The Fae seethed but inclined its head. Wise enough to ensure that it lived to see another wretched day.

“Have you, or has anyone you know, sold information to a man called Pierre Antonius? Give details.”

“Yes. He wished to know of a way to travel realms.”

“How long ago?”

“Two years.”

“And?” Envy pressed. “What else?”

“We told him of realm lines.”

Just as Envy had suspected.

“Did your king give him a key?”

“I no longer belong to any king or queen. What they do or do not give doesn’t concern me.”

An exiled Fae, then, more volatile than a solitary Fae. Exiled Fae were either furious at being without a court, or happy to be free. This one seemed to lean toward the former.

“Political bullshit aside, answer the question. Did he have a key?”

“Yes.”

And Envy would wager that that was the object Camilla wanted to get back. The one she’d claimed held sentimental value. Given the secret tunnel and the passageways shown in Pierre’s art, Envy understood why she’d want it back, even if she wasn’t fully aware of what it did. That Vexley had it indicated he was more cunning than Envy would have believed. And almost certainly guaranteed he was a player.

“Why did he want to travel realms?”

“Same as all others. To live among his betters. To amuse us until we grow bored.”

Which was an arrogant way of saying the Fae didn’t know. Pierre could have been searching for a way into Faerie, or he could have been searching for shifters.

“Have you, or has anyone you know, bargained with a mortal named Vexley? If so, be specific as to what he wanted.”

“Yes. He wanted information. About a key.”

Envy’s grip tightened on his dagger.

“The same key?”

“I would imagine so. Not many portal keys to be found these days.”

It took every ounce of will he possessed not to go back on his word and stab the Fae.

“Did he secure information about this key?”

If so, then the odds of safely locating and retrieving the key were growing slimmer. Envy knew that if Vexley had had any inkling of what the key was worth, he’d have sold it to the highest bidder, easily lying about returning it to Camilla.

An argument broke out the moment before the Fae answered him, stealing Envy’s attention long enough for the Unseelie to vanish beneath his grasp.

Cursing, he glared at the mortal fighting with the proprietor two stalls down, feeling a little less murderous when he saw who was making all the ruckus.

Lord Edwards. Katherine’s husband.

Curious indeed.

Envy quickly considered all possibilities: Edwards could be another player. Or maybe he was one of the many who’d become addicted to Unseelie magic.

Envy could walk over, drag the man away from the fight, or he could watch from the shadows, see what other secrets there were to be gleaned.

Envy wasn’t the helping sort.

He called upon his own magic, cloaking himself in shadow before drifting closer to the furious lord.

“I’ll have you know that Peter did not take to the tonic as promised.”

The Fae dealer gave the mortal a blank look.

“The rooster, for God’s sake,” Edwards said between clenched teeth. “You promised it would sire golden-egged riches. I demand my money back.”

Envy briefly closed his eyes. Was Edwards really such a fool? Or was it possible he needed the rooster for his clue? Odd, but the game master did have a wicked sense of humor.

Though maybe Edwards was like any other mortal, wanting an easy way to secure more wealth.

Bored and disappointed, Envy continued down Silverthorne Lane, scanning the thinning crowd, trying to sort out the mystery of Camilla’s father and his fascination with other realms. What had lured him—Faerie or shifters?

Or was Pierre’s fascination simply that annoying human need for adventure?

Envy suddenly wanted to know more about Camilla’s absent mother; she might very well hold the answers he needed. Camilla had been quick to end the discussion when he’d asked about her, and now he very much wanted to know why.

CAMILLA’S MAID CINCHED her stays tight enough to elicit a wince, then helped her into the most magnificent garment she’d ever seen, let alone owned before going to fetch her slippers.

After her father died, she’d used all her earnings from the gallery to keep the staff on. The gallery had come a long way already, earning a nice income for her, but she couldn’t replace her entire wardrobe each season like she used to.

It was either pretty dresses and half the staff, or half the dresses and supporting those she’d known her whole life. The choice was easy.

The gown she wore now was beyond anything she’d dreamed of owning again. Indeed, it was a work of art—lavish, decadent, and undeniably stunning. Camilla felt like a princess in it, not just because the gown must have cost a small fortune, but because wearing it made her feel powerful. It had been a long while since she’d truly felt that.

She twisted one way, then the other in front of her full-length mirror, admiring the flow of the material.

The skirts were ethereal layers of fluffy white tulle, with silver sparkles scattered like glittering stars across the fabric. The bodice was made of diamonds encrusted with silver beads and downy white feathers. She looked like a moon goddess, ethereal, tempting, and completely out of any mortal’s reach.

The gown had mysteriously shown up two hours before Synton’s ball, along with a matching silver filigree mask. No note accompanied the package, but a beautiful new paintbrush was nestled on top of the dress.

Though calling it a paintbrush hardly did it justice—the handle was a solid piece of carved emerald, the exact shade of Synton’s eyes, leaving no room for Camilla to mistake where the gifts had originated.

Surprisingly enough, though made from a gemstone, the brush wasn’t heavy or hard to handle—it fit her palm perfectly, making her long for a few moments to sit at an easel.

Camilla often wondered if paint ran through her veins instead of blood. When she created, it was as if she made new realms, fantastical and beautiful and exactly where she wished she could escape to. With her art, somehow she was connected to the universe far beyond her small gallery. She could live a thousand and one lives, each more magical than the last.

Synton had chosen his temptation well.

The paintbrush was a cunning gift. It made Camilla seriously consider painting the Hexed Throne for him, consequences be damned.

She laid the paintbrush back on the crushed velvet, emotions churning. She needed to give him an answer about his proposed deal tonight.

She wished this decision didn’t feel so much like a betrayal. She recalled the night before her father had died—he’d tried to draw her near, his arms shaking with the effort.

“Darkness… will… not… win.”

“I don’t understand,” she’d said, tears stinging her eyes. Had he known? She remembered thinking, had he always known?

“You… are… good, sweet girl. Never… doubt.”

It was the last thing he’d ever said to her. And Pierre had made clear throughout the years how he felt about hexed objects. How dangerous they were, to be avoided at all costs.

Mixed with Camilla’s rare… talent… should she paint the Hexed Throne it might very well appear. Stories varied on what it did—from granting everlasting power and immortality to cursing all other rulers and even destroying immortals—but Camilla wasn’t sure any variation would be good.

What did Synton want with the painting of the throne?

He’d claimed he wanted it only for his personal gallery, but Camilla didn’t need his uncanny ability to detect a lie to know he wasn’t being truthful.

Could she really risk giving someone like Synton access to an object with the power to do unspeakably dark things? Her father had taught her repeatedly that power corrupted even the purest soul. Synton didn’t strike her as having a pure soul to begin with.