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Fia clutched her skirts. “Mr. Smith.” Somehow she managed a smile, though it felt utterly wobbly and misshapen, as she stood before the person releasing curses throughout Trivoris.

For a moment Sebastian said nothing, and it was even more uncomfortable than the time she’d bumped into him on the street. She wondered if he even recognized her. If so, he gave no indication.

He canted his head, hair slanting across his eyes, and he must have heard the last whisper of her spell—Will you let me find you?—for he asked, “Who are you looking for?”

“Not you,” she said, before she could stop herself.

Someone else might have scowled, or even laughed, but his expression remained unchanged, as if he didn’t think anything of her comment one way or the other. His neutrality chilled her more than the night-cold breeze.

“Aren’t you enjoying the ball?” he asked finally, brushing a wind-tossed leaf from the sleeve of his velvet coat.

She’d expected an accusation about the grimoire, not worry over his party. Maybe he really didn’t know what she and Penbrook had done. And if that was the case, the last thing she wanted to do was make him suspicious. Fia tried another smile and turned for the porch, the hem of her gown much too obviously trailing dust.

“It’s lovely.” She darted a look to the side for any sign of the attendant returning, or the carriage, but neither appeared. “I just… needed some air.”

He went with her up the steps, a careful distance between them—as if he was as wary of her as she was of him. “Yes, me too.” As an afterthought, spoken more to himself than to her, he added, “Maybe I’m not one for parties.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, wondering why he sounded so uncertain.

They entered the foyer, and his eyes refocused, latching onto hers. “But I wanted to meet you.”

“Me?” Fia peeped. He couldn’t have meant her specifically. He must have simply meant that he wished to meet all his guests, and as she and Sebastian hadn’t yet spoken, he hoped to catch her now.

Slowly, he walked into the room with the piano, and not knowing what to do, she scurried after.

“Would you leave without a dance?”

Dance, dance, dance, his voice echoed against the tall ceiling.

“Here? There’s… there’s no music.” She pushed out a confused laugh.

He didn’t so much as twitch, but the room swelled with music as the piano against the wall began to play, its keys clicking down with invisible fingers—evidence of his mastery of magic. But she’d known that about him already, what with orchestrating the theft at Thistledown. Calling an instrument to play must have seemed entirely basic to him.

Sebastian stood in the center of the room, unassuming, without pressuring her closer. If anything, he looked almost lonesome, like he might have forgotten she was there at all. Not that she felt in any way sorry for him.

Again, she reminded herself not to act suspicious—and what guest wouldn’t accept a dance from the party’s gracious host? So she went to him, pushing back all her worries, and offered her hand. He lifted his own to hers—his palm cold, his touch gentle—and she glimpsed a calligraphy of ink at his wrist.

“Is that—”

“Not at all what you might imagine,” he said elusively.

When she looked closer, the would-be words were gone. Maybe it was a strange bit of residual magic or a loose thread—not a tattoo. Either way, he clearly thought it none of her business. “Sorry,” she said.

They fell into a stiff, inelegant position, a respectable amount of space left between their bodies as they circled the empty room. But they were close enough that she caught his scent of ink and ashes, as if he’d lit a fire in the hearth upstairs and sat there all day without clearing the old chimney’s flue.

Round and round they went, no more words between them as their bare feet brushed over the old wooden floor. Which was a perfectly reasonable way to dance, except it felt like she’d slipped out of the real world, and they might spin through this room forever like voiceless, string-wrought dolls.

He seemed immune to the awkwardness, as if taking a turn through the abandoned room were no different from dancing with the other guests outside. Fia couldn’t sort his intentions. Perhaps he was toying with her now and would then mercilessly call out her theft at the end of the song, locking her away in one of the empty rooms upstairs where no one would find her.

Apprehensively, she tilted her head. “How… have you been settling into your new home?” Though the question was polite, it landed uncomfortably, given their neglected surroundings.

“I’m quite unsettled,” he said.

She flinched, trying to hide it with an intentional misstep. “Um, yes. What a project this house must be.”

Sebastian glanced at the room blurring around them, his gray eyes dull and disinterested, then turned his face back to her with more significance. Because, of course, a sinister magician releasing curses for unknown reasons wouldn’t want to talk about himself. “Tell me something of yourself, Miss Ives.”

Her name on his tongue startled her, but maybe it shouldn’t have. She’d found him out, so it was only logical he’d found her out as well. But he made no threats or accusations, and with a sliver of curiosity in his eyes, only waited for her to answer him.