“Makes sense.”

“Imagine that.” It was a relief when the carriage ground to a halt. “I think we’re here.”

As the footman approached to open the door, I examined the home we’d stopped in front of. It was a relatively large, square, two-story affair made of brick, the windows bright with a yellow glow that far outshone that of the half moon above. Music trickled out to greet me as I stepped onto the walkway lining the street.

“Monsieur de Montigny?” The footman inquired.

“Yes.” It was strange to be called such.

“Monsieur Bouchard is expecting you.”

I followed the man up to the entrance of the house, my skin prickling with slight pain as I passed through the gate of the wrought iron fence encircling the property. I wondered if they remembered why such fences had come into existence – to keep the immortal fey away. Unfortunately for humanity, it did little to protect them from trolls. Mortality had come with some advantages, not the least of which was a better tolerance of the metal.

The door opened, and I stepped inside. The air was roasting hot and full of the smells of food, perfume, sweat, and smoke – the music and chatter of dozens of voices loud in my ear. My pulse raced. I’d been to countless parties in my lifetime where I had an agenda other than entertainment. I’d pretended to be someone who I was not for years. But never had I been so far out of my element, and the challenge both terrified and intoxicated me.

“Monsieur de Montigny!” A booming voice caught my attention, and I turned, half in the process of handing off my hat and cloak, to see a short, crimson-faced man with an abundance of white whiskers bearing down on me. He stuck his hand out, and though the concept of shaking hands was entirely strange to me, I took it, clenching my teeth into a smile as he jerked my stiff wrist up and down. “François Bouchard,” he said, finally releasing my hand. “We are so pleased you could join us at our little fête.”

“I was pleased to receive the invitation,” I said, following through the foyer. “This is my first visit to Trianon, and I confess to feeling much like a fish out of water.”

“Well, you’re in good hands now.”

A woman dressed in brilliant pink stepped out in front of us, her eyes widening as they met mine. “There you are, my dear,” Bouchard said. “Anna, this is Monsieur de Montigny, who’s just arrived from the south – from near Courville, if what I’ve heard is correct?”

Thank you, Cécile.

I smiled, kissed the woman’s outstretched knuckles, and said, “Your ears have not failed you.”

“Good to know,” Bouchard said, and I only just refrained from blocking the arm he raised, reluctantly allowing him to slap me across the shoulders. “One can’t count on these things at my age.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur,” Anna said, keen to get a word in.