“You’ll figure something out.” Isolde grins, slipping away from me. “See you in an hour.”

Then she turns her drunken saunter back on with all the ease of the highest-quality actor and stumbles into the crowd, ready to dip her hands into their gilded pockets.

chapter two

Try to enjoy yourself, I repeat mockingly in my head. Isolde darted through the crowd like a shadow, but to me it looks like a solid wall of rioting color.

Try to enjoy yourself.

I straighten my mask and take off in the opposite direction—towards the bonfire. We should end up at the same door, but splitting up makes us less conspicuous. If our timing is right, she’ll just be slipping inside by the time I arrive to stand guard.

But maybe our timing won’t be right: we’ve never done anything like this before. We’re pickpockets, not burglars. Breaking into someone’s house, grabbing more than loose coins and jewelry... It seems more personal. And I might feel bad about it, if it wasn’t for the absurd excess of Wildline wealth.

Everyone’s heard of the Wild line.

Once, far enough back for even a faerie’s memories to grow fuzzy, the Mortal Realm was united under one monarch. But that kingdom was destroyed, and now all that’s left is the cities, their territories, and the leaders who rule them. In Auremore, for as long as anyone can remember, that’s the women of the Wild line—the last of the shapeshifters, mortal enchanters who can transform themselves into any (nonmagical) creature. An ability passed down from mother to child along with the maternal prefix of their surname. Wildstorm, Wildrun, Wildcall: all spring from the Wild lineage, but right now the manor is ruled by Leira Wildfall, and she doesn’t seem to want to let anyone forget it. This is her party, in her neighborhood, in her city.

The closer I get to the fire, the thicker the feeling of magic in the air wraps around my skin, calling to the magic within me. Despite the warmth, chills rise on my arms and over the back of my neck.

My fingers go to the vial under my neckline again, like I need reassurance that it’s still there, or a reminder of why I don’t use my magic. My fingers wrap around its familiar shape, smooth and solid skin-warmed glass.

Going out tonight was a bad idea.

“Care for a drink, miss?”

I trip over myself to avoid bumping into the servant who materialized in front of me while I was distracted. He’s tall and broad and suddenly filling my whole field of vision, bearing a tray covered in tiny cylindrical glasses of a bubbling pinkish liquid.

“Oh, um—” I’m flustered, fumbling for a lie.

The servant doesn’t budge. “It’s free tonight. Courtesy of Leira Wildfall.” I can hear the curve of a smile in his voice.

Try to enjoy yourself.

I’m not much for drinking, not like Isolde—and I’ve made my disapproval abundantly clear to her on numerous occasions.