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Chapter Text

Lucien shuddered with revulsion, then spit on the ground, trying to get the oily residue of the Wall’s awful magic out of his mouth. Should have brought something to eat, he cursed himself, though with the glamour in place over his features, he couldn’t risk any crumbs or liquid marring the effect, making his ears or mask visible to any curious humans who had the misfortune to look his way. He’d have to kill them, or suffer the fate of poor Andras, who might still die in vain, if he couldn’t knock some sense into Tamlin, or get Feyre to trust them.

He hadn’t crossed the Wall in an age, long before Tamlin’s curse had turned the crossing into an act of rebellion as well as a death sentence, and was determined to get this mission over with as quickly as possible, and get back to the manor before Feyre noticed he was missing. Emissary business had been his excuse, and it was true enough. Where he was headed, and to whom, he had kept to himself. For if his mission failed, and he returned unsuccessful, Feyre would probably hate and fear them more than ever.

Just check on them. That was all Tamlin required of him. Reassure Feyre her family is cared for. That would make her more pliant, was the hope. Make her stop trying to flee, and more receptive to Tamlin’s advances. If he ever makes any.

Lucien forced his fists to open, his fingers to unclench, and took deliberate strides through the forest, crunching his boots in the old encrusted snow to scatter any creatures that might overcome their fears and become curious about him. He was the predator here, every inch the fox his mask advertised him to be, and he feared very little, not even little humans with ash arrows. That, at least, had gone to plan.

Almost. It had almost gone off without a hitch, except for Tamlin’s own pigheaded stubbornness. Lucien had been sympathetic, then frustrated, then livid, the longer Tamlin avoided their human guest entirely or, worse, triggered her ire with his clumsy, confusing behavior. Lucien had never known Tamlin to be so tongue-tied around females, so thoroughly flummoxed and befuddled that it was almost funny.

But Feyre was no ordinary female, he supposed. She was the one destined to break their curse, the human who’d brought Andras down with hate in her heart. It hadn’t been hard for Lucien to lean in to his anger and deep disdain for what she’d done, though he’d had to keep up that facade far longer than he preferred. All he really wanted was to beg her to give Tamlin a chance, to stop hating them and look around, see how much better she might have it, if she could only bring herself to let go of her prejudices. We all want to love you, if you’d let us, if you would only love our High Lord long enough to free us.

But he couldn’t do that, even if his tongue had been unbound, even if he could have told her everything without hesitation. As long as Tamlin was determined to avoid her, Lucien had to be standoffish, just friendly enough to keep her from running off, but not so friendly that she truly latched on to him. He couldn’t risk the human developing feelings for him, not when it was Tamlin’s curse that needed breaking.

For Lucien was cursed as well, but it was one that could never be broken. It scarred more deeply than anything Amarantha could inflict on him, no matter how hard her nails raked across his skin. Nothing would ever erase what was done to Jesminda — no number of pretty human huntresses could rescue him from that everlasting sorrow and shame.

Happiness for Lucien was out of reach, deservedly so. After he’d put his love at risk like that, ignoring all of Eris’s stern warnings, tempting the wrath of his asshole father, he would accept his penance, forever in exile, forever alone. All he could do was throw in with Tamlin, drag him towards love and happiness clawing and kicking, hope like hell that the human wasn’t too stubborn to keep up her hatred of faeries until it was too late for them all.

Go check on her family, had been Tamlin’s orders. Give her assurances that they’re cared for. And if Tamlin was getting Lucien out of the way, ensuring Feyre’s attention didn’t fall unduly on him, that was so much the better. She felt more like a scrappy little sister anyway, though the thought of Feyre subject to his father’s tortures and whims made him as ill as the Wall’s disgusting magic. There was a reason his mother had borne only sons, and it wasn’t to puff up Beron’s boundless ego.

Lucien slowed his pace, noting that the forest was growing sparse, that the smokestacks of the first village were puffing half-hearted breaths of steam into the air. It was still winter here in the human lands, though the snow was giving up the fight, cracking and melting under the weak sun, which still managed to find Lucien even amidst the skeletal trees. He would have to tread carefully here, glamoured though he was, for he was not at all certain that Tamlin’s magic was strong enough to keep his mask fully hidden, especially as he got further south of the Wall. He would stay out of sight, spy on the Archerons, then slip back across, no one the wiser for it.

The clearing opened out onto a muddy road, and Lucien followed it, his instincts tugging at him to head towards the market square, where he was sure to overhear gossip or whispered conversations, perhaps get a hint as to where the new estate was being constructed.

Tamlin had been generous with his funds, a century’s worth of tithes bundled into the back of a carriage, determined to pay whatever was required to buy Feyre’s family not just comfort, but security. With that money they could hire mercenaries to protect the whole village, plant groves of ash trees, even command a fleet of ships to evacuate from the territory should Hybern decide to pillage these lands. Lucien hoped against hope that the silly humans would be wise with their spending, though given how Feyre had described her loved ones, he rather doubted it.

Why does she love them, exactly? He had never quite mustered the courage to ask her that.

He passed by a trio of hooded figures, nearly stumbling when he saw they were dressed like priestesses, then sighing with relief when he saw they were merely humans bearing the silver bells of the Children of the Blessed. He’d received a few of Cresseida’s messages that way over the last few decades, wondered where she’d come by mortals willing to serve faerie masters, but had gotten an earful from the fawning human creatures about how lucky they were to be in Prythian. He’d quickly sent them back across the Wall before they could fall on their knees before him, or offer him their services. He doubted any of these younglings had encountered him before, or knew anyone who did, for mortal lives were so fleeting, so quickly spent. Still, he avoided looking too closely at any of them, on the off chance one might recognize him from an old fairy tale, and make a ruckus in the market square.

Lucien forced his steps to be casual, unhurried, made a show of browsing at a few stalls, jingling coins in his pocket, smirking when he noticed one makeshift stand selling masks such as one would wear to a party or a ball. He had long since made peace with his own stupid mask, or at at least called a truce with it, after long years of fruitlessly prying at it, casting his weakened fire at it in vain attempts to melt it, succeeding only in singeing his hair and spreading an acrid stench that had never quite come out of the curtains.

He knew that under that mask were the deep scratches Amarantha had carved into him, though why she hadn’t simply killed him, he still didn’t understand. Perhaps she’d tried to impress Tamlin with her kindness and generosity — by taking his eye and leaving the rest of him, instead of destroying everything but the eye, as she’d done to hapless Jurian.

It was as close to luck as Lucien would ever get.

He’d thought he’d need to skulk and hide, that his fox mask would arouse suspicion. But if the humans were wearing masks — 

He grinned, rather foolishly. Maybe I need not worry about my glamour, after all.

Lucien kept walking, a lightness to his steps, letting the path lead him along, past the market and towards the slowly winding road up the hill, where the larger and grander estates were spread out. He didn’t need directions to know that the Archerons would build here, that they would settle right back into high human society, and the grand chateau looming in the near distance, still under construction, called out to him just as surely as if some wicked magic was beckoning him there.

There was a flutter of movement on the path just in front of him — two females turning onto the road, walking at a brisk pace, one taller and regally straight-backed in her simple gray dress and thick fur-lined cloak, her chin high in the air, her hair braided back into a tight coronet around her head, giving her a queenly aura. Lucien didn’t need to see her face to know that her expression would be haughty and forbidding, especially as she addressed the graceful, curvy female in an icy tone. 

“— hands are filthy,” the haughty one spat. “And only hours til the ball.”

“Oh, Nesta,” sighed the lovely female next to her, her golden brown curls dancing down her back as she turned towards her companion, giving Lucien a partial view of her lovely face, her cheeks flushed from the lingering chill in the air, her rosy lips parted into a patient smile. She was dressed simply in pale pink, her own cloak draped softly over her flowing dress, and Lucien’s heart clenched at the sight of her. “There’s time to wash. And I’ll be wearing gloves, anyway. No one need know.”

He suddenly recalled that Nesta was one of Feyre’s sisters, and he congratulated himself on his good fortune, guessing that the other female was the middle sister, if Feyre’s descriptions had had any accuracy to them. 

“Elain,” Nesta persisted. Elain. Yes, that was the other name Feyre mentioned. Lucien’s blood fizzed with excitement. Elain, Elain. “The ground is still half-frozen, and this ball is important. Couldn’t you have waited?”

“I could. But the bulbs couldn’t,” Elain said reasonably. “They’re meant to be planted in early spring, so that they flower by midsummer.” She looped her arm through Nesta’s, and though the taller female stiffened, she soon relaxed again, accepting her sister’s gesture of affection. It was so charming, so domestic, that it made Lucien’s heart break a little for Feyre, for she had described no such affection between herself and her two sisters, only endless arguing and resentment. Feyre saw her sisters as burdens, as obligations, while they evidently saw each other as friends and companions.

Now he could tell Feyre that he’d seen her family up close, that they were attending balls, that they looked well. Very well, he thought appreciatively, letting his eyes drift up and down, getting a hint of the second sister’s full figure, enticing even through her heavy cloak. He could leave now, head back to the Wall, back to prodding Tamlin.

But his stubborn feet kept taking steps forward, trailing the sisters, and he thanked the Mother for his excellent fae hearing that let him eavesdrop on their conversation, so that he could follow from a comfortable distance, avoid arousing their suspicions.

“Is your mask ready?” Nesta was asking, her tone softer, less confrontational.

Elain sighed, her hair fluttering again. Lucien had the insane urge to touch it, to see if it was as soft as it looked. Focus, idiot.

“I don’t see why we have to wear them. It’s silly,” Elain complained. “I’d much rather see the faces of my dance partners.”

Dance partners. Lucien scowled at that, of the thought of trifling human males and their stupid hands on her body. He knew exactly what they’d all be thinking, and wondered if this sweet creature would slap them if they got too forward.

Nesta would slap them on her behalf, he decided. It was almost a comforting thought.

Not that he cared, of course — he was only concerned on Feyre’s behalf. He knew their father hadn’t been well, might be unable to duel with rogue males who trespassed on his daughters’ honor. But Nesta would be a formidable opponent. He could see why she and Feyre would butt heads, even from this brief snippet of an interaction.

“It’s a masquerade ball. The masks are required,” Nesta explained, her voice straining towards impatience. “Everyone will be wearing them.”

“No one will see me,” Elain fretted. “They’ll think I’m plain, if they can’t see my features.”

Oh, I doubt that very much, Lucien smirked, stifling the impulse to chuckle aloud. Elain was beautiful, by any standard, even though she did not have the shimmer of magic and allure that fae females were blessed with. She didn’t need it. There was something so utterly lovely about her, some essential charm or sweetness that Lucien couldn’t quite put his finger on, that he didn’ doubt she would have every male, and half the females, swooning over her by the end of the evening.

“You’ll be the most beautiful one there,” Nesta declared, and Lucien heartily agreed. “Even Clare herself won’t outshine you.”

“Oh! Don’t,” Elain protested, her cheek flushing a darker pink, spreading right to the rounded tip of her ear. “Clare is a dear friend, and it’s her night, after all.”

“So it is. The Beddors are show offs,” Nesta grumbled, though there was no real bite to her words. “Imagine all this fuss for a sixteenth birthday party.”

“Father would have done the same for us, if he could have. Mother would have insisted,” Elain said, her voice suddenly a bit strained. Lucien recalled that the Archeron matriarch was long dead of some mortal disease, the father addled with some mind sickness and old wounds that Tamlin had sought to cure with his limited magic. “Don’t deny Clare her happiness just because we were not so fortunate.”

The sisters kept walking, and Lucien let them go. He couldn’t bear to hear any more of the conversation, couldn’t listen one more second to that sweet creature extend kindness to others, after the years she’d had to suffer in that hovel he’d passed on his way through the forest.

You have what you need. You should go.

But Lucien couldn’t bring himself to leave, not yet. Not when there was a masquerade ball to attend.

* * * *

The Beddor mansion was easy to find - it was lit up with glowing candles against the darkening sky, festooned with imported flowers of many kinds, and the line of carriages and horseback riders further indicated that the event was happening at this grand estate. Lucien supposed that Feyre had not had much chance to interact with other humans of wealth and status, or she might not have been quite so outraged at Tamlin’s rich estate and what she perceived as its frivolous excesses.

He straightened the lapels of his silk green jacket, hastily purchased in the market, as he hadn’t thought to bring any of his own better outfits on what he thought was a scouting mission through the forest. It fit him well enough, though the fabric was rougher and less finely spun than he was used to. He was rather glad for the scratchy sensation against his skin, actually, for it was helping to keep him grounded, cool his blood, remind him that he was a faerie among mortals and that he could still ruin everything if he wasn’t careful.

Lucien had removed the glamour on his mask, which glinted in the candlelight, and tucked his ears under his braided hair, though he’d left some strands loose, figuring it would look more like mortal-fashion. He was rehearsing his cover story, should he be questioned by some sentry or party-goer, when he felt a forceful tug deep in his ribs, and he knew without having to check that the Archerons had arrived. He chose not to think about why he should feel anything of the sort, what wicked magic might be afoot, and casually strode towards the main ballroom instead, as though he were an invited guest.

Wouldn’t be the first party I’ve crashed. Nor would it be the first party he might be chased from, if things went badly. But he wouldn’t have Cresseida and Varian with him this time, and there would be no ocean to jump into to swim away —

It was too heavy, thinking about his Summer friends, what horrors Adriata might be suffering. And he couldn’t concentrate on that anyway, not when Elain Archeron was walking right towards him, on the arm of an older male. It could only be the Archeron patriarch, he thought, noting with satisfaction that the man walked easily, with animated eyes that took in everything. Tamlin will be happy to know his cure worked wonders.

Nesta was on the male’s other side, having exchanged her simple gray gown for elegant purple velvet and an ornate golden mask that made her look rather imposing, like a queen or a goddess. Lucien didn’t doubt that most men’s hearts would quiver to look at her, that only the most daring would meet those stern searching eyes, and only those who took their lives in their hands might risk asking Nesta to dance.

But Elain took his breath away entirely, for entirely different reasons.

Her mask was golden in color as well, wrought in the likeness of a delicate doe with golden antlers, and he felt rather like a predator indeed in his own fox mask, like he could snap her up and steal her away. He’d heard tales of such things, of faeries who snatched sweet delectable humans and carried them off, and nearly chuckled when he thought about how Tamlin had done exactly that, though with a more bellowing and clawing, and less heady romance, than he ought to have done.

Lucien would never do such wicked things, of course, but as he watched Elain curtsey to their hosts, then giggle excitedly as she embraced a younger female — Clare, the belle of the ball, he supposed — he heartily forgave himself for indulging in the fantasy.

You can go now. You have what you need.

But before Lucien could take a single step towards the exit, or contemplate how he might excuse himself if any of the party’s hosts intercepted him, he suddenly found Elain standing before him, quite alone.

Oh, gods.

She was looking at him so openly, so expectantly, that his lips parted of their own accord, and words tumbled out. “You make a pretty fawn.”

Chapter Text

Elain gazed up at the mysterious man, so impossibly handsome, and more forward than any man had ever been towards her at a ball before. He was looking at her forthrightly, one eye blazing with interest, the other a mechanical wonder, a golden orb that clicked and whirred, moving across her face as though it could see her. His long, satiny fire-red hair seemed to ripple down his back, mostly loose — some continental fashion, she supposed, for the men in her territory cropped their hair close, and would never braid it, though she had to admit it looked very well, especially on such a handsome creature as the man standing before her now.

He’d spoken to her first, so she supposed it was only proper that she answered, though by rights she should have turned her back against such poor manners, showing indignation that he hadn’t waited for a proper introduction. Though he spoke and acted like someone of high rank indeed, someone who needed no introduction at all. Still, he was far more muscular, more substantial and pleasing, than any pampered prince or duke had any right to be.

Suddenly Elain was grateful for her mask, after all, for it would hide her furious blush. Don’t stare at his muscles, it isn’t proper.

“Why — thank you,” she said, letting herself take in his face fully, admiring the firm set of his jaw, the high cheekbones, the golden brown skin that seemed to glow almost as much as his golden mask did in the firelight. “You’re a fox, I suppose?”

“Indeed,” the man said, bowing his head in acknowledgment, before winking his russet eye at her. “So I’m told.”

“Oh,” Elain said, half-gasping, half-giggling, taking his meaning. Her gloved hand flew to her mouth, then fluttered back down.

The mysterious man was a fox, in every sense. Though his mask gleamed brilliantly in the candlelight, highlighting the rich inlaid gems and delicate metalwork that set him apart as one of the ton, or even royalty perhaps, there was something deliciously rough about him, something wild and clever that set her blood racing in a way that Elain had never experienced with any man before.

Be on your guard. Elain knew that men could be devious, take advantage of unguarded girls, even the richest — especially the richest, for they could buy their way free from consequences, while a girl’s reputation might be ruined beyond repair. The scars raking down his left cheek, only partially obscured by his fine fox mask, spoke to past dueling, or some sort of violence, that was quite at odds with his easy manners.

So she drew herself up, determined to keep her wits about her, and cast about the room for her father, who was already deep in conversation with the other gentlemen, trusting his daughters to hold their own. Nesta, for her part, was glowering at the windows, staring out as though she might see all the way into the village, or further out towards the Wall.

The man gestured towards the drinks table set up in one corner of the ballroom. When Elain nodded, he offered her his arm, and she took it, desperately trying to hold steady at the first brush of her gloved fingers against the satin of his jacket. She knew without looking that many eyes would be upon them, that the handsome stranger would catch the attention of every eligible girl in the room, that some of the men were sizing him up, whether as a business partner, or patron, or rival, and she strove to calm her pounding heart.

It’s just a ballroom, and he’s just a man, like any other, she told herself firmly, though she didn’t quite believe it.

Elain turned her face up to the stranger, who was looking down at her with a bemused, almost teasing expression. She said carefully, “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Are such formalities necessary, at a masked ball?” the man asked teasingly.

“All the more necessary, since we can’t see each other,” Elain said. The man’s mechanical golden eye clicked, as though it were some nervous creature, and she gave a startled little laugh. “That’s not part of your mask, is it?”

“It isn’t. But I see just fine,” he assured her.

They reached the drinks table, and the stranger offered Elain a glass of wine, which she accepted with more or less steady fingers. “You haven’t been around these parts before. I’d have recognized you,” she said, almost accusingly.

“True enough. I’m from a faraway kingdom,” he said, his eye clicking again strangely as he said it, and a strange discomfort washed over Elain, some prickling sensation that it wasn’t quite true, or that he was somehow ashamed of it.

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” Elain said, surprised at herself again for being so outspoken, but then she flushed pleasantly as the uncomfortable feeling eased. “I’ve heard there are tulip fields on the continent, as far as the eye can see. Have you never happened to see them?”

“Not yet, but it sounds delightful,” the man said wistfully, sliding a bit of loose hair back from his golden brown skin, which was smooth and radiant, even in the dim candlelight of the ballroom. Elain wondered at it, at this exotic stranger who had traveled to their little village. How does he know the Beddors? A business partner, I expect. “Where I’m from, though, we have flowers aplenty. More varieties than anyone can know the names of.” A strange gleam came into his eye then, and he said, “It’s a gardener’s paradise, actually.”

“Oh?” Elain said, a bit breathlessly, suddenly realizing that she was leaning forward, and took a big sip of her wine before she could unleash a torrent of too-familiar personal questions. All of this was highly improper, but there was something about the anonymity of wearing masks, and this dark handsome stranger from some faraway land, and the way he was looking at her, that was making her over-bold, and she blurted, “Does this place have a name, then?”

“It does,” the man went on, his voice dropping to a low whisper, as if he was about to impart some great secret. “But I’m afraid it’s closed to visitors. We’ve had some trouble recently, what with the blight and all.”

“Blight?” Elain asked, wrinkling her nose. “Like a fungus?” She had heard of such things, of plant diseases, rotting and ruining whole harvests.

The man laughed heartily, startling a smile to her own lips in response. “I wish it were,” he declared, taking a sip of his wine. “Like a fungus. I’ll remember that.”

Elain had no idea what was so humorous, but decided she shouldn’t pry further, instead saying, “In any case, I’m sorry to hear it.”

The man bowed his head to her in gratitude. “You’re too kind.”

It was nothing, to express concern for a land afflicted, but Elain accepted the compliment anyway. She knew what it was to be hungry, to struggle, and her own fortunes had been so recently reversed that the memories were still fresh. A little kindness would have gone a long way during those lean years. It hadn’t been until dear Aunt Ripleigh sent for Feyre that their luck had begun to improve, so much so that it seemed almost preposterous, how lucky they suddenly were.

They each took a few silent sips of wine, then Elain asked, “Do you dance, sir?”

The stranger grinned roguishly. “Only when I’m asked by very beautiful women.” When Elain just gaped at him, he held out his broad hand to her. “Where I’m from, either sex can do the asking. But I see I must be more gallant here, polish up my manners. Very well. May I have this dance?” He leaned in conspiratorially, adding, “I promise not to step on your toes.”

Elain blushed, for he was so near to her now that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, almost like fire danced just beneath his skin. It made her wonder things that no lady should be wondering about, at least not until she was in her own marriage bed. But her face was safely hidden by her mask, so she let the feelings wash over her, then placed her own gloved hand in the stranger’s, a little frisson of excitement running through her as his strong slender fingers closed around her own.

Elain had danced with men at balls before, had clasped hands, had let them press their palms to the bodice of her dress, or across her back, just as long as the dances lasted. But this simple touch from this stranger felt intimate, as though she could feel his warm skin pressing into her own, despite the gloves she wore.

She looked up nervously into his eyes, but only teasing warmth met her in return, and she breathed out a sigh, settling into the idea of the dance even as they took their places on the ballroom floor. It was just a dance, after all, and they were in public, with her father and sister in attendance, where anyone could witness it. If she felt at all laid bare by the feel of his hand holding hers, or the way his eyes rested appreciatively on her, she could chalk it up to her own silly notions.

Whispers and murmurs skittered after them, speculation about the handsome masked stranger and the Archeron girl, and she thought that the stranger suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable, like he was unused to this sort of attention. Was there really such a kingdom where such men were so common that this fellow wouldn’t stand out? She rather doubted it. He would outshine even a king in his castle, she thought, and she felt a bit rustic and dowdy as she took her place in the line with the other ladies, poised for the dance to begin.

Her stranger lifted his chin, and extended his hand as the other men did, and when the music began, his steps were steady and fluid, as though he was born to the movement and the song. Elain’s breath caught at the sheer grace of his body, how his muscles moved beneath his elegant jacket, and remembered only just in time that she was meant to be moving as well, that she had to take steps, and place her hand on his shoulder just so, and twirl in time to the rhythm.

Her partner’s hand splayed out on her waist, expertly pivoting and spinning her, and she let out a little gasp of delight as she whirled and he caught her, then sent her pirouetting again. Her body felt loose and free in his hands, moving with an ease and lightness that both exhilarated and startled her. She spun around, her hands coming up to his shoulders, and her heart caught in a stutter of excitement as their eyes met, some unspoken communication passing between them that Elain couldn’t articulate the meaning of, yet understood perfectly well.

“Remarkable,” her stranger murmured, more to himself than to her, and Elain felt a strange fluttering in her ribcage, even as she was looped and twirled again, her feet barely touching the floor before she was pressed up close against her partner’s chest. Elain felt like she was floating above it all, watching herself like she might watch a performance, and she wondered who this young woman was who was so bold, so sure in all her movements, and who this man was who seemed to know just how to place his hands to catch her, then free her, then catch her again.

Elain stared at her stranger, her fox of fiery gold, her lips brimming with questions, none of which she knew quite how to ask. Who are you? How did you learn to dance like that? And why do I feel like I know you when I’m sure I’ve never seen you before?

The music crescendoed, the dance reaching its final heights, and Elain gasped as the stranger spun her one last time, whipping her around exuberantly and then lifting her up, his hands blazing trails of heat against her waist and hips. Elain’s fingers sank into the sleeves of his jacket as he gently lowered her, the tips of her toes grazing the floor before she was fully planted on her feet again.

He picked me up like I weighed nothing.  

Elain laughed, a sparkling, surprised laugh that trilled out of her before she could repress it into a proper, more ladylike sound, and her stranger flashed her a brilliant smile. “See? Your toes are unscathed,” he proclaimed in triumph, before bowing to her formally as the dance concluded, and Elain sank into a curtsy as etiquette required.

Suddenly there was clapping, and then Elain’s dear papa was drawing an affectionate arm around her. “Bravo, my dear. I confess I’ve not seen you dance quite so prettily before,” he crowed, pecking her cheek just underneath her mask, which suddenly felt heavy, unwieldy, though up until this moment she’d barely noticed it at all.

Her fox had gone still, observing, and her father extended a more or less steady hand to shake. “Well danced, Sir…?” he asked.

The stranger accepted the proffered hand, inclining his head respectfully, the movement making it look like the fox mask was nodding yes. “Lucien,” he said, his russet eye sparkling. “Just Lucien.”

Her papa gave her stranger — gave Lucien — an appraising look, sizing him up in the way she’d seen him do with any new man that might be rich enough to be a future customer, or a rival. “Do you do much business on the continent?” he asked.

“Not at the moment,” Lucien said politely, though his eyes were still fixed firmly on her.

"You're not a merchant?" Elain almost frowned at her father's question. It was clear enough to her that Lucien was royalty, if not a crown prince. He was far too graceful, too beautiful, to be anything else.

But Lucien was smiling patiently. “My business is, ah, more political in nature.”

“Ah. Pity,” her papa said amiably. “Well, if you negotiate the way you dance, I daresay you would have any leader’s ear.”

Elain shifted uncomfortably, hoping that her father’s clumsy praise wouldn’t embarrass the man, but was relieved when Lucien chuckled. “If only that were the case.” He turned back to Elain, his golden eye whirring softly. “All the credit to my lovely partner.”

Elain flushed deeply, her body going all tingly and tight, and she blurted, “Not at all.”

Her papa was looking carefully at Lucien, sizing him up in a way that Elain had seen fathers do before. But before he could start asking questions, or expounding on Elain’s many virtues as an eligible woman, Lucien bowed again. “It’s really a pity I’ve got to go.”

“Go?” she cried.

“Indeed, I’m afraid I’ve got to get back. The blight and all,” Lucien said, his gaze shifting beyond them, towards the windows, as though he could see right home to his kingdom far away, wherever that might be.

Elain’s father had retreated, giving the stranger a final bow before returning to more profitable conversations, but Elain’s fingers sank into Lucien’s jacket sleeve before she quite knew what she was doing. “Will you be all right?” she asked, her lower lip quivering slightly.

Lucien stared at it, then back up at her eyes, and Elain couldn’t help but take a step towards him, as though pulled by some invisible force of nature. “I don’t know. I hope so,” he said, his voice quiet, contemplative.

“You could flee,” Elain said impulsively, her fingers sinking into the sleeve of his jacket. “Surely you’d be safe somewhere else.” Here. You could stay here, she didn’t add.

Lucien’s eye clicked softly, and his hand came up to ghost over her cheek, the feather-light touch spreading warmth across her skin, as he seemed to take in her meaning. “I’m not safe anywhere,” he said honestly. “I’d only bring danger to your doorstep.”

Elain gave a little cry, for it was too horrible to think about, a dangerous blight stalking his footsteps, reaching even her little village. “And there’s nothing that can be done?” she whispered.

Lucien’s russet eye blazed, the firelight reflecting in it. “There is one possibility. Rather a long shot, I’m afraid. But I’m doing all I can to make it happen.” He glanced briefly towards the windows, then back to her. “It’s why I must return so soon. Believe me, I’d rather linger.” And he ran a fingertip down the curved surface of her mask, and the near-touch made her shiver.

Elain reached up and tugged at her mask, wanting it off, wanting him to see her fully, but Nesta had pinned it so tightly against her hair that she found it difficult to budge.

Lucien’s broad hands came up to hold it lightly. “It’s all right,” he said. “Mine is firmly pinned on, too.”

“But I want to know what you look like,” Elain pouted.

“To see if I’m as handsome as you imagine?” he teased gently, smoothing her hair back from where it had become tousled against her antlers.

“Well! Really,” Elain huffed, though that was precisely what she’d been wondering.

Lucien tipped his head back, baring the strong column of his throat to her as he laughed. “Was that uncivilized? I’m out of practice.” He leaned in closer, smiling roguishly. “I don’t have to wonder about you, you know. I’m positive you’re beautiful, both inside and out.”

Elain breathed in sharply, her body going taut. “Lucien —“ she gasped, but had no other words to offer him. He was leaving, with no plans to return, had no designs on her, no reason to flatter her at all. He’s sincere, she realized with a jolt. He’s saying goodbye. He's heading into danger. The thought made her angry, and a little sick to her stomach.

“It’s all right, really,” he said, as though he could sense her trepidation. “It’s nothing I’ve not faced before. I survived this,” he added, bringing up a hand to indicate his jagged scars, his golden eye clicking in the midst of them, “and worse, besides.”

“It’s just not fair,” Elain said, though the words sounded inadequate, silly. “How can we have these lovely balls, dancing to our hearts’ content, while your land is suffering?”

Lucien shifted, his hands grasping her elbows, pulling her in close. “Don’t think of it like that. You must be merry, and celebrate, and dance. You must find joy, or the blight wins.” His hands tightened on her arms, then abruptly let go, as though he’d suddenly realized what he was doing, and was consciously pulling back from it.

Elain opened her mouth, and closed it again. It was wrong, all wrong, and she didn’t know how to fix it. “There must be something,” she insisted. “Something I can do.”

“Say my name again,” he murmured, his fingertips caressing her jaw, her chin. “One last time, before I go.”

“That’s all?” she challenged, clasping his wrist, capturing his hand in hers, her heart fluttering in her ribcage in anticipation. “That’s all you want from me?”

“I already told you what I want from you. For you to live, have a chance to find joy wherever you can. Far from the blight,” Lucien said. He brought her hand to his lips, then pressed the softest, slowest kiss to her gloved skin, leaving the sweetest tingles in his wake, before releasing her and stepping back. “Be happy, Elain. For both of us.”

“Lucien —“ she called after him, but then he was gone.