His smile was a poison that stuck in the mind once seen. He crafted himself this way, all sharp teeth and straw hair. The moment Julian Lestrange entered a room, all eyes were drawn his way. None dared look away until his gaze shifted to meet theirs, a dance of dominance played out amongst predators. The prey revelled unaware, drinks lifted to their lips and chatter loud enough to drown the tension his presence brought.

The ballroom was well lit, grand chandeliers hung overhead where crystal and gold reflected both light and colour across the dance floor. Dancers swayed and laughed along with the melodies masterfully provided by the musicians, for nothing but an orchestra was good enough for this function. The King swept in, magnanimous and late, a spectacle of colour and good cheer. The whispers rising in his wake went ignored by him and his doting courtiers.

“How long has it been?”

“A little over a year. That’s why for all the colour and grandeur.”

“Mm, mourning is officially done.” A sniff and a dour glance toward the King.

“Oh, Mama, timing how long mourning takes is ridiculous and antiquated.”

“There are rules, Mathilde. One must follow them.”

“Ah, yes, let’s agree with her right there, Mathilde. She’ll start up about the wicked things you’re inviting into your life if you break all the rules.”

“I will do no such thing, Edward. If she doesn’t know by now how to avoid bargains with the fair folk, it is not my fault.”

“Oh, for all that is holy,” Mathilde said with a huff. “I was merely trying to say healing is an individual thing, not a race.”

The young woman hoisted her heavy skirts in one hand and flounced away. Deep brown curls bobbed next to her ears as indignant as her expression. Julian strode along in her wake, a glass of wine lifted from a tray of a waiter he passed. She stopped next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the garden and leaned up against a pillar with her back to the dancers.

“You’re right.”

Mathilde jerked at the sound of his voice; a soft gasp wrested from her lips. Skirts swirled when she turned to face him, one hand braced on the pillar she’d been resting against. Dark brown eyes slid over him in quick assessment. His ears pricked at the second small gasp to escape her. The corners of his lips twitched then curled upward in a smile.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your comment on healing being an individual thing.” Julian stepped up next to her, making it easier for them to talk with the crowd at their backs and their voices dwindling. “Some will take a lifetime to overcome grief.”

“Oh, right, yes.” Mathilde gave him a quick smile and eased her posture. Her figure turned about to resume leaning on the pillar, her gaze half on the garden and half on him. “And some seem over things in a flash.”

“Could you forget another so easily?”

Her head tipped up, lips parting slightly yet her response was delayed by the moment it took her to consider. An eyebrow arched, slender and delicate set in a face that was round and pleasing, Julian found.

“I could say no, but there’s always exceptions to every rule, isn’t there?” She said, with a shake of her head. Her gaze dropped toward the dainty slippers adorning her feet.

His laugh was a delight to hear, a rich ring in her ears long after the sound ceased. “So there is. Most that come into my life I do not forget. A reason exists for every path crossed in earnest. Now, I’ve heard a curious rumour, my lady, about you and the King?” Curiosity lifted his voice at the end of the query making apparent the lilt in his words, an accent she otherwise might not have noticed.

“You’re from the North?” The astonishment widened her eyes. His question left her blinking at him dumbly. A shake of her head and a quick apologetic smile preceded her reply. “Apologies, Lord LeStrange. I heard you were a confidante of the King, so I am surprised you hail from the North, since I thought it common knowledge the King does not hold any favour for the rebels. What rumour have you heard, my lord?”

“Ah, yes, you aren’t wrong about his views. However, us Northerners are not all that bad or uncivilised. Some of us are quite willing to listen to a good deal.” Julian smiled warmly at her, the arch of his lips stretching a touch wide.

The lady shifted her weight, easing her shoulder from the pillar. “Of course. I didn’t mean to say I found you unpleasant, Lord LeStrange.”

“Mm.” They stood in silence for a few breaths, gazes turning to the dancers to watch them move through their well practised paces. “The rumour I heard is that you’ve caught the dear King’s eye, Miss Morrow. Quite the accomplishment. He’s barely glanced at the ladies at Court in recent times. How did you do it? Some have bets you’ve cast a spell on him.”

That earned him a sharp look from her despite the note of amusement in his voice. “I have done no such thing.”

He slid her hand into the crook of his arm and gave it a light pat. “Oh, of course not. I hardly believe in such things. Fanciful stories and little more, Miss Morrow. Walk with me? The gardens are lovely.”

They weren’t alone. Other couples and groups had taken to stepping outside. The cooler air was a welcome reprieve to the growing warmth of the ballroom. Julian led her along a path that meandered between a patch of roses on one side and a copse of taller, fragrant trees on the other side, heavy with white and purple lilacs. In the centre of the copse was a clearing boasting a stone fountain and bench. The fountain top was shaped into a ring of pixies, the water pouring upward from the middle to cascade down in a graceful arc toward the basin.

“How charming,” Julian said. They stopped to admire the fountain, the nearby lamp post illuminating the sculpture work. “Do you believe in the Fair Folk, Miss Morrow?”

“Oh, it is lovely.” She stepped closer to the side of the fountain, a gloved hand resting on the stone ledge. Coins glistened inside the shadowed basin, catching the lamp light. “Not particularly, Lord LeStrange. My mother fervently believes in them though. Goes so far as to leave small plates of cream and cakes for them on the windowsill at night during the High Holidays. But tiny bug-like beings?” She huffed out a laugh, yet her gaze rose to linger on the ring of dancing pixies.

Julian’s smile snaked all the wider. His fingers deftly slid the leather gloves from his hands. The crunch of his polished shoes on the gravel walk came nearer where she stood with her back to him. His eyes closed, and he drew in a deep breath, taking in the floral scent of the lilacs and the more human musk of her. His bare hand came to rest on her shoulder, fingers curling in hard and sharp nails biting in deep enough to make her yelp.

“We are hardly bug-like, Mathilde.”

Her scream rang throughout the copse. Birds rose in a squawking mass over the garden, startled from their nests. The tree branches ladened with green leaves, and purple and white flowers quivered and shook. Their scent joined the coppery smell of the blood seeping into their roots. Blossoms drifted to blanket the ground, coating the steady creep of roots and vines swallowing down the latest offering beneath the dirt.

“And the King has no interest in the likes of you.” Julian murmured, licking the mess from the tips of his fingers and receding claws. He tugged his leather gloves back on. “Not when he has the likes of me.”

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