“Lady Maguire?”
I turned to see who the hell thought I was a lady. It was my page, a girl of about seventeen.
“Please, call me Petra,” I said.
She smiled politely, but I saw a brief flash of amusement in her fluorite-lavender eyes. She’d probably seen me fruitlessly fiddling with my hair.
“If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your dressing room now,” she said.
I strapped on my scabbard and held out my arm, indicating she should lead the way out of the locker room.
“How long have you been a page?” I asked her once we were out in the corridor and walking side by side.
“Just six months,” she said. She slid a look at me. “When I turn eighteen, I want to leave the fortress and live on the other side of the hedge. Get a job as a mercenary.”
I lifted my brows. “Really? What a coincidence you got assigned to me.” I gave her a wry look.
She shrugged a shoulder in a very teenage gesture. “Not the only reason, but yeah.”
“I bet you’re a handful for your father,” I said. “Let me guess. You and he butt heads about a dozen times a day.”
She let out a tinkling laugh. “How did you know?”
“Personal experience.” Poor Oliver. “Are you a good fighter?”
“Top three in my class, combat all forms, combined,” she replied automatically but with pride.
I gave her a nod. “Impressive.”
She smiled with delight at the compliment, revealing a dimple. Her eyes flicked to Mort on my back.
“Got a sword?” I asked.
She shook her head, her shoulder-length brown hair swinging a little. “Father wouldn’t buy me one. He thinks if I don’t have a weapon I won’t try to go into a dangerous line of work. That’s why I’m working as a page. I want my own blade by the time I turn eighteen.”
“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” I said approvingly. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Emmaline.”
“Pretty,” I said.
She groaned. “I know. I hate it. I wish my parents had named me something more bad ass.” She glanced at me quickly. Cursing on the job—even mild swearing—was against the page’s code of conduct.
I snorted. “Don’t worry, I won’t tattle on you.”
She steered me through the corridors in a way that was almost like leading me, but without walking ahead. Despite her little slip, I could tell she was good at her job.
“When you get out of the academy, look me up,” I said. “I’ll give you an intro at the Guild.”
Her mouth dropped open, and her pale purple-gray eyes widened. For a moment, she dropped both her professional fa?ade and her teenage pretense of nonchalance.
“Really?” She blinked at me. “You’d do that?”
I nodded. “Sure, I’d be glad to.”
“I—oh my gosh!”
Rather than respond, I brushed off her gratitude, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “Please tell me you’re coming to the Duergar palace,” I said. “I’m not built for courtly nonsense, and I’m going to need all the help I can get. Plus, it would be nice to know there’s another fighter in the group.”
She nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. Lord Lothlorien assigned me to you for the duration of the trip.”
I snorted a laugh. “Lord Lothlorien,” I mumbled to myself.
“Yes, Maxen?” Her brow creased in confusion. “I thought the two of you were long-time friends.”
“Yeah, we go way back,” I confirmed. “I just have a hard time thinking of him as ‘Lord Lothlorien.’ It sounds funny. Makes him seem so high and mighty.”
“Oh,” she said, carefully neutral and clearly not sure what the proper response was.
I cleared my throat. I shouldn’t have spoken so casually about Maxen, regardless of my personal history and friendship with him. He was the equivalent of a Fae prince. He would be prince if Marisol got her wish and succeeded in forming a Stone Court. Marisol and Maxen were the closest things New Gargoyles had to royalty. And in any case, I needed to shift into a more reserved mindset and conduct. I couldn’t get around the ridiculousness of formal courtly etiquette, but it served a person well to stay tight-lipped while at court. Gossip spread faster than balefire, and one wrong word or sidelong look could set off a cascade of whispers and backlash. I didn’t have the patience or personality to succeed at courtly games, so I’d just have to keep my trap shut to get through it.
“Hey, Emmaline,” I said. “Could you do me a favor? If I start running at the mouth when we’re in the Duergar palace, clear your throat. That’ll be the signal that I need to zip it.”
She squashed a look of amusement before it could fully develop. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Lady—uh, Petra.”
“Don’t bet on that.”
She pointed to a door with a plaque holder next to it. “Here we are,” she said, artfully avoiding having to respond.
The temporary plaque was printed with my name. She pushed the door open and gestured at me to go in first.
If Emmaline hadn’t been standing directly behind me and blocking the door, I might have turned around and left.
The room was a nightmare of pretty, girlie things. Racks of dresses, a styling station with a bazillion curling irons, makeup, and other tools of torture. And mirrors everywhere.
A very polished, made-up woman floated across the room at me, gracefully extending her hand.
“Lady Maguire, I’m so pleased to be working with you today,” she said in a rich, cultured voice. “I’m Vera, your head stylist.”
For a split second, I just stared stupidly. I’d never seen a New Gargoyle woman who seemed so thoroughly frilly, curvy, and feminine. But then I noticed her crazy-long eyelashes and realized she wasn’t full-blood. Probably at least a quarter Sylph.
I stuck my hand out and shook hers. “Pleased to meet you. And good luck with this.” I waved my other hand down my body.
She smiled at me out of the corners of her eyes.
“Challenged accepted,” she said, already reaching for my scabbard. I stepped back and removed it before she could put her hands on it.
“I’ll be waiting outside,” Emmaline said, and backed out the door. I shot her a look of desperation, but she just smiled demurely as she closed the door.
Two more women appeared from an adjoining room, and then hands were everywhere, undressing me, arranging me, pushing clothes at me.
“Help me, Oberon,” I whimpered.
The ladies just laughed.
Chapter 11
THE LAST TIME I’d been to court, I was a teenager and no one had made a fuss beyond forcing me to wear a dress.
“Really, there’s no need to go to such effort,” I said, my words muffled as one of the ladies pulled a horrible, crinkly, pale orange dress over my head. “I’m just tagging along. I’m not one of the important guests. No one is even going to care I’m there.”
“Every New Gargoyle who visits a foreign court is a reflection on her people,” Vera said. “As such, it’s our duty to ensure you make the proper impression.”