me.
Before my next breath, the chanting ended, and the Cauldron recalled its magic now twined with our essences. Like the tentacles of a skittish octas, the glittery green threads receded into the rotund vessel, which puffed into oblivion, leaving behind wavelets of black smoke.
I snatched my hand away from Remo’s and cocooned it against my frenzied heart. My skin prickled, cold and hot, numb and oversensitive. It reminded me of the time I’d grazed the reptilian body of a dile, and it had shot me with a dose of venom so potent my heart had stopped for five entire minutes. When I’d come to, Giya and Sook were weeping, convinced I was dead, while Remo—who hadn’t been there when I’d lost consciousness—was assuring them I’d be fine, that a little venom couldn’t possibly kill the Trifecta. When our eyes had met, his had seemed garishly bright. Since their shine hadn’t been due to tears, I’d imagined it had been hope . . . hope that he’d be wrong, and the dile venom would do away with me for good.
The same gleam animated his eyes tonight as he inspected his hand. Cauldron binding was thankfully not like fae marking—no outward trace showed up on our skin. I would’ve hated having an F light up every time my pulse quickened.
He finally lowered his hand along his navy tunic that shone like satin in the twinkling faelights bobbing around our heads. “Well, that was surprisingly painless.”
I was still cosseting my hand. “For you, perhaps.”
His reddish-brown eyebrows almost collided over his nose. “You’re in pain?”
“Touching a dile was more pleasant than touching your hand.” I spoke low so my parents and Gregor couldn’t hear the snark dripping from my tongue.
A faerie dressed in a gown that looked sewn from butterfly wings landed beside us, extending two glowing orbs. “Congratulations on your engagement, massini. May the Skies bless you both.”
“Thank you, Lydia,” Remo said.
I surmised he knew her name, because she was one of his many girlfriends. Why else would Remo Farrow learn the name of someone so far beneath his station?
I plucked the orb from Lydia’s hand and squeezed it until it morphed into a goblet of faerie wine. I wasn’t fond of the stuff because it was full of bubbles, but I wanted something to sweep my mind off my predicament, however fake it all was.
Since Lydia was still staring at him as though he’d invented faelight, I leaned toward him and whispered, “You should take Lydia back home to celebrate.”
His eyes swung to mine so fast I had to pull my head back so our noses didn’t bump.
When he glowered, I smiled, then dipped that smile into my wine glass. I might’ve given off naïve fumes, but I wasn’t naïve. My eyes were open, and I was watching him. Waiting for him to stumble and commit a faux-pas that would take him out of the running for the crown. Sure this was a sham, but wouldn’t it be lovely if he lost my hand by his own fault? It would paint me as innocent—which I was—and him as wicked—which he was. I’d love nothing more than for Neverra to see Remo Farrow’s true colors instead of the bright, young, disciplined lucionaga he made himself out to be.
Lydia offered him a golden orb. “Wine?”
He slowly looked back at her. “Thank you, but I don’t drink.”
“Since when?” I asked.
“Since forever.”
Gregor approached, and Lydia flitted upward, out of his path. He held out his goblet to mine, and even though I didn’t want to clink with him, I docilely lifted my cup.
When metal met metal, he said, “You know, back in my day, when a woman was unbound, she could be claimed by any man superior in rank.”
I wrinkled my nose. “How savage.”
“Could unbound men be claimed by higher-ranked women, or I guess, men?” Remo asked.
“No.” Gregor’s thick white hair flounced as a faerie flew over our heads bearing a platter of lettuce-wrapped fried octas. “The world didn’t work that way.” He grabbed two wraps and chucked them both into his mouth.
“I’m so glad our world has evolved,” I said.
Remo didn’t say anything. Knowing him, he probably mourned our new customs.
Gregor’s eyes settled on something behind me. I turned to find Iba’s mother, Addison, walking arm-in-arm with Angelina. As I watched them air-kiss the other guests, I wondered if Angelina was aware that her son might be alive.
The day Kingston had supposedly been put to death, Angelina’s dark hair had become streaked with white and