Finn leans in close to my ear. “Do you like it?”

“How is it done?”

“They’re all royals; Albion does not have a monopoly on magic blood. Though we have far more magical blood, it’s also more generally diluted. This concert happens once a year as a sort of demonstration to remind us that other countries are working with the same advantages we are.”

“The Hallins.” I remember the name from my history text. It’s the family that all the Iverian continental countries pull their royalty from.

“Very good. There are only two royal lineages: our ancient Crombergs, and the Hallin line.”

“So that’s why some of the smaller continental countries will buy royal family members to be their monarchs. I thought it was simply for show, an issue of pride.” A few years back some of the more influential families on Melei began talking of pooling our resources to buy a royal family for the island. The notion was quickly dismissed by the magistrates—and deemed treasonous to prevent it from coming up again.

I wonder now if the people behind the idea knew about magic. How would Melei have been different if we had been working with the same advantages as Albion?

Finn continues. “It is all a matter of balance. We have magic, so do they. Though many wars have been fought in the past, the last century has seen an uneasy peace. The two lines do not share secrets or knowledge, and the scales remain relatively even. Crombergs have strength of numbers, but Hallin magic is far more powerful.”

“So Albion and the Iverian continental countries can ward each other off. But what of the rest of the world?”

“It is a problem,” Finn answers, then leans back, effectively ending the conversation. I try to lose myself in the swirling lights and stirring melodies again, but I keep coming back to that: it is a problem. For whom?

The music is over far too soon. Real lights, the electric ones that anyone can see and appreciate, come back on. Sir Rupert’s wife startles awake with a tiny snort, and I marvel that this is so mundane in her world.

We walk down a grand, red-carpeted staircase to the main floor where the chairs have already been cleared and servers are making the rounds with trays covered in drinks. Finn takes one for me, but I haven’t the stomach for it. It reminds me too much of the gala and what happened afterward.

Several of the visiting royals go out of their way to wish Finn well. There is an odd sort of tension there, like they are not sure how friendly to be with him. One woman kisses his cheeks and murmurs something about his mother, but the room is so loud with conversation that I don’t catch most of it. Many of the Albens around us watch Finn’s interactions with narrowed eyes.

Other than Finn, the visiting royals seem content to talk to no one. The atmosphere between them and the Alben gentry is tense, buzzing with the same undercurrent as the lights above us.

Then Lord Downpike enters the room with a woman on his arm.

Eleanor.

She’s wearing blue, her hair pulled back to expose the creamy expanse of her neckline, her lips painted dramatic red. She meets my eyes and though her smile does not move, her eyes are screaming with terror.

Twenty-one

“FINN.” I SQUEEZE HIS ARM SO TIGHTLY MY FINGERS cramp.

He follows my gaze to where Lord Downpike is smiling at us, Eleanor at his side.

“Spirits take him,” Finn curses. “He won’t harm her—even he wouldn’t dare go so openly against Lord Rupert. He’s trying to make a point.”

“And what point is that?”

“That he still has options when it comes to hurting us.” He sees the look of fear and dread on my face, then pats my hand. “Never mind. I have it under control. Wait here.”

He leaves me standing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by glittering strangers. I have never felt so helpless and alone.

I loathe feeling helpless.

I watch Finn stride toward Lord Downpike and Eleanor, Lord Downpike’s smile growing bigger and bigger, too big to fit his face, so sharp I wonder that it does not cut his cheeks.

“Are you quite well, Miss Olea?”

I turn to see Lord Rupert’s wife looking at me with concern. She’s on Ernest’s arm, who is watching Lord Downpike and Finn with narrowed eyes.

“I am . . . I am fine, yes, thank you.”

She follows our eyes and notes Finn and Lord Downpike having what appears to be a pleasant conversation, but one punctuated by a strange number of hand gestures. Lord Downpike flicks his fingers, Finn taps his cane, Lord Downpike makes a swirling motion as though illustrating a point, Finn slashes his cane through the air.

“Ah, men,” Lord Rupert’s wife sighs. “From the nursery to the Noble House, they never can stop fighting.” She pats my shoulder with stiffly detached sympathy. “They’ll sort it out. We needn’t worry ourselves over these sorts of things.” She yawns behind a gloved hand, covered in rings. “Hmm. Gallen pastries. Excuse me.”

She walks past with a whiff of stingingly floral perfume, and I watch her go, aghast. Could she not see the fear in Eleanor’s eyes? Does she care so little for the welfare of her own niece? Worst of all, is she really so accustomed to being pushed to the sidelines she no longer sees any evil in it?

“Aren’t you going to go help?” I ask Ernest. I turn to him and am surprised to see him watching me with a look of accusation. “What?”

“I advised you to leave Eleanor alone.”

“She’s my friend.”