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Fia had never seen the shop so full before. It wasn’t too crowded, just enough people to fill the empty spaces so it felt cozy as people browsed and watched Penbrook work spell after spell.
From her place at the counter, Fia watched him too. He’d eventually taken up a position in front of the windows—stealing one of Fia’s stools—and passersby gathered on the other side of the glass, peering in as he cast illusions.
A teacup dragon, iridescent scales of the brightest green.
A necklace dripping with sharply cut sapphires.
A wreath of wildflowers for a soon-to-be bride’s hair.
Fia wished her mother could have seen the shop tonight. Her heart skipped a beat, wistful. And lonely. Even surrounded by all these people. She didn’t want to simply witness the night—she wanted to share it with someone.
Fia stole a look at Penbrook—but he didn’t count, did he?
Several customers gossiped around her, and she let them distract her. Luckily, the closest ones weren’t whispering their suspicions about her and The Book of Ribs.
“Which Madbury is it again?” asked a short man with wire-rimmed glasses.
The lady beside him adjusted her small veiled hat and said, with unwarranted confidence, “Pemberton.”
“The eldest?”
“Pemberton is a preposterous name. It’s Penbrook,” a second woman clarified, leaning into their conversation with an air of authority—and a great deal too much perfume. “One of the younger sons.”
“I hear the youngest is the most handsome.”
“That’s Leonidas.”
“I thought one of the daughters was the youngest.”
“Yes, Cordelia.”
“But the one who’s here…”
“I told you, it’s Penbrook. He’s the third son, or maybe the fifth?”
“Well, a Madbury’s a Madbury,” the first woman said flippantly, and they all chuckled behind their hands.
Fia frowned, surprised by how much their words bothered her. Disturbed that they considered Penbrook interchangeable with and indistinguishable from his siblings. All that mattered to them was the family’s status.
My name drew them, he’d told her that morning. Not me.
And Fia realized how, even with all these eyes so hungrily upon him, he must have felt that none of them truly saw him. She knew all too well what that felt like, especially after the incident at the library—and almost nothing felt worse.
She looked at Penbrook now, trying to see past his fine-cut suit and the magic whisking up from his fingers, but he’d encased himself in the performance, his too-sharp smile, his unflawed illusions, his remove from the people who applauded and begged for more. And she couldn’t help wondering if he was somehow playing a part, wearing the costume of a Madbury.
As if he felt the weight of her gaze, Penbrook glanced up, and their eyes met. He paused—the wisp of a butterfly unfurling from the tips of his fingers—and then he sent it spiraling. All eyes in the room followed its ascent except for Fia’s. She caught his mask breaking for one fragile second before the lopsided smile returned to his face. And his eyes skipped away from her own.
On wings like gold-veined glass, the butterfly flitted and fluttered, keeping out of reach of all who grasped for it until, at last, it alighted on Fia’s nose.
CHAPTER 8
Fia stared cross-eyed at the enchanted butterfly, which was even more beautiful up close. She could see every golden swirl racing through its wings, the dark eyespots imperfectly matched one side to the other, and the wispy edges like lace. Fantillian lace, she thought with a smile.
“You’ve got something on your nose,” a familiar voice said, amusement rounding the words.
Everything beyond the butterfly had blurred, and Fia refocused on the person now standing before her. “Grace,” she gushed, and the illusion flitted up, but not far, perching itself on a curl of her hair.
“Montrose is here too. Somewhere.” Grace craned her neck, looking over the heads in the crowd for her beau, as if he might get lost without her.
