One night later, Arista stood alone at the entrance to Lady Carstair’s opulent mansion. The three-story home towered over the street, and every single window shone with light. Through the wrought-iron fence, Arista could see a pair of ornately carved lions sitting sentry on each side of the enormous front steps.
Even from the street, the soft strains of music drifted through a thick row of hedges, adding to the exclusivity of the event. This affair was anything but a typical public masquerade.
Arista gnawed nervously at her bottom lip. The strings to her mask seemed too tight suddenly. Around her, people moved toward a lone, gloved servant standing sentry. Only those with the correct invitation were allowed in.
Bones’s newest client must be someone very important if they frequented a party of this caliber. Typically, the information was passed to Nic, who then brought Arista to the planned rendezvous; but this time, Arista had been handed a card directly from Becky. And Nic had not yet joined her.
After the kiss last night, Nic had taken her hand and led her back to the house. Not a word had passed between them. She knew with a sinking clarity that Nic thought she had accepted his offer. She had not tried to persuade him otherwise, either. In truth, she still couldn’t quite believe what he had proposed. Surely he didn’t really mean to betray Bones?
All the next day, Arista waited for Nic to come to her room. She waited until Becky told her she had another task, a last-minute meeting. Arista figured Nic would be there waiting to escort her, just like always. But he wasn’t. Arista had walked to the address alone. Maybe he would meet her here.
“Your card, miss?” The butler had turned to her; it was her turn.
Arista gripped the card as tightly as possible, and took one last look over her shoulder for Nic before moving toward the man. The black card in her hand simply had an address in gold foil on the back. She waited to be called out as a fraud and turned away, but the butler took the card from Arista and ushered her through to the magical world that lay hidden behind those stone walls. Behind her, a vocal woman dressed as a queen was denied entrance.
Arista followed a wide path edged with glass-encased candles. It wound through shrubs and aromatic flowers, opening into a small garden. She walked around the edge, fighting the growing apprehension in her stomach. Without Nic at her side, she felt vulnerable. A few heads turned to watch her as she made her way down a second walkway.
Arista had always skirted the edges of crowds, blending in to remain anonymous, but tonight, she felt noticed. Rarely did she attend such intimate gatherings with so few people. The crowds of a public masquerade helped her to blend in. Here, every swish of her dress could be heard as she tried to keep from running back out through the gates. Her neck prickled.
Only the weight of her knife against her thigh kept her on task.
Arista moved on; her chin lifted. Enormous crystal vases of lilacs and roses had been placed along the crushed-shell walkway, and the heady scent brushed over her skin like a gentle caress. Everywhere she looked, couples were hidden away in the darkness. Soft chuckles and long sighs pierced her head like arrows. The party had a decidedly different atmosphere than any other masked ball she had attended. The others were full of gaiety and fun, but this party had a distinctly indulgent air—and with good reason.
Lady Carstair was well known for the exclusivity of her guest list for her masquerades. The King himself could be in attendance, though Arista had heard a rumor that he had been excluded on purpose after a particularly rancorous evening. She could not imagine how one would enforce such a restriction if the King showed up at the gates.
There were unspoken rules about not revealing what went on at these private events—or who attended—and to speak of it would ensure permanent removal from the list. A punishment worse than death to those who craved excitement. Arista had only heard about these parties, had never been invited until now.
The pathway opened up to an even larger, more opulently decorated garden. On a raised dais, backlit by enormous floor-to-ceiling glass doors, sat a string quartet. All of the players were dressed as fairy folk. Soft strains of cello and violin drifted past her, adding to the decadent feeling that hung thick in the night air. The music did not encourage dancing, but instead created a sultry mood. A woman drew her bow across the strings of a violin as light reflected off the blue crystals that adorned her eyelids.
Why had Bones acted so out of character by sending her here alone? If any meeting required a diligent chaperone, it was this one. Arista could not stand still, so she walked along the outside edge of the garden again. A couple sat partially hidden by ornamental shrubs. When Arista turned her head away, the feathers on her mask swayed gently. Even they seemed invitingly sensual in their movements.