He could feel the eyes of the patrons drifting toward him, and he wondered if they were being drawn by magic or rumor. Could they feel the pull, the tip of gravity, or was it simply word of mouth? What had Ned told them? Anything? Everything?
Right then, Kell didn’t care. He just wanted to smother the feelings before they could smother him. Blot out the image of Lila’s bloody face before it ruined the memory of her mouth against his.
It was only a matter of time before Ned reappeared, but when he did, it wasn’t with questions or mindless chatter. Instead, the lanky young man poured himself a drink from the same bottle, folded his arms on the edge of the counter, and set something down in front of Kell. It glinted in the lamplight.
A Red London lin.
The coin Kell had left behind on his last visit.
“I believe this is yours,” he said.
“It is.”
“It smells like tulips.”
Kell tilted his head; the room tilted with it. “The King of England always said roses.”
Ned gaped. “George the fourth said that?”
“No, the third,” said Kell absently, adding, “the fourth is an ass.”
Ned nearly choked on his drink, letting out a simple, startled laugh. Kell flicked his fingers, and the Red London lin leaped up onto its side and began to spin in lazy circles. Ned’s eyes widened. “Will I ever be able to do that?”
“I hope not,” said Kell, glancing up. “You shouldn’t be able to do anything.”
The man’s narrow features contorted. “Why’s that?”
“A long time ago, this world—your world—had magic of its own.”
Ned leaned in, a child waiting for the monster in the story. “What happened?”
Kell shook his head, the whisky muddling his thoughts. “A lot of very bad things.” The coin made its slow revolutions. “It’s all about balance, Ned.” Why couldn’t Lila understand? “Chaos needs order. Magic needs moderation. It’s like a fire. It doesn’t have self-control. It feeds off whatever you give it, and if you give it too much, it burns and burns until there’s nothing left.
“Your world had fire, once,” said Kell. “Not much—it was too far from the source—but enough to burn. We cut it off before it could, and what was left began to dwindle. Eventually, it went out.”
“But how do you know we would have burned?” asked Ned, eyes fever bright.
Kell knocked the coin over with a brush of his fingers. “Because too little of something is just as dangerous as too much.” He straightened on his stool. “The point is, magic shouldn’t exist here anymore. It shouldn’t be possible.”
“Impossibility is a thing that begs to be disproven,” said Ned brightly. “Perhaps it hasn’t been possible for years, perhaps it’s not even possible right now, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be. It doesn’t mean it won’t be. You say the magic guttered, the flame went out. But what if it simply needed to be stoked?”
Kell poured himself another drink. “Maybe you’re right.”
But I hope you’re wrong, he thought. For all our sakes.
* * *
Rhy was not in the mood.
Not in the mood to be at the ball.
Not in the mood to play host.
Not in the mood to smile and joke and pretend that everything was all right. His father cast warning looks his way, and his mother stole glances, as if she thought he would break. He wanted to yell at both of them, for driving his brother away.
Instead, he stood between the king and queen while the three champions cast off their masks.
First came the Veskan, Rul, his rough hair trailing down his jaw, still preening from his victory over Elsor.
Then Tos-an-Mir, one half of the favored Faroan twins, her gems tracing fiery patterns from brow to chin.
And of course, Alucard Emery. Rogue, rake, royal, and renewed darling of the Arnesian empire.
Rhy congratulated Lord Sol-in-Ar and Prince Col on the excellent showing, marveled aloud at the balanced field—an Arnesian, a Faroan, and a Veskan in the finals! What were the odds?—and then retreated to a pillar to drink in peace.
Tonight’s festivities were being held in the Jewel Hall, a ballroom made entirely of glass. For a place so open, it made Rhy feel entombed.
All around him, people drank. People danced. Music played.
Across the ballroom, Princess Cora flirted with half a dozen Arnesian nobles, all while casting glances in search of Kell.
Rhy closed his eyes and focused on his brother’s pulse, the echo of his own; he tried to reach through that beat and convey … what? That he was angry? That he was sorry? That he couldn’t do any of this without Kell? That he didn’t blame him for leaving? That he did?
Come home, he thought selfishly. Please.
Refined applause rang through the glass chamber, and he dragged his eyes open and saw the three champions returning in fresh attire, their masks tucked under their arms, their faces on display.
The wolfish Rul went straight for the nearest table of food, where his Veskan comrades were already deep in their cups.
Tos-an-Mir maneuvered the crowd, trailed by her sister, Tas-on-Mir, the first magician to fall to Kell. Rhy could only tell them apart by the gems set into their dark skin, Tos-an-Mir’s a fiery orange where Tas-on-Mir’s were pearlescent blue.
Alucard was the center of his own private universe. Rhy watched as a pretty ostra brought her painted lips to Alucard’s ear to whisper something, and felt his grip tighten on his glass.
Someone slouched against the pillar beside him. A slim figure dressed in black. Lila looked better than she had that afternoon: still drawn, with shadows like bruises beneath her eyes, and yet spry enough to swipe two fresh glasses from a passing tray. She offered one to Rhy. He took it absently. “You came back.”
“Well,” she said, tipping her drink toward the ballroom, “you do know how to throw a party.”
“To London,” clarified Rhy.
“Ah,” she said. “That.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, thinking of her match that afternoon.
She swallowed, kept her eyes on the crowd. “I don’t know.”
A silence formed around them, a raft of quiet in the sea of sound.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, the words so soft Rhy almost didn’t hear.
He rolled his shoulder toward her. “For what?”
“I don’t really know. It seemed like the right thing to say.”
Rhy took a long drink and considered this strange girl, her sharp edges, her guarded face. “Kell only has two faces,” he said.
Lila raised a brow. “Only two? Don’t most people have one?”
“On the contrary, Miss Bard—and you are Bard again, judging by your clothes? I assume Stasion has been left somewhere to recuperate? Most people have far more than two. I myself have an entire wardrobe.” He didn’t smile when he said it. His gaze drifted past his parents, the Arnesian nobles, Alucard Emery. “But Kell has only two. The one he wears for the world at large, and the one he wears for those he loves.” He sipped his wine. “For us.”
Lila’s expression hardened. “Whatever he feels for me, it isn’t love.”
“Because it isn’t soft and sweet and doting?” Rhy rocked back, stretching against the pillar. “Do you know how many times he’s nearly beat me senseless out of love? How many times I’ve done the same? I’ve seen the way he looks at those he hates …” He shook his head. “There are very few things my brother cares about, and even fewer people.”
Lila swallowed. “What do you think he’s doing?”
Rhy considered his wine. “Judging by the way this is going to my head,” he said, lifting the glass, “I’d say he’s drowning his feelings, just like me.”
“He’ll come back.”
Rhy closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t.”