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The grip on my arm tightens, and for one, terrible, free-falling moment, I’m sure that I’m done, headed for prison, the guillotine, or some other punishment I can’t even fathom.
With my heart practically pounding its way out of my chest, I’m about to let loose on my accuser, pull my dagger, do whatever it takes, when a charming voice says, “My darling, where have you been?”
My first thought is one of surprise that Braxton is here. He’s the only one who ever calls me that. Also, the words are spoken in English. But when I turn, I find myself gazing up at a tall, masked boy dressed in a resplendent costume with so many medals secured to his jacket, I wonder if he’s military, a royal, or both.
“I’m sure you have me confused with someone else.” I start to pull away, but his grip remains firm.
“Forgive me,” he says. Seeing my discomfort, he’s quick to release me and lift both his hands. “I didn’t mean to frighten. Rather, from the first moment I saw you, I found you so captivating, I knew I had to speak with you at once. And I am happy to see I am not proven wrong.”
My breath begins to settle. My pulse slows to a normal beat. He’s not accusing me of thievery—this is merely an eighteenth-century attempt at a hookup. And, since this is definitely something that wasn’t covered in my lessons at Gray Wolf, I must admit, I’m curious to see how it plays out.
“Are you always so forward?” I ask.
“I find it’s the quickest, surest path to getting what I want.” He grins in such a disarming way, I find myself instantly at ease. When the eyes behind the mask drop to the tarot cards in my hand, I quickly slip them back into my pocket.
The boy moves to stand beside me and gestures toward the night sky. “Do you ever wonder who else might be looking at that same moon—from somewhere clear across the world?”
Or even clear across the centuries.I crane my neck back and take in a star-studded sky adorned by a glowing half-moon.
The moon!
If Arthur is making me search for clues in the tarot, then is it possible this particular moon phase plays a part?
On the surface, it’s a ridiculous stretch, but I’m hardly in a position to rule anything out. I mean, why this palace, on this exact night, when there were loads of other large gatherings that took place in Versailles at various times?
My mind scrambles to collect whatever moon trivia I might’ve absorbed through the years. Something more than just Mason and me obsessing over our monthly horoscopes.
The half-moon is half lit by the sun; half hidden in shadow. It’s related to life and death—the rhythm of….time!
The Death card is ruled by the moon, and the Hermit card is linked to the moon. It’s all got to mean something, but what?
“Tell me,” the boy says, drawing me away from my thoughts and back to him, “are you enjoying the ball?”
When I turn to face him, my mind grows so hazy, I have the strangest sensation of looking at him through a very long lens that reaches far across time. I shake my head, try to clear the fog away, then set my focus again.
I was thinking about something before he arrived. Something urgent, hugely important, but I can no longer recall what it was.
I return to the boy, wondering what he might look like under that mask. He’s taller than me, not quite six feet, but in the vicinity, and he has the broad shoulders and solid build of someone who’s been trained for life on a battlefield. Though the mask obscures half his face, from what I can tell, his nose appears prominent, but he has the sort of strong jaw and square chin that are well able to support it.
I’m not sure if it’s the corset restricting my ability to breathe or the growing suspicion that I’m being pursued by someone I might’ve read about in a history book (had I bothered to read one of my history textbooks), but I’m beginning to understand why so many women were prone to fainting in previous centuries, because I’m starting to feel really woozy.
“The ball?” he repeats, catching me in the act of studying his lips, which are wide and generous and quick with a smile.
“Oh, I’m quite enjoying it,” I say, surprised by the ease in which I reply when I’m not actually sure if it’s true.
I mean, how did I even get here? Why am I standing on a terrace back in eighteenth-century France?
Am I dreaming? Like, the watch-me-fly sort of lucid dreaming I sometimes do?
Or is this actually real? Or maybe even one of Arthur’s holograms?
My mind is so blurry, it’s impossible to tell.
My gaze runs the length of the boy, coming to rest on the jeweled ring he wears on his right hand, then farther down to his polished black boots.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. There must be a right way to answer, but I have no idea what that is.
He leans closer, tilts his head in study. “Your accent,” he says. “I’m unable to place it.”
I gulp. Mentally flounder about for a suitable reply. In the end, I default to smiling coyly. “Anonymous, remember?” I gesture toward my mask.
When he laughs, I’m quick to join in. It’s the right choice to make, but I have no idea why.
When he suggests we go back inside and grab some champagne, I can’t think of a single reason to refuse.
