Page 137 of Nikolay

The veranda behind her had become a threshold between worlds. Women gathered in small clusters along the stone balustrade and near the open doors, all of them dressed in sweeping formal gowns in jewel tones and soft ivories—emerald, sapphire, garnet, deep plum, pearl, moon-pale cream. Bare shoulders gleamed. Sleeves shimmered. The men were no less striking for being dressed mostly in dark restraint. Tailored black and charcoal, severe lapels, crisp collars, old-fashioned cuts made modern only by the confidence of the bodies wearing them.

For one strange second I understood exactly what Sloan had feared: not that I would be unwelcome, but that I would feel visibly lesser.

She read it on my face the way women often did.

“I sent the stylists so you wouldn’t feel out of place,” she said, gentling her voice just enough that it did not sound like pity. “Everybody goes all out for this. I didn’t want you showing up feeling underdone while the rest of us looked like we’d robbed a royal tomb.”

That snorted a laugh out of me. “Well. Mission accomplished.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” I squeezed her fingers once. “Thank you.”

Her smile softened. “You’re welcome.”

A server moved past with a tray of crystal stemware filled with a wine so dark it looked nearly black until the lantern light struck it and drew out its garnet heart. Sloan plucked one glass free and set it in my hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “It’ll help if you’re still nervous.”

“That sounded medicinal.”

“Everything good starts that way.”

I lifted it and took a small sip before I could overthink it.

The wine was rich and velvety, deeper than the bottles at the cabin had been, with a dark-fruit sweetness laid over something smoky and old. It spread over my tongue like silk soaked in sin. I swallowed and felt warmth descend immediately—too immediately, really—blooming in my chest before it had any business doing so.

I looked down at the glass.

Sloan tucked her arm through mine. “Come on.”

The steps from the veranda led down into the festival grounds, and the sight of them from that higher vantage would have taken my breath even if I had not already been somewhat compromised by beauty, wine, and whatever ancient wolf nonsense this place excelled at.

The canopy of ancient evergreen trees overhead blocked the sun so completely that twilight had arrived there early. Hundreds of fairy lights had already taken over, strung through the branches in soft golden constellations, wrapping trunks, drooping between limbs, drifting overhead in delicate swags that made the darkness beneath the trees feel chosen rather than accidental.

Near the center of the grounds, a stone fountain caught and returned the light in quiet flashes. Beside it, a string quartet played something slow and aching enough to seem less performed than summoned. The music moved through the trees and over the guests like weather from another age. Violins carried longing. The lower strings answered with gravity.

Long tables draped in white linen stretched beyond them in elegant rows, each table arranged with late-season wildflowers gathered in low vessels—dusky purple blooms, cream petals, sprays of dried grass, small dark berries still clinging to cut stems. Crystal decanters of the same dark wine stood among silver serving pieces and candles protected in glass cylinders.

Sloan guided me down the path.

I took another sip of wine.

Warmth spread again, faster this time. It moved from my chest outward into my shoulders, down my arms, through the center of me in a way that smoothed the day at its edges. Not blurred exactly. Softened.

I told myself I had not eaten enough before getting dressed. I told myself the gown had made me lightheaded. I told myself that old-world festival wine was probably stronger than what I was used to.

All of those explanations sounded serviceable.

None of them fully satisfied me.

Still, Sloan was talking—something about which families had come in from the farther parts of the territory and which aunt always overdid the moon rites—and I nodded where appropriate and let myself be carried farther into the crowd.

Then I saw Sage.

He stood at the center of a loose circle of men near the open flagstone stretch that served as a dance floor, and for one unsettling instant it seemed as though everything else in the grounds had arranged itself merely to frame him. The black suit he wore fit him as if cloth had been taught obedience at birth. Gold detailing traced the lapels in subtle lines that caught the fairy lights only when he moved. His dark hair, for once, had not been disciplined entirely into place. It lay slightly unruly above the formal collar, softening the hard control of the rest of him just enough to make the effect more dangerous rather than less.

He was already looking at me.