Golden cup in hand, I make my way through the throng of revelers, skirting the edge of the dance floor. I make a point of sticking to the sides of the grand ballroom, where people cluster in groups and bend their heads together to have conversations in hushed voices they think no one can overhear.

“That Lorenzo boy ran off with the haberdasher’s daughter! Can you believe such a thing?”

“And him a firstborn son! If I were his mother, I’d never show my face in public again.”

“That she came here tonight is even more shocking. Has she no—”

“The price of grain is plummeting. At this rate, the market will—”

“This is such a fine vintage. My sweet, we absolutely must find out where—”

Heaving a sigh, I come to a stop in a corner of the room. I hope Ana is having more luck than I am. The conversations in this room are as dull as they ever are. Gossip and industry and frivolity, all of it.

From behind me comes the distinctively male sound of a throat clearing. “You know, I was half expecting you not to show.”

My hand tightens on the stem of the cup. “Sebastian.”

He takes my utterance of his name as an invitation to step into my line of sight. If I were a lesser woman, I would be moved by the vision he presents. His frock coat is a gold only a shade or two darker than his hair. A touchable soft fur ruff adorns the coat’s collar, sinfully plush. I weep for whatever poor animal had to die.

“A lion, I see.” I take an unimpressed sip of my wine. It is, in fact, a fine vintage, but it tastes sour on my tongue. The very notion that the man before me might have been involved in my brother’s death in any way makes me to want to grab him and scream until he tells me what he knows, what he’s done.

Sebastian’s lips stretch into a wry grin. The delicate gold filigree of his mask does little to hide the blue of his eyes.

“And you are a swan. A black one. Fitting, I suppose.” He sips his own wine. “You are a vision, Kiki. Truly.”

Now, my hand tightens so hard, I can feel the indentations of the cup’s etchings press into my skin, nearly hard enough to draw blood. “There are only three people allowed to call me that. And one of them is dead.”

Something I never thought I’d see occurs. A faint blush crawls across Sebastian’s exposed cheeks, interrupted by the filigree of his mask.

“Ki—Eustaquia. I—” He heaves a sigh, waving over a footman to take his glass. The liveried man does so without batting a single eyelash, disappearing back into the crowd as efficiently as he appeared. “I’m sorry.”