Their team would scatter throughout the palace, ready to move the moment they received word from their scouts of the Dovitiam’s arrival. Harkan’s team waited in the mountains south of the city, ready to intercept the imperial army and pick off as many soldiers as they could. Two other teams flanked his, ready to assist. Three more teams patrolled the city, from the palace down to the docks, waiting to create diversions as necessary, which allowed Eliana, Simon, and their escort a clear path to the docks. There, they would reunite with Remy and Dani’s team, and once aboard the Dovitiam, they would all sail for the Vespers—the tropical island country where the water was warm, the islands themselves lush with greenery, the Empire presence scattered and careless. There they would wait, and hide, for as long as they could. Simon would practice threading; Eliana would push her power beyond its current limits. Together, once they were both stronger, they would again attempt to travel back to the Old World.

And on that second attempt, they would not fail. Eliana would not flee or allow Rielle to intimidate her. She would get through to her mother, even if it took days of fighting to accomplish.

At least, that’s what she was determined to tell herself, over and over, until she started to believe it.

She forced her breathing into an even rhythm, focusing on the kaleidoscope of dancers below her. It was taking too long for Simon to join her, and her panic had just begun to quietly crest when at last he arrived at her side and placed his gloved hand over her own.

“Too many goddamned people,” he muttered by way of apology.

She blew out a breath, so giddy with relief to see him that she drew him down for a kiss.

His hands settled at her waist, and when he lowered his mouth to her neck, the cold lines of his mask pressed against her skin. His mask was as hard as hers was soft, a dull silver metal in the shape of a grinning bull.

Frankly, she hated the look of it. They’d had limited choices, choosing from whatever masks Dani had stored from previous Jubilees, but this particular one was bordering on grotesque.

She did, however, love the coolness of it against her overheated skin.

She slid her fingers into his hair, holding him against her. “Can’t we just stay here?” she murmured, and for a moment, his body strong and familiar under her hands, she could close her eyes and pretend they lived in a different world.

Simon pulled back from her, a smile curving beneath the rim of his mask.

He raised her hand to his lips. “Come. Dance with me.”

• • •

The orchestra favored waltzes, each one merrier than the last, and it wasn’t until the fourth one they danced together that Simon came abruptly to a halt.

Eliana nearly tripped over his feet. His hands tightened around her, steadying her, and he stared over her shoulder, his eyes suddenly unreadable.

Someone tapped her arm; she turned, her body tensed to run.

A man clad all in black stood before her, roughly Simon’s height, but more muscular, bullish. He gave a low, unhurried bow, sweeping his cloak aside. He had a high, stiff collar, a silver chain about his waist. His mask was shaped like a raven, its iridescent feathers gleaming black-blue. The mask covered his entire face, and its hard black beak muffled his voice, distorting its true colors.

“I’ve been watching the two of you. You dance exquisitely together.” He held out his hand to Eliana—a black glove, the gauntlet rimmed with feathers to match his mask. “I wonder if I might have the honor?”

She cobbled together a coquettish smile. “You flatter me, sir. But I did promise my partner a whole night of dances.”

“How selfish of him, to keep a jewel such as you all to himself.” He looked past her at Simon. “I think you can understand my disappointment.”

And then Simon, his voice smooth and careless, said, “Of course, Admiral.” He squeezed her hand once, then released her. “Darling? I don’t think you recognized the Admiral. This celebration is in his honor, after all. Surely you can spare him a dance or two.”

Eliana’s body seemed to fall away from the ballast of her heart. She was a pounding, pulsing thrum of fear. Admiral Ravikant. One of the most powerful angels in the world. She wanted desperately to look back at Simon, but instead she curtsied and shot the admiral a dazzling smile.

She struggled to wipe her mind blank. She imagined it as a spotless plate of glass, all polished gleam and clean edges.

“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” she murmured. “I didn’t recognize you, given your current dress.”

“Ah, of course. The danger—and the appeal—of a masquerade ball. And why I cannot resist them.” He took her hand, the press of his fingers against her palm like the soft dig of a blade. “Forgive me, child. I don’t know your name.”

“Scarlett,” she said at once, and then grinned a little, biting her lip. “At least for tonight.”

He threw back his head and laughed, and then spun her past Simon into the heart of the dance.

• • •

She focused on her feet. She kept her mind fixed on the admiral’s hand holding hers, and his other hand gripping her waist, and on not losing her head completely and tripping over her skirts. The frantic rhythm of her pulse entirely mismatched the orchestra’s waltz.

She did not allow herself to think of her name, or of Simon’s. Not of Remy, or Patrik, or any of the other hundreds of rebels arranging themselves throughout the city, preparing for her escape.

Each waltz spun faster than the last, more and more dancers falling away, laughing too high and too happily. Eliana could hardly keep up with the admiral’s strides, and each time she stumbled, his grip tightened.

“You seem troubled, Scarlett,” the admiral observed, after they had passed several dances in idle chatter. “May I ask why?”

She licked the sweat from her upper lip. She had lost count of their dances, lost track of time. How many hours had passed? She would not look for Simon; she refused to even think of him. But her mind was slipping, each spin knocking her a little further out of alignment. She did not feel him teasing for entrance into her mind, as Corien had done, but perhaps Corien hadn’t been trying to be careful. The admiral might be capable of wrapping himself entirely around her thoughts, stealthy and sly, before she could notice.

“These waltzes are rather frenetic, Your Excellency,” she said, deciding that a little honesty would satisfy him. “I can hardly keep up with you.”

“Well, then. We can’t have that.” He fell quiet for a moment, and then the orchestra halted for the briefest instant before beginning a new waltz—much slower, with sparser instrumentation. A lilting harp, two dueling violins. A single female vocalist.

“There, now.” He smiled, his voice curling. “Is that better, Scarlett?”