Daevyn lifted his champagne flute towards Lord Eastern as the other noble happened to glance their way. Sterling acknowledged the gesture with the smallest inclination of his head, the faint smile that crossed his face carrying far more warmth than the carefully guarded expression he presented to most of the Court.
"You know Lord Eastern?" Lysara asked, immediately wishing she had chosen something more intelligent to say. Beside Daevyn she felt hopelessly ordinary, all the confidence she normally possessed abandoning her beneath the effortless ease with which he seemed to navigate every conversation. She wanted desperately to make him laugh, to appear witty and interesting, yet every thought dissolved before it reached her tongue.
"Our paths crossed recently," Daevyn replied with easy warmth. "One conversation rather unexpectedly led to several shared business interests."
"What sort of business?" The words had scarcely left her mouth before she wanted to snatch them back again. It sounded dreadfully like she was enquiring after his fortune, exactly the sort of question her mother would have considered unforgivably gauche.
Fortunately, Daevyn only smiled. "House Eastern has invested heavily in the Human Realm over the past few decades. I am looking into business opportunities there."
"I've spent the last several years in the Human Realm," Lysara was relieved that he hadn't taken offence. "I quite enjoy it there."
"It is a diverting place."
The silence that followed felt comfortable rather than awkward. Around them the celebrations continued, crystal glasses catching the afternoon sunlight while conversations drifted lazily across the gardens.
Lysara became aware that Daevyn's attention had wandered briefly towards the orchestra, where the singer's rich voice floated effortlessly above the music.
She followed his gaze.
The woman really was astonishingly beautiful.
A curious knot tightened somewhere beneath Lysara's ribs before she deliberately looked away, lifting her champagne to her lips in the hope that the cool bubbles might calm the ridiculous nervousness fluttering through her chest.
"Would you care to dance?"
Daevyn’s question caught her completely by surprise.
"I'd love to."
Relief flooded through her. If there was one place she had never lacked confidence, it was a ballroom floor. Her mother had insisted upon dancing lessons almost as soon as she could walk, convinced that every young lady should move gracefully enough to hold her own at Court. Lysara had loved every lesson, finding in dance the same quiet discipline she found in painting.
She surrendered her half-finished champagne to a passing attendant just as Daevyn offered her his arm.
His hand settled lightly against the small of her back as he guided her through the gathering towards the dance floor, the warmth of his touch reaching her even through the delicate silk of her gown. She became absurdly aware of every place where their bodies almost touched, her imagination supplying altogether improper thoughts of what his skin might feel like against hers.
The orchestra slipped seamlessly into a waltz as he drew her into his arms.
He danced with the quiet confidence of a gentleman who had spent years mastering the art until every movement had become instinctive. His lead was effortless, allowing her to surrender completely to the music as they glided together across the polished floor. She scarcely needed to think; every step seemed to flow naturally into the next, as though they had danced together a hundred times before.
"The orchestra is excellent," Daevyn observed as they completed another graceful turn.
"Very."
Lysara glanced briefly towards the musicians, though from her position she could see little beyond the sweep of bows across strings and the elegant silhouette of the singer standing before them. Daevyn, however, had a clear view of the orchestra over her shoulder, and she found herself wondering—not for the first time—whether it was the music that held his attention, or the beautiful woman singing.
"I don't believe I've seen you at Court before," he continued, his gaze returning to her.
A flush warmed her cheeks.
"I've spent the last several years in the Human Realm."
"Have you?"
There was genuine interest in his voice, not the polite curiosity she had expected.
"I was studying."
"But you are home now."
She nodded.
"For Niava's wedding."
She had imagined returning to Faerie would be bittersweet, a brief visit before continuing the life she had carefully built amongst humans. Instead, everything had changed the moment green eyes had met hers across the ceremony. For the first time since leaving Paris and Etienne, she found herself imagining a life in which she never returned. The future she had planned seemed strangely distant, replaced by impossible dreams that unfolded one after another every time she looked at Daevyn.
She caught sight of her parents watching from across the gardens and couldn't suppress a small grimace.
Their delight was written plainly across both their faces.
The Ashwyns had not been born into the old nobility. Their place within Winter Court society had been earned through her father’s remarkable success in the Human Realm, where a single inspired idea had grown into a commercial empire worth more gold than many ancient Houses possessed. Gold could not buy nobility amongst the Fae, but it could open doors that had once remained firmly closed. To see the heir to House Vale dancing with their daughter was, to them, a glimpse of a future they had scarcely dared imagine.
"You dance beautifully."
His voice startled her from her thoughts.
"Oh." She laughed softly. "Thank you. My mother enrolled me in lessons almost before I could walk."
"I understand entirely."
"You do?"
"My mother was convinced no son of House Vale should disgrace himself at Court by standing against a wall all evening."
His eyes glinted with quiet amusement.
"I suspect she was really determined that someone would dance with her."
Lysara laughed.
As the orchestra changed tempo, Daevyn altered their steps so naturally she scarcely noticed until they were moving more quickly across the polished floor. He guided her through a series of elegant turns that felt increasingly intricate, each flowing seamlessly into the next, and she followed without hesitation.
His eyebrows lifted.
"Well."
"What?"
"Someone was paying attention."
"I did enjoy my lessons."
"So I see."
Around them, other couples gradually drifted towards the edge of the dance floor, leaving the centre to those more confident in the changing tempo. Lysara barely noticed. Dancing had always possessed the same quiet certainty as painting. Once she surrendered herself to the rhythm, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
"I confess," Daevyn admitted with an easy smile, "I'm suddenly rather grateful to my mother's persistence."
The music reached its triumphant conclusion.
Applause rippled across the gardens as he spun her gracefully into a curtsy before drawing her upright once more.
The orchestra gave way to polite applause as attendants wheeled the wedding cake into the centre of the marquee. Around them, conversation softened while the guests gathered to watch Niava and Jodryn cut the first slice together beneath a shower of silver confetti and sparkling glamour.
"Your father tells me you're an artist," Daevyn said during the lull that followed the speeches. "House Vale has accumulated quite an extensive art collection over the centuries. I enjoy looking at it, but I confess I know very little about what we actually possess."
Lysara looked up at him with immediate interest.
"Would you consider visiting the estate?" he continued. "I'd value the opinion of someone who understands such things. Perhaps you could tell me which pieces deserve restoration, which belong in the galleries... and which should remain safely tucked away."
The invitation carried rather more weight than his casual tone suggested.
Among the old Houses, opening the private galleries to an outsider was no small gesture of trust.
"I would be delighted," she replied, unable to suppress her smile.
"I'm relieved to hear it."
Before the conversation could continue, another couple swept a little too enthusiastically across the dance floor.
"Oh!"
The lady's heel caught the embroidered hem of Lysara's gown.
There was a sharp tearing sound.
The woman stopped so abruptly that her partner almost collided with her.
"My goodness!" she gasped, horror flooding her face as she looked down at the damage. "I am so terribly sorry. I didn't even see your train."
"It's quite alright," Lysara assured her immediately, stooping to examine the tear. Several inches of the delicate embroidery had come away from the hem where the stitching had caught beneath the lady's shoe. It was unfortunate, but hardly beyond repair. "These things happen."
"I've completely ruined it."
"You haven't," Lysara said with a reassuring smile. "Please don't distress yourself."
The lady thanked her profusely before allowing her partner to lead her back towards the dance floor.
Daevyn’s expression was thoughtful as he examined the damaged lace. "Can it be repaired?"
"Oh, yes." Lysara laughed softly. "If you'll excuse me for a few moments, I'll mend it before it unravels any farther."
"Of course."
His smile warmed.
"I'll be here when you return."
She inclined her head before gathering the damaged skirts carefully into one hand and making her way towards the embroidered privacy screen where Niava had dressed before the ceremony.
She slipped behind the embroidered screen and immediately found the little dressing table exactly as Niava had left it. Hairpins lay scattered beside an open jewellery case, half-empty champagne flutes stood forgotten beside bouquets of white roses, and cosmetics.
Lysara inspected the damage to her skirt in the mirror. The embroidery itself hadn't torn. Only the stitches holding it to the hem had given way.
She smiled with relief.
She gathered the loose embroidery between thumb and forefinger, whispering a tiny domestic charm. Frost-white threads shimmered briefly beneath her fingertips, drawing themselves neatly back into place until the gown remembered the shape it had held that morning. The enchantment would last until she returned home, where she could mend it properly.
She took a moment to touch up her lipstick and coaxed one rebellious curl back into place.
Beyond the screen, the singer laughed into the microphone.
"I'll leave you in the capable hands of these wonderful gentlemen for the remainder of the event..."
Warm applause followed as the orchestra struck up another piece.
Satisfied that her gown once more appeared respectable, Lysara turned towards the opening in the embroidered screen, intending to return before Daevyn wondered what had become of her.
"Please don't leave just yet."
Her fingers tightened around her skirts.
She knew that voice. Daevyn.
"I'm afraid I have to," the singer replied, her own voice carrying the warm, smoky quality that had held the wedding guests spellbound all afternoon. "I'm not one of the guests, my lord. I was engaged to sing a set number of songs, nothing more."
"I had hoped we might speak a little longer."
The singer laughed softly. “Come with me then.”
He gave a quiet laugh. "You make it sound remarkably simple."
"It is. We’ll just get into a carriage and go. Who is there to stop us?”
"I'm afraid my situation is somewhat… complicated."
"No. I think you're making it complicated."
Lysara hesitated. She knew she ought to announce herself. To step around the screen and save them both the embarrassment of believing they were alone.
Instead, she remained perfectly still. But they did not. She caught only the briefest movement through the narrow gap in the screen as the singer stepped closer, one elegant hand resting lightly against the front of Daevyn's jacket as she rose onto her toes and kissed him.
It was not a lingering embrace. There was nothing theatrical about it. It was a simple kiss, offered with a certainty that somehow made it infinitely more intimate than any grand declaration might have been.
When she drew back, she smiled. "Just… Come with me." She turned and walked away.
For the briefest moment, Daevyn remained where he was and then… he followed her.
Only then did Lysara realise she was still clutching the repaired hem tightly enough to crease the silk.
How absurd.
She had allowed herself to believe that a gentleman's courtesy had meant something more. A dance. A smile. An invitation to view his family's paintings.
How quickly imagination transformed kindness into hope.
The strange certainty she had felt when he had taken her hand during their introduction suddenly seemed laughably naïve. A trick of nerves, no doubt. Perhaps the champagne had been stronger than she had realised. She had woven impossible dreams from nothing more substantial than a handsome smile and her own foolish heart.
"Stupid girl," she murmured beneath her breath.
"When we start talking to ourselves like that," a woman's voice observed from somewhere behind her, "there is very little hope of anyone else being kinder."
Lysara started violently, heat flooding her face. She had not only been discovered crying, but listening to a conversation that had never been intended for her ears.
"I... I'm sorry," she stammered.
The beautiful blonde regarded her with mild curiosity as she flicked a loose strand of honey-gold hair back over her shoulder.
"Never apologise," the woman said, retrieving a tiny silver compact from her handbag and inspecting her reflection. "Even when you're entirely in the wrong."
Lysara blinked.
"All right," she managed uncertainly.
The woman smiled to herself before stepping closer. From her bag she produced a neatly folded handkerchief and, without asking permission, gently dabbed away the moisture gathering beneath Lysara's eyes.
"There now."
She pressed the linen into Lysara's hand.
"Blow."
Lysara obeyed before she had quite realised she'd been instructed to.
"Good."
A soft brush appeared next, carrying the faint scent of violets as the woman dusted a little colour back into Lysara's cheeks.
"Men," she declared matter-of-factly, taking Lysara's chin between surprisingly gentle fingers, "are spectacular fools. Most of them are hardly worth ruining perfectly good cosmetics over."
Heat flooded Lysara's face.
The woman studied her for a long moment before giving a tiny, knowing sigh. "You thought you'd found something extraordinary."
It wasn't a question.
Lysara looked up in surprise.
"I've seen that expression before."
She uncapped her lipstick, carefully refreshing the colour before offering it across.
"Here."
Lysara accepted it automatically.
"We've all mistaken a handsome face for destiny at least once." She smiled ruefully at her own reflection. "Some of us more than once. Don’t bother yourself over it." She inspected her reflection. “One last bit of advice,” she said over her shoulder as she tucked her purse under her elbow and stepped over to the screen. “Never, ever, let a man see you cry over him.”