Treacherous Witch

—flinches.

"Don't touch me," she says.

"Why would I? You're filthy."

He takes a long time questioning her. He's thorough. She feeds him a sob story about—

*

Valerie hovered by the stage, glaring at Avon's back. He was talking to the Patriarch, but she couldn't hear their conversation over the violin music and the humdrum in the ballroom. She wanted to go over there and shake him until he came to his senses and agreed not to take on the Patriarch alone. He was unarmed, for Maska's sake.

"Lady Valerie."

A hand tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, startled, and looked up into the eyes of a wolf.

"Titus."

"May I have this dance?"

A bold move, to ask her in front of all the guests. She doubted that many other gentlemen would dare. And with the locket around her neck, she couldn't pull Avon away from the Patriarch…

Valerie forced a smile. "Of course."

Titus led her to the dance floor. She looked back, her steps slowing, and saw Avon and the Patriarch disappearing around the back of the stage. Her stomach flipped. The Duke of Hennich had spotted her; his mouth curled into a sneer beneath his mask.

Breathe, she told herself. It's not like the Patriarch can do any magic here when he's been preaching about how evil it is. They still had the upper hand; they could threaten to expose him. It was the killing blow she had been looking for.

Except it could kill them as well.

Titus slid his hands around her waist and Valerie swallowed. Focus. They joined the other couples on the floor in a slow waltz. She looked up at the wolf mask, searching the eyes hidden behind it.

"Lord Avon seemed keen to meet our host," Titus observed. "But not you?"

"I have nothing to say to him." She relaxed her shoulders, remembering the correct hold. "Didn't you say you're a bachelor? I thought you'd be asking one of those eligible young ladies to dance."

"All in good time," he said. "After I win the election, I know a few Drakonian families who'll want to approach me. Until then, they'll keep their powder dry."

"Are you so sure you'll win?"

His smile vanished. "No thanks to you."

She wanted to question him on that, but she was also conscious of all the eyes on them, the Maskamery man and woman, Avon's rival and his wicked witch of a consort dancing with each other. This was her second scandal of the night, and they'd barely begun.

"What's with the mask?" she asked. "The wolf? Does it mean something?"

"It'll be my name." He twirled her around, then back into hold. "Steward is the name of a servant. I'm going to start my own family, my own line. One that will be treated with respect."

There was an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone. Was it his resentment of the queen? A rejection of his Maskamery identity? If so, he'd practically given away that he was a traitor. But she wasn't supposed to know that.

"Wolf?" she said. "Titus Wolf. Lord Wolf. I like it."

This was meaningless flattery, but he smiled anyway. "Let's talk. Not here. Somewhere private."

"You know it's not appropriate for us to be alone."

"You swoop in on the back of a wyvern, and now you care about propriety?" He shook his head. "There's a bathroom upstairs. First on the right, lavender door. Five minutes." He let go of her, then bowed and kissed her hand. "My lady."

He disappeared into the crowd. Valerie stared after him, her heart thumping. After a moment she realised that the other lords and ladies were staring and hastily departed the ballroom floor, stopping to get her breath back against a pillar. Avon and the Patriarch had vanished. Still no sign of the Emperor either.

But she and Avon hadn't come here alone. She scanned the floor for familiar faces. Seeing none, she hurried past the buffet tables and out of the ballroom. The party had spilled over into the entrance hall, and a good number of guests had drifted outside too. A grand marble staircase led to the upper floor. She guessed that was where Titus meant her to go. But where were Rufus and Ophelia?

Valerie headed for the main doors to check outside, then stopped before she reached the entrance.

What?

A barrier blocked her from leaving. She looked around, trying not to be frantic. Was the Patriarch nearby? Had he cast a spell to trap them inside?

What's going on?

She backed up, and then to her utmost relief, she spotted Rufus's peregrine mask deep in conversation with two other gentlemen. She hurried over at once.

"Rufus!" They turned towards her, and Valerie cleared her throat. "Lord Falconer. May I have a word?"

One of the gentlemen chortled. "Still got you whipped, eh, Falconer?"

She recognised the voice but couldn't place it. Lord Canwell? Lord Warren? She didn't care to find out. Rufus made his excuses while she tugged at his arm, leading him over to an alcove close to the entrance. A bust of a bearded old man occupied the nook with them, like an awkward third party listening in.

Rufus frowned at her. "What's up?"

"I need your help." She unclasped the locket from her neck and shoved it into his hands. "Hold this for me and don't leave this spot. I won't be a minute."

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"Val—"

She ignored whatever protest he was going to make, turning on her heel and going straight back to the doors. If she couldn't get out, that meant it was a trap, and then she might really panic…

But to her relief, she walked through to the porch without any obstacle. A pale moon rose over the lawn and marquee, fire-braziers illuminating the chattering guests. In the patch of gravel between the porch and the lawn, a stone fountain bubbled softly in front of the grass. None of that attracted her attention. She'd stepped into another magical field, and she sensed the gleaming power of another stone close by. Yet the Patriarch was nowhere in sight. She turned, sidestepped and nearly bumped into its source.

"Oh!"

A short, balding man peered at her from behind his dull red mask. He was somewhat portly and dressed like all the other gentlemen in Drakonian-style formal wear. She didn't recognise him. In any other circumstance, she would have overlooked him. But the black jewel on his finger drew her attention, her magic instantly attuned to it. Another mercurite ring.

"Lady Valerie!"

The taller man standing next to the jewel-wearing stranger lifted his honeybee mask, revealing a familiar soft face and curly hair.

"Lord Lynwood!" she said. "I'm sorry, I—"

Jonathan Lynwood grinned. "Not at all! This is most fortuitous. I was just saying to Madoc here, we absolutely must get Lord Avon to tell us how he tamed a wyvern of all beasts. Truly magnificent."

"What?" she said, still distracted by the ring.

"Oh, my apologies. Have you been introduced?" Lynwood glanced at the other man, who shook his head. "Lady Valerie, this is Baron Madoc Frask. Madoc, I'm sure Lady Valerie needs no introduction."

Frask chuckled. "Quite."

He held out his hand. Valerie was still reeling. Frask, she thought. Frask, Frask, where have I heard that name before?

She shook his hand—not the one with the ring—and as she touched his skin, a glyph flashed in her mind and it was all Valerie could do not to gasp. This man, Frask, not only wore a mercurite ring, he also bore the mark of a vessel just like Titus did. The glyph lay hidden on the small of his back, but she sensed it clearly.

Baron Madoc Frask, Master of Administration

"The Master of Administration is the spymaster. He knows everything there is to know about the Empire, and he whispers it in Grandfather's ear."

The memory hit her without warning. Madoc Frask was the last name on the list that Avon had given her of individuals who had played some key role in the war. He was also the only person on that list she hadn't yet met. Edrick had told her what his title meant.

The spymaster!

What was the Drakonian spymaster doing in the Patriarch's palace with a mercurite ring and a curse on his flesh?

Frask dropped his hand, smiling. Lynwood was already babbling some nonsense or other about the Society Biologica and researching wyverns. She felt numb.

It couldn't be a coincidence. This glyph allowed a sorcerer to wear bodies like puppets, to possess them as she had possessed the wyvern. Titus had a glyph. So did Frask. And both of them under the Patriarch's roof. Which meant that her assumption about who had cast that spell might be wrong. What if it didn't come from the queen? What if…?

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," she interrupted them. "I should go and find Lord Avon."

Lynwood wished her farewell. Frask nodded, polite, unassuming, unremarkable. She left them outside, trying not to shake as she returned to the entrance hall. Stay calm, she told herself. Keep it together.

Rufus stood waiting right where she had left him. Valerie refrained from dashing over to him, managing a brisk walk instead. She was flushed, trembling, full of adrenaline.

"You know," he said, "I distinctly remember Lord Avon saying stick to the plan. What's going on?"

"Plans change," she said, snatching the locket from him. "The Patriarch is a sorcerer. Avon's with him. You have to go and find him, make sure he's safe."

There was a pause. Rufus went still, and she sensed his fear even without seeing it in his eyes. But he took the news in stride:

"What about you?"

She fastened the locket around her neck and sent a calm wash of magic through her skin. "I'm sticking to the plan. Titus wants to talk. Where's Ophelia?"

"Occupying the Empress. Seriously, what was that?" He gestured to the entrance.

"Doesn't matter. Go!"

She gestured back to the ballroom. Rufus departed, and Valerie took a breath. Titus. Titus, what is the Patriarch doing to you?

She climbed the marble staircase. A bevy of colourful ladies strolled by like a flock of fan-waving geese. Valerie ducked her head; she didn't want any more delays. She turned right at the upper hallway, passing a painting of a winged infant floating on a cloud, then a suit of armour, then a porcelain vase, and then she found the lavender door. It was shut. Valerie pressed her ear against the wood and gave a tentative knock.

No response.

Well, what was the worst that could happen? She pushed open the door and stepped into the most enormous bathroom she had ever seen. Even the bath chambers in the royal palace weren't like this. A set of porcelain white wash basins lined the left side of the room, each decorated with golden faucets and a gold-framed mirror on the wall. Fluffy towels were rolled up on the counter. On the right, private stalls contained the privies. At the far end, marble steps led up to a steaming pool.

She could take a dip in that water with five or six other people, easily. But the chamber was unoccupied except for one guest.

Titus leaned against a wash basin, the wolf mask in his hands. "You're late."

"I'm popular," she said. "It was hard to get away."

"Did anyone follow you?"

"No."

He checked outside anyway, scanning the hallway before turning back and closing the door behind him. It latched into place with an ominous click.

"The vote is too close to call," he said. "I imagine Avon has come to the same conclusion?"

She said nothing, feeling slightly itchy now that he was standing between her and the exit.

"So I need you to act," Titus went on. "Tonight."

"Act?"

"Suggest that you controlled the wyvern with magic. That you commanded Lord Avon to fly in like some mad wizard. Whisper in the ears of one or two lords—I'll show you who—and—"

She laughed incredulously. "What? I'm not doing that."

His eyes narrowed. "You agreed to help me."

"As much as I can, yes. That's too much."

He exhaled, his breath misting in the warm, damp air. Her black dress was sticking to her skin. After a moment, he stepped forward and put his mask down on the marble counter. Then another step, just close enough to make her uncomfortable. She stood her ground.

"I see," he breathed. "I did wonder, after you stole my silvertree. Your promise meant nothing. You've been a traitor all along."

"That's not true!" The nerve! She had to forcibly swallow the urge to call him a traitor right back. "I did what you wanted. You told me to stay by Avon's side and I did."

"You told him about the silvertree."

"To gain his trust! Do you think it's easy deceiving him? Do you think he just believes me? He found out that I'd visited you and he suspected me. I had to give him something. But I still want to get out of here. I want both of us to—"

"Then get out there and help me!"

"No! Wait—listen." She raised her hands. "There's something else I need to tell you, something important."

"What?"

She licked her lips. Titus looked ready to explode; she sensed the rage barely simmering beneath the surface. His face was flushed, his hands balled tight. He was not someone she could rely on, not in the long term. At best he could be a useful stooge.

She would have to choose her next words carefully.

"Do you remember when I told you about the mark on your skin? I said the queen put a tracking spell on you. Well, I was wrong. It's not a tracking spell, and the queen didn't plant it." She took a breath. "The Patriarch did."

Titus stared at her, and she saw the same incredulity that she had felt at his plan reflected in his face.

He scoffed. "What?"

"The Patriarch is a sorcerer. He cursed you."

"Poppycock. You really have swallowed Avon's dick wholeheartedly, haven't you? Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"It's true! I swear, it's true! Titus, he can take over your body. He's going to possess you. Listen to me—"

His face twisted. "No, you listen to me—"

He lunged forward, grabbing her by both arms. Fear spiked through her, a rush of adrenaline. It was short-lived. As soon as their skin made contact, a buzz filled her ears and Titus was thrown back like a rag doll. He hit the marble counter with a dull thunk and collapsed on the floor.

Valerie stood frozen, half-dizzy. The buzzing had stopped, but she tasted metal in the air, a faint electric aftershock. A thin line of blood trickled down Titus's cheek.

Well, she thought, that was one way to test the spell she'd put in her gown.