A wolf walks through the middle of the street.

Nearly as tall as my shoulder, all lean muscle under thick golden fur, it pads forward calmly. The crowd parts as its eyes sweep back and forth. For a second, the wolf meets my eyes, and there is something far too intelligent about its steady yellow gaze. My breath catches in my chest.

Then the wolf turns its head. Its form flickers, blurring into one golden smear. When the colors resolve, it’s in the shape of a chestnut mare.

The crowd goes wild, cheering and gasping. I stumble back.

Shapeshifter.

Leira Wildfall.

I never thought I’d actually see her. But there’s no one else it could be, unless she has a secret heir she’s hiding from the public. I watch as the mare tosses her mane and picks up her pace to a cheerful canter. The crowd parts wider, and then she’s galloping circles around wide-eyed mortals and disinterested faeries.

She shimmers again, this time taking the shape of a glowing white swan.

Now everyone is talking over each other, and the bonfire smoke diffuses in the air with the faint, indescribable scent of magic. I force myself to turn and head to the manor, but the crowd around me keeps moving forward, drawn toward the shapeshifter as if she’s magnetic. They’ve almost formed a circle around the swan now, with a few stragglers still holding murmured conversations or chasing down servants to grab another drink.

Still, as I elbow my way against the current, I catch glimpses between the fine dresses and cloaks. The swan raises her ash-white wings and throws her head back dramatically before transforming one last time. This time, she’s human. I guess I had some sort of image of what members of the Wild line would look like in my head—brooding and mysterious, maybe, with hair and eyes dark as a raven’s feathers and features sharp as its beak.

Instead, the woman at the center of the crowd is in her midthirties, relatively plain, with freckles and a pinched expression that suggests she’s used to giving orders. Her strawberry blond hair is piled on her head in an elaborate updo, and she wears a gown the same intense white as the swan, embroidered from throat to toe with a frosty covering of shimmering silver thread.

Most noticeably, she isn’t wearing a mask.

“Good evening, everyone,” she says in a voice that must be magically magnified, because despite its soft tone, I can hear it from across the square.

The crowd applauds riotously—at least, the mortals do. It’s easy to spot the faeries now. They’re the ones with crossed arms, rolling their eyes. Faeries love spectacle, but to them, Leira’s whole production must be like watching a child screaming for attention as she executes a crooked handstand.

Leira motions for quiet, and the crowd calms. “Thank you so much for joining me this evening. I hope my hospitality is to your liking.” Another cheer, which Leira allows with a gracious smile.