This side of the bridge is plain, a smooth transition into the arch of stone over the sluggish water. Weeds poke up through the mortar and along the muddy banks. On the other side, garlands of golden paper flowers curl around the gleaming brass streetlamps, and an enchanted ball of light changes color every few seconds.

“Last chance to back out,” I mutter, as a woman dressed in sky-blue silk passing from the opposite direction stares at us for just a second too long.

“You worry too much.” Isolde catches the woman staring and meets her gaze with a brilliant smile.

I move a half step faster, trying to look casual as the dazzling sights of Gilt Row come into view.

Gilt Row is less of a row and more of a blob-shaped tangle of streets draped in more opulence and wealth than anyone knows what to do with. The houses, like the rest of the city, are pressed tight together, tall and narrow, but here they’re all white stone and pastel-painted brick, with gardens out front and just the right amount of emerald ivy crawling up their fronts.

Entire eight-story houses, each for just one family. It’s hard to imagine what the buildings might look like inside—and I pride myself on my colorful imagination. And presiding over it all, flanked by iron gates and a perfectly manicured lawn, Wildline Manor looms three times the size of any of the others. It’s huge, imposing, and—since Leira Wildfall is sponsoring Gilt Row’s Revelnox celebrations—totally empty. They might as well have painted a glowing target on it.

I haven’t spent much time in this part of the city. Among the perfectly maintained streets populated by well-dressed, respectable families, Isolde’s and my rags stick out like thistles in a bouquet of exotic flowers. Someone who looks like we do can’t just walk around, without someone rich assuming they’re up to no good and signaling the city guard.

To be fair, most of the time we are up to no good...but they have no way of knowing that.

But tonight is different. I can feel it in the air, smell it in the spaces between smoke and sugar and expensive perfume. Tonight, anyone could be a faerie in disguise, and everyone receives equal respect.

Well, besides a few wrinkle-nosed looks from people who think I can’t see them.

Despite that, the crowd we melt into on the other side of the bridge is still almost entirely made up of people dressed in dazzling garments of violet chiffon, tangerine velvet, indigo silk, pure white linen—every color you could imagine and some you couldn’t. Gold gleams on throats and wrists and fingers, in embroidery along skirts and cuffs. Each mask is more impressive than the last, each custom-made and totally unique. Servants, dressed a bit more simply but still wrapped in the decadent midnight-blue velvet of Wildline Manor, mill around serving snacks and drinks.

I couldn’t possibly feel more out of place, with my plain mask, my simple slate-blue dress, my dusty brown boots. For someone like me, there’s no point in throwing away money on a gown that would only be worn for one night—no matter how enchanting it is.