The gossip had already begun. Lowry planned to host a seance. Lowry had imported one hundred cases of Danubian wine. Lowry intended to propose marriage, by her estimation, to at least five different people tonight. She could even hear her own name in the sibilant peaks of whispered conversation.

Pretender. Illegitimate. Disgraced. Traitor.

If she failed tonight, was that all she’d be for the rest of her life? The voices spiraled closer, tighter. Her corset was starving her of oxygen. The smells of wintergreen and roasted game and perfume suffocated her. It was too much—too stimulating.

“I need air.”

“Come on,” Hal said.

As soon as he glowered, a path cleared for them. He guided her through until they broke out into a pocket of empty space in the corner. Only a few solemn-faced, assessing courtiers coquettishly fluttering bone-girded fans hovered by the windows. The glass was scabbed over with frost and overlooked a spread opulent enough to put a royal feast to shame. There were cheeses sliced as fine as paper and rolled up like roses; gamey meats roasted in a crust of fragrant spices, their juices soaking into plump root vegetables; fruits of every color, drizzled with honey and tucked into flaky pastries; and there were tiny cakes lined up like gleaming white battalions, iced with buttercream and garnished with mint. Hal was gazing at them hungrily.

“Focus.” Wren snapped open her own fan. “Do you see Lowry anywhere?”

No sooner had she spoken than an excited hush fell over the crowd.

He’d arrived.

Wren stood on her toes. There, high above the clusters of top hats and towering headdresses, was Lowry. He and Barrett descended the grand staircase to the pop and flare of tripod cameras. While Barrett wore a sensible, well-tailored jacket, Lowry wore a long, jet-studded cloak. Here, in his element, Lowry exerted his own gravitational pull. As they walked, the crowds parted for them like oil dropped into water. Some sneered their disdain, and others gazed on in open adoration. All of them were rapt and unblinking.

Lowry turned his head to smile roguishly at a camera, revealing the mask fastened to the side of his head. A wolf snarled at Wren, so lifelike, she paled. She thought of its fangs sinking into her, bleeding her onto the marble ballroom floor.

Breathe, she reminded herself. You can do this.

A servant passed, balancing a tray filled with flutes full of sparkling golden wine. Wren reached out and plucked one off the platter by its stem. For good measure, she took a sip, and while it tasted crisp and more expensive than her life was worth, it settled like grease in her churning stomach.

Wren turned back to Hal. “Guard the cake while I’m gone. And save me a dance, will you?”

“If I must. I’ll dread your return.”