It’s Midas, the fabled king of the house of Phrygia, whose hand turned everything he touched to gold. A distinguished figure, draped in ermine robes, head topped with an elaborate jeweled crown, stands in the midst of a vast horde of golden treasure. His hand is raised as if to say, Look upon me and despair, see what I have wrought, see the riches I have made. That the viceroy thinks of himself in such grandiose terms comes as no surprise. That he had his artist leave out what is arguably the most important part of Midas’s mythos is even less surprising. My eyes scour the mural for the doomed figure of Midas’s daughter, herself turned to a lifeless golden statue when her father’s greed proved more powerful than his love. She is nowhere to be seen. The viceroy has hand-picked the mythology to serve his purposes while learning absolutely nothing from it.

Men, I think. A fitting summation.

My father touches my elbow, pulling me away from what surely must be one the world’s most ironic bastardizations of Greek mythology. I turn to find the viceroy, resplendent in his frock coat and lace, standing before me. And beside him is his son. The man I am to marry.

Sebastian is handsome. To call him anything less would be a lie. Hair the color of burnished gold sweeps away from his brow, pulled away from his face by a length of crimson ribbon, exposing perfectly chiseled cheekbones and a jaw straight enough to cut through steel. But his beauty floats on the surface. The second he opens his mouth, the illusion falters.

He sweeps a low, courtly bow before me. The gesture is grand. As grand as the opulent house in which he lives, in which I will live, whether I want to or not.

When he stands, a smile that’s more of a smirk flits across his face like a stray cloud obscuring the sun. He extends a gloved hand toward me, palm up. “May I have this dance?”

A group of girls off to the side swoon like a gaggle of fainting maidens.

Honestly.

“No.”

My father chuckles. It’s as fake a sound as I’ve ever heard him make. “Take no heed of her, Sebastian. She’s just shy.”

“I most certainly am not.”

My father nudges me, none too subtly. “Mija, is that any way to treat your future husband?”

The stays of my corset dig into my tender flesh as I sigh. “I suppose not.”

My father nudges me again, this time right into Sebastian’s waiting arms.

The band of musicians picks up a lively saraband, and we’re whisked into the center of the crowd. The grouping splits into duos as dancers pair themselves off. Sebastian executes the little hops with such perfunctory efficiency it hardly looks like dancing at all. It isn’t bad. It’s just utterly soulless.