“Shall we go speak with your father?” I asked Olivette with a hint of desperation, lacing my arm with hers. But no sooner did we begin to approach Mr. Wolfe did my parents begin to speak to the smith, and I came to a halt.

“What’s the matter?” Olivette asked.

“Do you know those people? The ones speaking to your father?”

She studied my parents. Papa looked up at me, held my gaze for a beat too long.

“The woman is Sigourney Britelle, one of the most esteemed performance magicians in the province. Have you ever been to one of her shows, Anna?”

“No, I have not.”

“Phelan should take you to one soon, then,” Olivette said. “As for the man . . . I’ve never seen him before, but he seems familiar with her.” She paused and then added with a hint of anger, “And he keeps looking at you. Do you want me to say something to him?”

“No, but thank you, Olivette.” I narrowed my eyes at Papa. He finally ceased glancing at me with that worried gleam.

Sweat began to bead my skin and I reached for a flute of champagne, a tremor in my hand.

I watched Imonie next from the corner of my eye, and when the countess walked a loose circle around her . . . my dread turned into a leaden thing, weighing me down. Their conversation didn’t look friendly; I openly observed as the countess finally ceased her predatory walk about Imonie, and their lips moved but I couldn’t read them from where I stood.

Why would someone as haughty as Lady Raven invite my parents, Imonie, me? Why would she invite someone like Olivette’s father, who worked with his hands and kept to the shadows? Why would she invite Nura and Olivette? I couldn’t make sense of this dinner party and the odd mixture of guests, and it only heightened the sense that something was wrong.

Nura returned to us. I struggled to focus on her, waiting to feel her scathing glare, for her to expose me for the fraud I was. It never came; she was too preoccupied with Olivette. She wove their fingers together—brown and white—and whispered, “Come here, Oli. We need to speak.”

I watched them retreat to a quiet corner of the ballroom. I felt bare, alienated. I drained my champagne and decided I would leave. This night held nothing promising or good for me, and I didn’t care if I offended the countess.

I turned and nearly stepped into Phelan.

“Going somewhere, Miss Neven?” he said, cordial but cold. The cadence he would give to a stranger.

“Yes. I’m going home. Wherever that might be.” But I didn’t step away. I stood facing him, so close I could smell the spice of his aftershave. “Will you let me pass, Mr. Vesper? I know I’m the last person you want to see tonight.”

“You read minds now?”