"You will act the part of a girl in love. Nimo Spire must believe you're infatuated with him."

Layalla turned toward her mother from her chair at the dressing table with wide-eyed horror.

"But Father said this would merely be a first meeting between us. He said that no arrangements of marriage had been decided yet."

Dame Dunn turned away from the mirror where she'd been primping her auburn hair and strode toward her across Layalla's room. She yanked her daughter up by the arm and made her stand so that their noses were almost touching.

"It is called strategy, Layalla. If I'd accepted Nimo Spire's offer immediately, then he would have wondered why we're so eager to marry you off. It could lead him to think there's something wrong with you, some hidden scandal that we wish to patch up with an advantageous marriage." Her deadly purple eyes slid across the room to where Maira was standing silently by the door, head bowed forward, eyes downcast. "That is why we must tease him a little, string him along. Men always want most what they can't have. If he believes that we aren't convinced of his worthiness of you, then he'll be that much more ambitious in his pursuit for your hand—he'll convince himself that he needs you, that you're a prize to be won." She held her chin high, her lush lips spreading in a smile. "And you are a prize. You're the greatest prize in all of Genua. We need only to set the stage for him."

Layalla pulled herself from her mother's grasp and turned away, facing the wall.

"I'm not a prize, Mother. I'm your daughter."

Dame Dunn let out a beleaguered sigh.

"And what's so wrong with being a prize? What more could you want than to be desired and sought after?"

"I want to be free." The words spilled from Layalla's lips, bubbling over like a boiling pot. "I want to choose my path for myself."

The room fell silent. So long, she had dreamed of saying these words to her mother. So long, she had imagined herself mustering up the courage to demand her own feelings be considered.

But now, she didn't feel courageous at all. She felt overwrought.

She turned to face her mother, steeling herself.

Crack!

The shock of a palm connecting with her face never failed to surprise Layalla. She'd lost count long ago of how many times her mother had struck her, but the pain was always new, always surprising. Always a betrayal.

She gripped her right cheek, hissing at its burn, but refusing to cry out.

"If you do as you know you should tonight, you will accept Nimo Spire and concede to become his bride. There's nothing else to be said about it. It's unbelievably selfish of you to even conceive of anything different. Choose your path for yourself? Ridiculous, childish notion. Do you have any idea what good this is going to do for you, for our family?"

Damn the family! she screamed in her mind.

But she didn't dare say it aloud. Instead, her anger seeped out through her fingertips, in slithering snakes made of smoke and Dark magic. She raised her head, her burning cheek on full display, and looked her mother directly in her hateful, purple eyes.

"I know exactly what I should do, Mother. Trust that—for the first time in my life, I know what I should do."

She stormed away, barely recognizing that she was sending furniture flying in her wake. Sparks rained across her vision, likely emanating from her own hands. The rage inside her had seemingly taken control of her magic. Dame Dunn screamed after her, but she didn't listen.

Maira appeared before her, a pleading look on her face, but she only pushed past her. She stepped from her quieter bedroom into the cacophony of the house. She'd nearly forgotten about the party. People everywhere. Drunken fools, celebrating. Celebrating what?

Her enslavement.

She swiped a hand over her face, covering it with a mask of silver, hiding the red welt her mother had lovingly given her. Hot tears threatened to spill over, but she held them back. Blindly, she turned down one corridor, then the next.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"Layalla! Layalla, come back!"

Damn it all.

Maira's voice was calling after her. She'd surely been sent by their mother. And though she worried for the wrath it might incur upon her poor sister, Layalla could not bring herself to turn back.

She had finally stood up to her mother.

All her life, she had been the perfect, submissive daughter. The pretty little pet that performed her tricks when she was instructed. The apple of her father's eye, and the greedy glint of her mother's. The love her mother showed her was only carried so far by the value in her usefulness. Could she even call such a thing love?

Well, here was the perfect opportunity to test the lengths of her mother's "love." If she could hide away until the party was over, if she could avoid ever even meeting Nimo Spire, then her mother's demands wouldn't be carried out. Her well-crafted plans would fall to pieces. What then, would she think of her golden child? Would Layalla be cast aside, like Maira? Would she be thrown from the estate itself?

She gritted her teeth as she turned down another corridor. If she were to be banished from the Dunn family, so be it. Anything out there, past the walls of the estate, had to be better than the prison within. Right…?

She pushed her way past a couple, entangled in a passionate kiss, and toward a door that led outside. The night air was crisp and welcoming. The sounds of the party faded as the door shut behind her. She stared up into the night sky, her tears finally escaping, sliding down her still-stinging cheek beneath her silver mask. The torchlight along the estate walls—bright with eternal flame, burning in a rainbow of hues—obscured her view of the stars. She stepped away from the manor house, making her way to the darkness of the orchard. It would serve her well as a hiding place until the night was over.

*****

Lark grabbed a glass of wine from the tray of a nearby servant. The black wolf mask he wore made his orange Dunn eyes appear as if they were glowing. Those eyes scanned the ballroom, which only grew more crowded with each new dance. He watched the entering guests carefully.

"Looking for a dancing partner or a dueling partner?"

He turned to find a woman beside him. She wore a mask of transparent green glass that barely concealed her beautiful face, her red hair woven intricately about her head. Her dark eyes watched him boldly, unabashedly studying his entire form. She smiled in a way that expressed anything but innocence.

"It must be a dueling partner, with that expression," she said, tapping her red lips with a dainty finger.

"Peonia," Lark returned her smile, bowing his head toward her. "It's always a delight to see your lovely face."

She held out her hand toward him, almost lazily. He took it, bestowing a lingering kiss. She raised an eyebrow at him, but the corner of her mouth curled up with delight. He released her hand and took a step closer.

"I would love nothing more than to join you in a dance, but I'm afraid I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment. I may appear as any other reveler here tonight, but I assure you I'm on duty—attending to very important business."

"Hm…" She took the glass of wine from his hand and swirled it before taking a sip. She tilted her head back, exposing her smooth, pale throat, and seemed to savor its taste. Her dark eyes sparkled as she handed the glass back to him. "A shame. I'm already certain you must be the most interesting man here tonight."

He took a sip of the wine—sweet and sultry, much like Peonia. But it was little more than a trifle, a lovely distraction. He would have much preferred a stronger brew, as he would also have much preferred his solitude to Peonia's company, even though she was practically undressing him with her eyes. A pretty face and a sharp wit, to be sure, but he hungered for something more dangerous than her lips or embrace. Besides, could a woman with lowly Neutral magic ever truly be a match for him?

"My Lord," a man in a simple, white mask approached with a bow. "It's getting too crowded for us to monitor the newly arriving guests. Shall we disperse among the people?"

Lark downed the wine and passed the empty glass off to a servant.

"Yes, good. Spread out to every corner of the manor, and don't linger with anyone for too long. And remember: if you find any Hillshires, do not expose them immediately. Report to me, first."

The man bowed again and went on his way. Peonia turned to him, her eyes bright.

"Hunting for Hillshires, are you? That seems like a dangerous game, what with Keeper Spire's decree."

Lark leaned toward her so that his lips were nearly brushing against her ear.

"Decrees were made to be broken, weren't they?" He pulled back and enjoyed the flushed look on her face. "Keeper Spire knows that what he seeks is impossible. Dunns will always hate Hillshires, and vice versa."

Peonia covered her mouth and giggled.

"Do you really think the Hillshires would be foolhardy enough to show their faces?"

His eyes were on the crowds again, his capacity for giving her his precious attention waning.

"My uncle sent out an open invitation. And they wouldn't exactly be showing their faces—it's a mask, after all." He turned to her again, reaching out to brush a finger along the edge of her green glass mask, stroking her soft cheek in the process. "The perceived anonymity of wearing a mask has a way of emboldening even the most cautious of men, don't you agree?"

She licked her lips, a tantalizing gesture that he was sure was performed for his benefit.

"Well, don't get too carried away on your hunt, Mr. Wolf. And if you find the chance, please do join me in one dance before the night is over." She stepped away, toward the dance floor, where he was sure there were countless men eagerly waiting to be her partner. She paused, looking over her shoulder at him with a knowing smirk. "Oh, and that mask doesn't suit you at all. Lark Dunn, a wolf? No, I think a panther would have fit much better."

He watched her go, enjoying the sight of her swinging hips. But just for a moment. Then, he dissolved into the crowd, prowling for hidden Hillshires.