She was lovely. Even with the thousand concerns running through my head, I couldn’t help but notice that. She wore a white silk gown that revealed an exceptional amount of pale skin, all of which shimmered with gold dust. Her long crimson hair hung amongst the feathers trailing down her back, and both swayed with the motion of the swing.

Only my unique insight into her mind betrayed that she was not content. She briefly tracked her mother’s progress before letting her gaze drift across the ballroom to land on me, her mind a twist of nerves, hurt, and… guilt? I smiled at her, but a flash of unease betrayed my expression.

Something was wrong.

Something was not going to plan.

Where was Sabine?

Genevieve had retreated almost to the rear of the ballroom, stopping in the door well of one of the exits and leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. It was too dark to see her expression, but I took advantage of those very same shadows to watch her openly, my ears picking up on every waver in Cécile’s voice through a performance I missed almost entirely.

The music rose into a climax, drums beating and cymbals crashing with deafening noise. It would be over in a matter of moments, and then I was sure Anushka would make her move. But as Cécile’s voice rose to the highest note of her range, the door behind Genevieve opened, a hand reaching around to clamp over her mouth. I caught a flash of a blade, but before I could react, her assailant dragged her out into the corridor.

It was happening.

Ignoring the surprised looks of those around me, I sprinted to the door closest to me, instead of drawing more attention to myself by pushing through the crowded room. The hall was empty, and I ran, knowing I could be around in seconds to the door Genevieve’s attacker had taken her through.

“Tristan, wait! It’s her!” Sabine’s voice floated up from behind me, but I didn’t dare pause. I had to find Genevieve before Anushka had a chance to kill her and vanish. If I failed, the chance of freeing my people might be lost. If I failed, Cécile might never forgive me for letting the witch kill her mother.

The narrow corridor sped by me in a blur, my boots skidding against the floor as I rounded the first corner. Then the second. The music from inside the ballroom was loud even here, but not loud enough to drown out the piercing scream of a woman. Turning down another corridor, I prayed my ears had not deceived me.

Then heeled shoes clattered, and Genevieve de Troyes was running toward me, one gloved hand clutching a bloodied throat. “Help me!” she whimpered. “Please help me!”

Sliding to a stop, I let her through my magic, keeping my eyes on the darkness she had come from, even as she flung her arms around my neck, the steel claws on her gloves making my skin itch. “She attacked me! Oh, God, I’m bleeding. I’m dying.”