I roll my tongue over my teeth, fighting back the scream of frustration that rises up inside of me.

  Olivia throws a sickly sweet smirk my way before she storms up the stairs and, passing Nikah, slaps her hand over the back of the servant’s head.

  Nikah hurries after my sister, murmuring squeaky words of apology.

  I loosen a quiet sigh, then turn on the parcels awaiting me.

  Not even the damper my sister draped over my evening is enough to spar away the small smile that takes my lips. With no one watching now, I slap my hands together and jump a silly dance on the spot. A mortifying squeal catches in my throat, but I’m not ashamed. My smile only spreads into an ear-to-ear grin.

  For the first time since I was a child—

  I have a new dress!

  *

  The carriage takes us to the edge of the Twisted Wood, and we walk the rest of the way on foot. Around us, the trees seem to warn us away with their bent trunks—they grow black from the root, taller than I stand, then creep over into an upside-down U-shape that leaves branches reaching to scratch us as we pass.

  The trail is narrow and windy, weaving around the hauntingly thin, charred-looking trunks of the crooked trees. I shadow my father and sister up the trail until faint lights start to wink ahead; parchment-lanterns, tied to low-hanging, crooked branches around the clearing.

  As we creep into the clearing, I’m instantly hit with the haunting darkness of it all. Even with at least a hundred Capital people swarming the area, it looks barren, like the Wood is always on just the verge of the Frost Season, dry enough, yet withered and dark.

  All foliage from the clearing has broken down to crisp leaves and black broken branches. Swarms of people, dressed in high-necked black coats and top-hats and corsets and riding boots, trample on the crunchy ground, and I fleetingly wonder if the God, Blaze, has scorched this land recently.

  Out of duty, I stick close to Father as he makes his early rounds. There is less expectation of me here than there is on the Day of the Gods, so I don’t have to stick it out for long. Just long enough for Silver to see me, see that I’m wearing what he demanded, and be dismissed by him. I might make it out of here before the sacrificing starts.

  Our family’s rounds move through the upper-class Capital folk. We talk with a noble family for a moment. When I was a child, I once envied the nobles. They want for nothing, they have the loveliest houses on the West Side, and they have the most wealth in the Capital. Then, I discovered how noble families come to be—they have lost a child or an ancestor to the Gods.

  Gods take many vilas as pets. But on rare sometimes, very rare sometimes, a God might fancy itself in love with a mortal. Like the God, Zealot. Every few centuries, he finds a musical mortal somewhere in the world, sometimes as far as the Commos Isles, and Zealot is instantly taken. It’s said he falls in love with music—the tunes that someone can make with a harp, the songs of a violin, the harmonies of voices. When he declares this love and steals away the object of his lethal affection, the family the mortal belongs to is given a noble title—and a hefty dowry. This payments sets up the newly noble family for generations to come.

  And that is how nobles are made.

  Most of the existing nobles in the Capital are ancestors of the mortals long gone to the Palace of the Gods. Most of their ancestors, like Zealot’s pet vilas, died long before their time. Because when one is Zealot’s love, and you dare to sing a note off-tune or break a violin string or ruin the melodies he so loves you for, the affair is over. You will be dead by sunrise.

  I think of Zealot and his many conquests as I shadow Father through the party. With each greeting, I grow more and more nervous. Thinking of how cruelly the Gods behave with their mortal lovers doesn't exactly put me at ease tonight, when I am only here at the command of an aniel wth a mysterious interest in me.

  Can’t help but throw my gaze around the clearing every few seconds, searching for Silver. I see no sign of him, not yet at least.

  And he should be here, shouldn’t he?

  He is, after all, the one who forced me into this celebration. He is the reason I wear this dress, and the cause of my sister incessantly throwing glowers at my new dress.

  And so she should be envious.

  This dress is darling.

  Lilac butterfly wings are sewn to the periwinkle, layered skirt that flows out like a bell and cuts at the cinch of my waist. But a dress can only do so much, and my frame still looks as slim and curve-less as it is. Still, I adore everything about this gown.

  I’m so often used to my stiff corset on show that I keep running my hands over the tight, silky bodice that replaces it. Ivory ribbons run down my back, tying the bodice in place, and I find it’s much more breathable than any corset I’ve ever worn. Where mine are thick, pinned with whale-bone and tight, this one is light and moulds to my chest like a second skin.

  Hidden under the skirt of my gown, my simple pair of ivory slippers crunch against the leaves and the branches. The slippers might not be extraordinary in design, but the soles are soft and embrace my feet like a pile of feathers on a fluffy rug.

  Hardly feels like I’m walking over dead foliage, but rather the soft sands of the shore by the docks.

  Despite the beauty of my dress, sadly no servants helped me braid my hair before I left for this celebration. And so it flows freely down my back, the sides pinched with fine hair clasps. It looks well enough, but it could be better done.

  Though I can’t deny I adore my new garments—lace gloves included—I can’t rid myself of that gnawing bitterness of doubt. Feels like bile in my belly and an ache at the back of my head. For, when dealing with an aniel, I’m sure there is a price to pay for all of this.

  Finally, Father stops at the last family of his rounds. Mayor West’s family.

  Mikhael stands beside his mother and, as we approach, his eyes widen as he takes me in. A hot flush gathers on his gaunt cheeks, but he collects himself quickly, and he throws his gaze down at the burnt ground to avoid me.

  I watch, narrow-eyed, as Olivia rushes to him and holds out her hands expectantly, as though they are delicate jewels that must be cared for. Mikhael, with a grimace that twists his face, takes her hands and plants chaste kisses on each.

  I make a sick face and roll my eyes.

  As I throw my eyes around, I notice him.

  Far across the glade, where the few aniels who supervise us vilas are gathered, is Silver. He talks into a red-headed aniel’s ear, his head bowed slightly. His eyes gleam like parchment-lanterns, and I feel them strike through me when he looks my way. It’s like being run through with a sword.

  For a beat, he just holds my gaze. I’m a fish on a hook. My breath is stolen with each second that passes, until he finally tears his gaze from mine and runs me over. He considers my gown, his face an impartial mask. Then he looks away and turns to his fellows, as though I suddenly don’t exist.

  A slight ache twists in my chest.

  Silly of me, but I expected—or even hoped for—some sort of reaction. Not just to be studied like a small stain on a rug. Maybe I hoped for a smile or, more realistically, a slight nod of approval.

  I ignore the ache and force myself to focus on Mayor West.

  “—docked at the Port this afternoon,” he mumbles to my father, his head dipped low.

  Secrecy; I sniff it out and my ears tickle.

  I inch closer.

  “A dozen of them,” he goes on. “Sailors confirmed the sightings, a squaller, too.”

  I’m practically leaning on the spot to pick up every word they utter.

  “Can those sources be trusted?” Father’s voice is taut, like violin strings pulled too tight. “Some diseased travellers and a peasant?” He thinks his station higher than it is. He forgets we’re from the East Side, not the West Side. “There are no other rumoured or confirmed sightings,” he adds. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Surely more reports would come in if they were here.”

  Mayor West parts his hairy lips to speak, but his eyes cut to me and he clamps his mouth shut. Father traces his gaze to my shuttering face.

  “Make yourself scarce, girl,” Father bites at me.

  A huff catches under my breath.

  I take some steps closer to Mikhael as Olivia is swallowed up by his mother’s favour. Gertrude grips Olivia’s slender shoulders tightly, and holds her close to better gush all about the budding wedding plans.

  It’ll be a big affair, a marriage between the two mayorship families.

  I steal a moment with Mikhael.

  As I slip closer to him, his face pales to sun-bleached parchment, and he makes to move away. I boot out at his ankle—an attack hidden by the thick and heavy skirt of my dress.

  He stills and, with reluctance that tenses his whole body to something stiffer than iron, turns to face me. “Keela,” he greets too properly for my liking. Nerves betray him as he fixes his inky black cravat, then straightens his exposed bone-white vest.

  Can’t stop my face from twisting at the formal sound of my name coming from him. “What are they talking about?” I throw a gaze at our fathers who still lean in close to each other, faces all serious-like, and shoulders stiffer than woodboards.

  Mikhael’s face doesn't relax. His mouth turns down at the corners. “Daemons, I think.”

  I blink at him. “No, they said something about sightings—”

  “I overheard Father in his office,” Mikhael mutters to me. All propriety has slipped away with the breeze, and a hushed excitement takes his tone. “The Daemons are in the Capital.”

  I shake my head, a small smile playing on my lips. “They haven’t been here in our lifetime,” I argue. “What reason do they have to return?”

  It has been decades since they came to the Capital. The black, shadowy mansion on the very edge of the Shadow Quarter stays abandoned. That’s the Place of the Daemons, perched on the farthest edge of the Capital, so far from everything that it’s basically outside the city, but it stands decrepit. No one goes near the place, not even caretakers.

  Mikhael shrugs and tosses a look around the dark, shadowy clearing. “Who knows? Maybe they have business with the Gods. Maybe they are merely passing through, they could be on their way to the Wild Woods.”

  He leans closer slightly, a move I would have missed if I wasn’t watching him so closely.

  “Did you receive my note?” he mutters under his breath.

  My nose crinkles.

  I think on it a beat, two letters springing to mind. The invitation to the boutique in the Emporium Quarter. And the torn scrap of parchment with no sender and a strange word scribbled on it.

  “Intrak?”

  “Shh,” he hisses at me, his eyes wider than plates. He looks around at our families.

  Olivia is still enamoured by Gertrude’s promises of glittering pink flowers and a bridal dress from the West Side, and Father and Mayor West are stuck to their muttered conversation.

  “Don’t say it so loud,” Mikhael chides, his voice all hushed secrets and whispered dangers. “You can’t say it to anyone. No one, Keela.”

  “What does it mean?” I ask blankly. The urgency of his panic astounds me. Mikhael is either sullen or friendly, there is no blossoming fear within him.

  It piques my interest in a word I’ve since forgotten about among being swept away to the boutique, being cornered and dressed by an aniel, and being forced to attend the Tribute to the Daemons.

  Mikhael’s widen eyes cut to our fathers. “You won’t find the answer in books or in the good side of the Capital,” he tells me. “I know where you venture for your remedy—and other things. Look there. That’s all I can say.”

  I part my mouth to respond, but just then, Gertrude reaches out for her son and throws me a withering stare.

  “Mikhael, won’t you tell Olivia how wonderful the Gods’ Gardens will look at twilight. Perfect for a wedding,” she says and guides Mikhael away from me.

  I pucker my lips into a pout as I’m left alone on the outskirts of the small gathering. After a few moments, I mosey off, realising I’m far from wanted and I won’t get another chance to corner Mikhael and peel away answers from him.

  Along the way of my meander, I pick up a wine glass and find myself at a fallen tree, overgrown with moss and dead leaves. I perch myself on it and stare at the thin, strewn-about crowd in the clearing.

  The Tribute to the Daemons doesn’t go on nearly as long as the Ball of the Gods. But it’s too soon for people to leave, since the sacrifice hasn’t even started yet. Still, I watch families sneak off down the narrow, crooked trail to the edge of the Twisted Wood, where the carriages await our return.

  Wish I could slip away, too.

  But I’m here because an aniel demanded it, and since I haven’t uttered a word to him tonight, I can’t be sure my premature departure won’t offend him.

  Across the clearing, Silver prowls through the throngs of people. My breath catches at the sight of him , dressed head-to-toe in all ivory attire. Toned legs are embraced by expensive-looking breeches, white ankle boots contrast with black soles, and—somewhere along the way—he lost his coat to the Twisted Woods, and ambles in just his unbuttoned silky shirt and loose cravat. The ivory ensemble, with his striking pallor, gives the eerie impression of a marble statue come to life.

  Everyone tenses as he passes, and the way he moves makes me think of a wild beast, lazily wandering through a field of prey. All the lantern-lights seem to find him, giving his marble-like complexion a faint glow. He is moonlight embodied, and he doesn't even look my way.

  I stay perched on the mossy tree-trunk for the better part of the night. It’s only when the sacrifice starts—and an old man willingly kneels in the centre of the clearing—that I walk off to the trail.

  I hide in the shadows of the Wood, close enough to hear the cries of fright, the song of the blade come down on his neck, the crunch of bone, but far enough that I can protect myself from seeing any blood spatter through the air or any family members weep for their loved one. Even the volunteers are mourned.

  But even hidden, one can’t escape the wretched sound of a heart being ripped out of a chest. I slap my hands to my ears for that part.

  The sacrifice comes and goes, but I don’t peel myself away from the tree I lean against. I let my head fall back against it and I shut my eyes on the sea-chill that rustles the branches.

  I listen to the song of the Wood—until it’s interrupted by dead leaves crunching beneath boots.

  “With a dress like that, one might think you would want people to see it.”

  I stiffen against the tree. My eyes snap open and I find myself staring directly into two moonglobes.

  Silver’s eyes gleam something wicked at me. He takes a step back, props up a polished boot on a boulder, then then lights a slender black cigarette.

  “People did see it,” I argue lightly, careful not to push the boundaries too far. But I was in that clearing for at least an hour before Silver came to find me. It’s because of him that I’m still here, waiting for his permission to leave.

  “It’s beautiful,” I add, running my hands down the skirt. “Thank you. But I still have to know—why did you go to this effort for me? Surely I’m not the only vilas in the Capital with a sad story.”

  He takes a long inhale from his cigarette, his eyes on the trail some metres away from us. “Perhaps I harbour some favour for you,” he tells me and my insides constrict.

  I part my lips as if to speak, but nothing comes to me. I just stand there, looking like a stunned fish in a net, my clammy hands twisting into fists.

  He looks at me, his steely eyes cutting me deep, and I can’t force out the breath trapped in my chest.

  “Fond, perhaps,” he adds. Silver blows out a sliver of smoke. “The way a mortal might feel about an injured pet.”

  My mouth flattens. “I should tell you now,” I start. “I have little interest in being an aniel’s plaything.”

  I know the stories. I know how mortals end up after dallying with the Gods and aniels. And I best make my thoughts clear before he gets any wild ideas.

  “I want more than what you can offer me,” I add. “And more than you would ever want to offer.”

  Because that’s the kicker, isn’t it?

  Aniels can care about their plaything-mortals. But the way that aniels care is unlike anything us vilas know. They care by control, manipulation, and gifts. And when that ‘care’ abruptly stops—like it always does, just like with the Gods—the vilas is left utterly destroyed, sometimes dead.

  It’s not uncommon for the mortals who mess around with the aniels to end their stories by jumping off the cliffs down to the rocky waters. And the aniels never care enough to even bat an eye.

  For the last few months or years—or even weeks—of my life, I want a safe place to call my home, someone to look after me, and security. Three things I’ll never get from an aniel.

  Silver’s teeth flash with a wicked, one-sided grin. It shivers my spine as it looks more like a snarl, like he’s ready to take a bite right out of me. “You want someone to protect you, provide for you—is that it?” The mocking edge of his voice cuts me.

  My jaw sets.

  I fold my arms over my bodice and meet his stare. “I want someone to love me. That isn’t uncommon, you know.”

  He tosses his head back and lets out a wicked laugh. It clenches my insides, sends a blob of lead to my gut.

  “Mortals and their obsessions with love,” he mocks, and flicks some ash down at the dirt between us. “It is a deadly thing,” he tells me. “Love. It is ugly and painful and, when true, utterly rare.”

  “It’s safe,” I argue stiffly.

  “Not when it is true love,” he says, then takes a breath from his cigarette. Smoke clings to him. “It’s something to be avoided, not hunted. It will rip your heart right out of your chest.”

  I study him through the snares of smoke for a long moment.