The morning of the ball dawned with the kind of crisp, golden light that poets write about and normal people find mildly irritating. Evan, being firmly in the latter category, stared out his window at the perfect autumn day and wished for rain. Or a minor plague. Anything to cancel the evening's festivities.
No such luck.
His rooms had been turned into a staging ground for the evening's transformation. Tailors, hairdressers, and at least three people whose only job seemed to be holding pins and looking expectant stood around like an audience waiting for a performance to begin.
"Black and silver," the head tailor declared for the seventh time, holding up swatches of fabric that shimmered with inner light. "To match your... aesthetic."
"My aesthetic is 'confused and under-caffeinated,'" Evan muttered, but he let them dress him anyway.
The final outfit was a study in dramatic contrast: a black velvet coat shot through with silver threads that gleamed like trapped moonlight, moving on their own to catch the light. Trousers of charcoal grey that fit perfectly without being restrictive. Boots polished to a mirror shine that reflected the room around them. The Carter signet ring glowed on his finger, the sapphire pulsing softly in time with his heartbeat. The moonstone cufflinks had stopped glowing, thank goodness, but they hummed faintly when he moved.
"You look," Emma said from the doorway, "like someone's idea of a tragic hero. Very dramatic. Very brooding. Very 'I have secrets and also excellent bone structure.'"
"You're supposed to say I look handsome."
"You look handsome like a dagger looks sharp. It's impressive, but you could hurt someone." She entered, dressed in her own ball finery—a gown of deep green that shifted to blue in certain lights, like forest shadows or deep water. Her hair was piled in an elaborate arrangement that probably had its own name and lineage. "Ready for your debut?"
"To be paraded around like a prize pig? Absolutely thrilled."
"Prize pigs don't usually get to drink free champagne." She adjusted his collar, straightened his cuffs. "Remember: smile, nod, don't agree to anything, and for the love of all that's holy, don't dance with anyone you don't want to marry."
"That's a long list."
"Then don't dance at all. Claim a magical condition. Say your feet are... temperamental."
The afternoon passed in a blur of last-minute preparations. Evan was measured, polished, coached on which nobles were important (all of them), which were dangerous (most of them), and which were both (a distressingly large number). Finch appeared with a list of "suggested conversational topics" that included the weather, the harvest, and "the remarkable stability of the realm under Her Majesty's wise rule."
"Try not to mention the suspicious ledger," Emma added helpfully. "Or the hidden magical artifact. Or the fact that you're being pressured into military service. Or that you made friends with a hedge."
"Small talk only. Got it."
As the sun began to set, painting the palace in shades of rose and gold, the first carriages arrived. Evan watched from his balcony as nobles descended, their finery glittering in the twilight, their faces masks of polite expectation. Music drifted up from somewhere—the orchestra tuning up, practicing.
He was the entertainment. The main event. The mystery to be solved.
He had a sudden, powerful urge to turn into a bird and fly away. But even as he thought it, he knew his magic wouldn't cooperate. It would probably turn him into a better bird. A perfect bird. With excellent plumage and a superior singing voice and opinions about migration patterns.
No, he was stuck. Trapped in velvet and expectation.
Time to face the music.
Literally.
***