Em was unperturbed.

“You’ll still need money. Unless you can fly everyone and eat whatever happens to be lying around.”

The man hesitated, and Em grabbed his cloak. Tugging.

“It isn’t a bad idea to amass funds. You know it. You just don’t want to work with me.”

“And what on earth can a child do in this situation?”

Em grinned and put her forehead on the bars.

“I happen to know someone who is an alchemist with ties to the black market. If I can convince them of Azuremere’s importance to their craft, then they’ll either buy all the supplies themselves or work as my go between to the market.”

“And what will they charge?”

Em stood back and crossed her arms.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll need a 10% fee for my services as the go-between, which will have to cover my expenses. But I can’t imagine they’d do it for less than 25% themselves. In any case, I’ll do my best to make sure you get at least 50%.”

Mister Ben was silent for a long time.

“Why are you helping us?”

Why?

Em hadn’t thought about it. She just… assumed that’s what she was supposed to do. Help the people around her. Flint, Todd, Prince… It was her job. She was brought here, that is, brought back here to do something.

She fidgeted.

“I don’t know. I just… want to. You know? It makes me feel good, trying to help.”

He let out a slow sigh.

“When will you meet with this contact?”

“Oh.” Em made a face. “In three days. There’s this stupid dinner party I have to go to. Right after another tea party.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

She reached through the bars again, palm out. And looked up at him expectantly.

Slowly, the man pulled out a small bottle and let her take it from him.

“Do you have to go back to the reeve? If you can stick around until after the party, then I can tell you what’s going on sooner.”

He nodded.

“Great! I’ll see you in three days.”

As she turned to peek around the bushes, looking for her obstacles back, she heard Ben clear his throat behind her.

“Miss Emmaline?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She half turned and he bowed to her. Then he swiftly disappeared out of sight into the dark alley.

***

“It is done, my prince. May the blessings of Felice be on you.”

“What’s done?”

“Hope.”

It had been a long time since Asher prayed. As he looked out the carriage window, he was considering it.

Felice had long been the patron god of the Wyngarde family. He remembered her statue had been placed at strategic points throughout the royal palace. Including fountain heads, corridors, and mantelpieces.

She promised to always look after the continuation of the family (as long as they remained virtuous and taught their children to be).

When his entire family was slaughtered, he thought it was the goddess abandoning them.

After that, there didn’t seem to be any point in praying.

A seer.

He didn’t know why, but that little girl from the hunting grounds reminded him of the old woman. He barely remembered the incident and couldn’t remember her face at all.

Honestly, it felt like it happened to another person in a whole different lifetime.

The old woman had stopped him on the street. Pulled him into an alley.

And prayed for him. Head tilted back and staring at the heavens.

“It is done, my prince.”

Were they both seers? Their eyes were full of certainty even as they proclaimed things that were beyond his knowledge. Or should have been beyond theirs.

He clenched his fists on his lap. Not sure if he should be full of hope or despair. If he should laugh or cry. If he should yell at the goddess…

Or thank her for the message of hope.

Should he even believe them? Either of them? Was this some cruel trick?

Or should he give up on Wyngarde? After all, he could see no way of getting back what was his. Or of helping his people. What use was a lycan prince who couldn’t even access his other form? Much less the power of his ancestors?

Abruptly, he was yanked from his thoughts when Lady Arnold grabbed his chin.

The woman pursed her lips.

“You haven’t been listening to a word I said.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He pulled his chin away, sitting back to be as far from her as he could get. His hands trembled with a suppressed surge of anger and he wrapped his fingers around his thighs to hide it.

“Insolent little twerp.”

Lady Arnold sat back and pulled a fan from her purse. It wasn’t a hot night, but they were approaching the gates of the Waghorn estate. And she wanted all her accessories at the ready.

She flipped it open.

“You’re lucky you’ve become so valuable to me. Otherwise I’d find some dor poison to fix your attitude.”

He said nothing.

“I wonder what your mysterious sponsor would think if they knew you were such a disobedient, stubborn brat? A little advice, boy. Don’t give yourself away while we have so many eyes on us.”

She laughed at his glower.

“Unless you want your sponsor to worry their breeding desires will get them ill-tempered pups. In which case, they might withdraw their support and I’ll go back to ordering your death.”

He stiffened and looked away.

“I have no intention of misbehaving, mistress.”

“I didn’t think so.”

You just don’t want me to ruin your business dealings, he snarled to himself.

Being invited to three of the most prestigious gatherings of the season had given Lady Arnold unprecedented opportunities to expand her father’s contacts. As well as to look for a high-ranking spouse who cared less for rank and more for money.

The original three invitations had expanded to half a dozen. Or possibly more by now.

Asher was forced to go to every other event. In case the ‘mysterious sponsor’ was present.

Whoever it was apparently wanted a chance to inspect him at one of the parties. Without appearing to do so. It was annoying because whoever that person was wasn’t the only one who thought he was ‘pretty’.

He uncomfortably had to sit through being talked about, touched, and laughed at.

He was fairly certain that this sponsor would only ‘inspect him’ at one of the three original parties, but apparently his presence was aiding the mistress in her endeavors.

He did not want to be helpful.

But he also didn’t want to worsen his position at all.

He leaned his head against the windowpane. Waiting for the carriage to stop and the charade to start.

The architecture differed from what the lycan people favored. Except for select buildings, such as the palace, defense was the primary motivation among the lycan. Therefore, practical architecture was the norm.

Even when aesthetics were kept in mind, the design was both beautiful and defensive.

Here, the humans had a very different idea of what was important.

As he stepped out of the carriage and handed down his mistress, he glanced often at the huge manor. With its ornate windows, sprawling gardens, and extravagant lighting.

Someone had spent a fortune to look expensive.

He escorted Lady Arnold up the stairs and into the ballroom-turned-banquet room. Not even surprised when the announcer completely ignored ‘the slave’s’ presence. Even though Asher was the one doing the escorting.

Here, too, everything was expensive.

It made him think of his mother.

Not because it was alike to her taste. But because it was such a sharp contrast.

He remembered the way she insisted on polished lighting stands and a simple chandelier. And how she lit them herself until his power manifested. Then she’d put her hands over his, helping him learn to urge spells into life.

The flow of her mana had been as comforting as her hugs.

Her preferred decorations weren’t bejeweled motifs and gold plated statues. They were portable trees and shrubs. Flowers on every table. A wreath of vines and flowers in her hair as she flitted from guest to guest.

Her personal surname had been Flur. A tribute to her talent with plants.

His heart ached.

So much so the ache spread to his stomach and he felt physically ill.

He dropped his eyes to the ground. Barely listening to the conversation as Lady Arnold flirted with a man who'd become increasingly interested in her the more he saw her.

The man left and four women joined Lady Arnold instead.

Low rankers, mostly the daughters of counts. But still noblewomen who had taken an interest in the lowest rank in the room.

Lady Arnold curtsied to them. Careful to drop her eyes briefly and cause them to think that she believed they were her betters.

“Good evening, Miss Arnold.”

“Please, call me Cherise. I told you that last time.”

The women giggled.

“You brought him again.”

One woman grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. His one satisfaction was now being taller than most of these women. So they had to look up at him even as they harassed him.

“Such lovely eyes!” cooed another woman.

“And hair.”

A third stroked his hair. It took all his willpower not to slap their hands away. Though he couldn’t hide the way his jaw tightened.

Lady Arnold went on to boast about him. How well he was doing in the arena, how she’d gotten special permission to bring him here, blah blah. Everything except the fact that he had a powerful and rich sponsor somewhere.

For whatever reason, she’d been quiet about that.

Not that it concerned him.

If he had his way, he’d burn down this building and everyone in it. Humans were disgusting!

The longer they talked about him like he was some sort of show horse, the harder it was to keep his temper.

He turned his face away from yet another stroke and froze.

Across the banquet hall, on the top step where everyone could see them, were the entrance doors. Until then, he’d been ignoring all the names being announced. And the habit made him miss the names announced just before he glanced that way.

But he didn’t miss her face. Even though he only had a second to see it.

The little girl followed an older woman down four steps onto the banquet floor. Which put her out of his line of sight, since she was so much smaller than most of the participants.

He turned away, heart pounding and thinking quickly.

“Mistress, would you like something to drink?”

Lady Arnold scowled at him for interrupting. He bowed his head respectfully. Trying to hide how anxious he felt.

“Fine.”

That was all he needed. Bowing lower, he backed away from the group of women. Who all erupted into more giggles over his ‘civilized behavior’ and ‘good manners.’

For an animal.

He slid through the crowd toward a refreshment table.

Since dinner would be served soon, the table held only drinks. Guests were free to take from the table, but most of the serving was done by servants and slaves. They’d refill their trays at the table and collected empty cups as they circulated the room.

He absently picked up one of the delicate wine glasses while looking around with growing anxiety.

Where was she?!

A little girl in this mob of adults should have been easy to spot, right? Well, perhaps not. The shortness factor was a problem.

Perhaps if he looked for the woman instead? What did she look like again?

Loitering by the table, he searched the room. He vaguely remembered gray hair, so she was older… Maybe that one? No. He didn’t see a little girl with her. Or that one?

There weren’t many women in the room with gray hair, but there were at least two hundred people to sift through. And they were all bunched together in groups or walking from group to group. It made it difficult for him to see anyone in particular.

If only he’d noticed what kind of gown the girl was wearing! Then he might’ve been able to look for color instead of faces.

Frustrated, he realized he couldn’t wait any longer and slowly made his way back toward his mistress.

He was nearly there when he finally found her.

When they’d greeted the woman, he’d noticed how ‘striking’ Duchess Waghorn was. She had all the features necessary to make you think ‘stern’ and ‘proper’. However, she broke that mold with thick laugh lines, and used styles and makeup that softened her otherwise severe features.

And with her was the little girl.