Cissy gives my hand a squeeze. “That’s my cue.” She steps through the opened doorway and into the reception hall. The room is packed with thrax in their colored outfits. Cissy glides to the center of the room and waits. Zeke saunters out from the crowd, wearing a black velvet tunic over chain mail and leather pants. He takes Cissy’s arm; they march off into the ballroom to the trill of silver trumpets.

I hover in the doorway and watch them leave, a nervous stitch eating into my side. The trumpets grow silent, followed by a pause that lasts a million billion years, minimum. My heart beats so loudly, I’m sure all of Upper Purgatory can hear it.

The herald lowers his silver trumpet. “Miss Myla Lewis without escort.”

I stifle the urge to groan. Without escort? Really?! How about with the ability to kick ass? They need to leave the Middle Ages, STAT.

Straightening my shoulders, I step through the doorway and head to the center of the reception room. Maybe it’s me, but it seems like the hall suddenly turns super-silent. Each click-clack of my heels on the tiled floor sounds deafening. Although hundreds of eyes stare at me, I only focus on two: one slate-gray and the other wheat-brown.

Lincoln stands within the sea of faces, his body flanked by a group of beautiful young ladies. He’s wearing black leather pants, silver mail, and a black velvet over-tunic. A glimmering eagle is sewn onto his chest; a silver crown glistens atop his mop of brown hair. He stares at me with fire in his eyes, his full mouth slightly open.

A minute passes before I realize that I should do something other than stand in the reception hall looking like a dumbass. The guests pass anxious looks and giggles. I scan for Cissy and some direction on what to do next, but she’s already disappeared into the ballroom.

The herald blares his trumpet once again. “Miss Myla Lewis without escort.” My brain freezes. I have a feeling he’s hinting at something, but can’t guess what.

The giggles grow louder, the stares more disbelieving. I glance toward the front door, calculating how long it would take to sprint to my car.

Lincoln steps out from the crowd, offering me his arm. If I thought the giggles were loud, that’s nothing compared to the outright gasps that now echo through the room. Smiling, I grip his arm tightly, feeling the warmth and solid muscle under my palm. We step into the ballroom.

“I think we shocked your nobility.”

Lincoln grins. “They need to be shocked every so often; keeps them on their toes.” He nods toward the dance floor. “Speaking of which…”

I stare at the synchronized lines of dancers on the floor. While a violinist plays a jig, the thrax all jump about in a medieval hoe-down of complex movements.