The second course arrived. Another strange dish I had never tasted before, but it looked to be roasted poultry on a bed of sautéed greens and buttery porridge, with pickled beets on the side. I didn’t know how to properly eat it, so I watched my father, who once again acted as if this dish was one of his favorites. Were these recipes from Seren? I was too shy to ask, but it was the only explanation I could come up with, especially when I recalled how Imonie told me the significance of November seventeenth to the mountain duchy.

Course after course was served. All of them were bizarre and unfamiliar, and I struggled through this seemingly endless dinner, thankful that no one took much note of me. I was beginning to believe that Phelan had fooled me into staying when the dessert was delivered, a lemon pudding with berries and cream, and Phelan leaned close to me, to whisper into my ear as one does to a lover.

I didn’t move as his lips brushed my cheek.

“Something is about to happen tonight,” he said. “You must not expose who you are. Hold your act.”

And then he leaned away from me, as if he hadn’t spoken such dire words, dipping his spoon into the pudding.

My father was watching us, though. I lifted my eyes to his, and the tension eased in his face. As if he also knew what was about to unfold and he was waiting for it. . . .

The doors opened with a bang, startling half of the table.

The candlelight flickered as Phelan’s brother, Lennox, entered the room. He looked windswept, his clothes wrinkled, his cravat knotted crookedly as if he had arrived here in great haste. He wasn’t alone. Mazarine accompanied him. Mazarine in her human disguise.

My breath left in a rush. My body tensed until I felt Phelan’s hand on my knee, beneath the table.

Hold your act.

The countess smiled and rose. “At last, you have arrived, my son. And I see you have brought our guest of honor.”

“Indeed, Mother,” Lennox said with a triumphant smirk. “Ms. Mazarine Thimble of Hereswith.”

I couldn’t take my eyes from her. There was a trickle of blood flowing from her lip, and her silver hair was snarled. It was almost impossible to believe that she had been bound and brought roughly into the city. Mazarine, a bloodthirsty, dangerous creature of the mountains. But in this moment, she had been tamed. Her hands were fastened behind her back.

“Perhaps you would like to sit and join us, Mazarine,” the countess said. “Or perhaps you would like us to call you by your true name.”

Mazarine smiled. It was frightening, even with her human face. “I will not sit and eat at your table, even if you tried to serve the best of Seren foods. Call me by my name, heiress.”