.
A slender woman stepped through. She was dressed in a sheer bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination; golden sandals twined up her legs, and her blonde hair was woven with blue flowers. But that wasn't what made Camille stare. What made her stare was that the woman was — oh gods, that woman was—
Heat burned her cheeks.
The woman smiled.
"Good evening, My Lady," the Camille-lookalike said, dropping into a curtsy. "I hope you'll enjoy our performance."