fingers dart around at the same frenzied pace as his voice. “Prince Richard, your polo match is in half an hour. The car’s waiting out front.”
“Blast. I’d forgotten all about that. Thanks, Lawton.”
Richard jumps up, his eyes flicker over my seat. From the pinched creases of his brow, I know he can’t see me. It seems that this sudden spell is enough to keep the prince in the dark, though it shouldn’t last long. My piles of skirts, flaming hair, and jade eyes—all of them are hidden.
“You’re still here, aren’t you?” he whispers in my direction.
“What was that, Prince Richard?” Lawton glances up from the glowing screen, his pupils constricted to the size of pinheads.
Richard straightens. “Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.”
Once Lawton is turned away from us, I reach out and pinch Richard’s arm. He jerks away, squealing like a ten-year-old schoolgirl.
Spells are malleable things, like clay on the bottom of a riverbed. It takes only a few words to alter my veiling spell. Richard sucks in his breath when I reappear.
“Try not to talk to me when we’re around others,” I say. “People will think you’re crazy.”
“Can you blame them?” Richard mutters before he takes my advice to heart. He doesn’t say another word to me as he follows Lawton to the car. This doesn’t stop him from glancing. He looks over his shoulder every few seconds and catches my eyes.
He sits close in the car, only inches from me. Heat from his body fringes into mine, making it hard to ignore his presence. I watch out the window for soul feeders and Fae alike, my shoulders tense as we turn onto London’s knot of busy streets.
Richard’s long fingers brush against my hand—a sudden, unexpected touch. Their warmth and the magic of his blood rush up my arm, sending an eerie tingle across my scalp. When I look over I find his hand splayed across the leather, invading the no-man’s-land of the middle seat. His fingers show no sign of movement. No sign that only seconds before they’d hovered over mine.
I cross my arms and wait for the prickle beneath my skin to die. It stays much longer than I’d like, all linger and burn, reminding me of that empty space between us.
Six
T he day is hot, with the promise of rain swelling the air. It’s not long before beads of sweat gather on spectators’ faces, dripping past designer sunglasses despite the constant waving of programs. The Ham Polo Club is crowded, its bleachers spilling over with girls clad in the runway’s finest. Most of them giggle when Richard rides onto the field on a striking, all-muscled bay. Their whispers slither and curl to the sidelines, where I’m standing guard.
I keep them at my back, leaning against the white picket fence that lines parts of the field. The air tastes of freshly mown grass and horse—scents that remind me of the countryside. I take them in slowly, allowing the smells to soothe the sickness in my gut, and watch the prince’s game play out.
Richard is a gifted rider and player. His horse bears him well. They flow across the field as a single, fused creature, weaving in and out of the other players with effortless grace. In the hour-long game, the prince scores several goals—summoning large bursts of applause from the female spectators. Some of these mortal girls are quite pretty, revealing even more leg and bigger smiles every time Richard looks toward the crowd.
But his eyes find me every time.
The game ends without interference—both mortal and not. I follow Richard and his team to the stables. They’re flushed with sweat and smiles as they hand their horses off. I hang back at the entrance, half hidden by the door while Richard dismounts and unclips his helmet. His eyes rove through the swarm of glistening horses and busy grooms, searching.
“That game was bloody brilliant, mate!” One of Richard’s teammates—a pale young man with sharp, shoe-polish black hair—claps the prince on the back.
“Blast. I’d forgotten all about that. Thanks, Lawton.”
Richard jumps up, his eyes flicker over my seat. From the pinched creases of his brow, I know he can’t see me. It seems that this sudden spell is enough to keep the prince in the dark, though it shouldn’t last long. My piles of skirts, flaming hair, and jade eyes—all of them are hidden.
“You’re still here, aren’t you?” he whispers in my direction.
“What was that, Prince Richard?” Lawton glances up from the glowing screen, his pupils constricted to the size of pinheads.
Richard straightens. “Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.”
Once Lawton is turned away from us, I reach out and pinch Richard’s arm. He jerks away, squealing like a ten-year-old schoolgirl.
Spells are malleable things, like clay on the bottom of a riverbed. It takes only a few words to alter my veiling spell. Richard sucks in his breath when I reappear.
“Try not to talk to me when we’re around others,” I say. “People will think you’re crazy.”
“Can you blame them?” Richard mutters before he takes my advice to heart. He doesn’t say another word to me as he follows Lawton to the car. This doesn’t stop him from glancing. He looks over his shoulder every few seconds and catches my eyes.
He sits close in the car, only inches from me. Heat from his body fringes into mine, making it hard to ignore his presence. I watch out the window for soul feeders and Fae alike, my shoulders tense as we turn onto London’s knot of busy streets.
Richard’s long fingers brush against my hand—a sudden, unexpected touch. Their warmth and the magic of his blood rush up my arm, sending an eerie tingle across my scalp. When I look over I find his hand splayed across the leather, invading the no-man’s-land of the middle seat. His fingers show no sign of movement. No sign that only seconds before they’d hovered over mine.
I cross my arms and wait for the prickle beneath my skin to die. It stays much longer than I’d like, all linger and burn, reminding me of that empty space between us.
Six
T he day is hot, with the promise of rain swelling the air. It’s not long before beads of sweat gather on spectators’ faces, dripping past designer sunglasses despite the constant waving of programs. The Ham Polo Club is crowded, its bleachers spilling over with girls clad in the runway’s finest. Most of them giggle when Richard rides onto the field on a striking, all-muscled bay. Their whispers slither and curl to the sidelines, where I’m standing guard.
I keep them at my back, leaning against the white picket fence that lines parts of the field. The air tastes of freshly mown grass and horse—scents that remind me of the countryside. I take them in slowly, allowing the smells to soothe the sickness in my gut, and watch the prince’s game play out.
Richard is a gifted rider and player. His horse bears him well. They flow across the field as a single, fused creature, weaving in and out of the other players with effortless grace. In the hour-long game, the prince scores several goals—summoning large bursts of applause from the female spectators. Some of these mortal girls are quite pretty, revealing even more leg and bigger smiles every time Richard looks toward the crowd.
But his eyes find me every time.
The game ends without interference—both mortal and not. I follow Richard and his team to the stables. They’re flushed with sweat and smiles as they hand their horses off. I hang back at the entrance, half hidden by the door while Richard dismounts and unclips his helmet. His eyes rove through the swarm of glistening horses and busy grooms, searching.
“That game was bloody brilliant, mate!” One of Richard’s teammates—a pale young man with sharp, shoe-polish black hair—claps the prince on the back.
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