Page 153 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Her heart ricocheted through her chest as onlookers called her name, some with sneers in their voices and some with adoration. It didn’t matter which drove them, all made her sick.

Unstable, the accusation clanged through her.

Coveted.

Trapped.

“Ignore them,” Lola whispered, looping her arm through Emmeline’s and tugging her ahead.

“They aren’t worth it,” Myrella agreed, taking her other side.

Emmeline swallowed, nodding though her throat was thick. “We have more important priorities.”

Graves barked orders at the crowd, casting Emmeline a glance to ensure she was okay. Before disappearing inside, she smoothed her skirt one more time, the vials tucked beneath the piles of icy-blue fabric clinking together.

“This is going to work,” she swore in a whisper.

It had to.

The third trial was only days away.

They were running out of time.

The vineyard was a maze and carnival all in one. Tents had sprung up in paths between sections of grapevines, and games, vendors, or musicians waited around every corner.

Drinks flowed, children frolicked, and all the while, Emmeline’s heart pattered out of her chest.

Once inside, Lola and Desmond each headed to different areas of the festival—the former to socialize with highly ranked warriors she’d met at Rocarri’s prior affairs, the latter to mingle among strangers who looked deep in their cups. To Desmond’s great pleasure, Eston follow Lola.

Each took various forms of the incense, herbs, and oils Emmeline and Myrella had mixed, but Myrella stayed at Emmeline’s side, keeping the strongest strands of pressed oils and incense with them as they wound to the competitors’ tent where she had to make an appearance—the giant silver structure gleaming in the heart of the vineyard.

Emmeline and Myrella each took a glass of sparkling wine from a passing server and settled at a table in the back corner, Graves a few feet away. Though Emmeline had objected to him originally, she couldn’t deny she was getting used to his steady presence.

A few activities were set up in booths around the tent, the twinkling mystlights stringing along the peak reflecting in the shining wooden planks that had been arranged as a makeshift dance floor.

“I can’t believe I’m expected to bond to one of these men,” Emmeline grumbled, taking a sip of her wine as she watched competitors circle the room like vultures.

Myrella didn’t respond, and Emmeline nudged her. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Feeling okay?” she echoed.

“You’ve been quiet the last few days. Since the second trial.”

“The trial, yes. How was it?”

Goosebumps peppered Emmeline’s arms. “You don’t remember?”

Myrella’s shook her head, blinking rapidly. “Sorry, yes. I heard about it. I slept through it, though. Woke up when the sun was already down.” Her eyes went distant for a moment as she watched a wooden stand near the entrance to the competitors’ tent where a young couple strung up a lantern they’d painted, the mystlights within casting colors across their blissful expressions. “I’ve been…tired.”

She’d been coming out of her fog periodically, smashing the sculptures yesterday helping for a bit, but as they’d worked on the joint readings supplies last night, she’d fallen silent again. Around them, the crowd chattered and stringed instruments picked up speed, but Myrella’s sorrow permeated it all.

Fates, Emmeline wished she knew the right thing to say.

“Miss DeLeoste,” a voice interrupted.

Emmeline turned, coming face to face with one of the competitors in the tournament—the youngest, she recalled, a sweep of red curls across his brow. “Devinli,” she greeted pleasantly, feeling Myrella sink back to stand with Graves. “Call me Emmeline. Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Tremendously, Emmeline,” he said, green eyes glinting bashfully as he stepped forward and extended a heftily filled glass of wine. “I was hoping we could see some of the property together.”