Petra wrapped his arms around the empty gardening basket and flattened it against his chest. “Do not thank me yet.”

Fier

Stars. Fier had never seen so many stars. They flickered like pinpricks of candlelight, and he could almost see them shifting as one slow, giant pattern in the deep, velvet expanse overhead. Vertigo hooked into his chest; he closed his eyes. Anything to keep from falling into that dizzy, tumbling abyss.

He had been here before. He had always never seen so many stars.

Someone laughed – softly, secretly – and with that cue came music blooming out of the silence, the sound smooth and bright and familiar. Violins. The hook in his chest eased, and someone’s hand found his, and a weightless, restless compass needle swung at last to north, and he fell into the sweeping steps of the dance as if, finally, this was home.

He had been here before. Always, he heard the laughter, the waltz.

He couldn’t see her face, not even her eyes, through the slits in her leonine mask. Its mane fanned and curled in waves of burnished copper; its mouth twisted up at the corners in a feral smile.

She’d been a snake, a wolf, a dove. Her mask changed – perhaps even her face changed – but she did not.

“I’ve been here before.” His voice sounded muted, far away.

Another laugh. She tapped her fingers against his shoulder. “I should hope so, Your Grace. You live here.”

He didn’t. Absolutely he didn’t. They spun across a wide, flat lawn nothing like the gardens he knew. No flowers. No trees. No fountains. Only a wall, waist-high, ringing the great gathering space with grey stone. Arbors of wood and latticework stood without greenery; they trailed strands of paper lanterns instead of ivy. Other guests, likewise masked, danced through light and shadow, but even in the light, their clothes looked vague and ill-defined. The details drew themselves in only as he sought them out.

He didn’t live here.

And yet, sometimes behind them, sometimes beside, the black silhouette of the manor loomed. The windows were dark and dirty, and Fier knew better than to believe there was anything safe or familiar about that house.

The hand on his shoulder, so light he had forgotten it was there, tugged at the fabric of his collar. “Eyes on me, prince.”

He tried to stand still, to let go of her, but the hand in his tightened and drew him stumbling into another step. The hand on his shoulder crept toward his neck, and Fier froze mid-spin, skin prickling.

“Stop.” His voice was still wrong, still distant.

Another laugh.  “Stop what?”

“I don’t—” She ghosted her hand up the back of his neck, and Fier shuddered, ducked his head away from her invasive touch. “Don’t—do that. Don’t.”

“You needn’t be coy, Your Grace.”