And then, as the palace neared and the front steps came into sight, Lila saw her opportunity.

The main doors were flung open, silky blue carpet spilling like night water down the stairs, and on them ascended a steady stream of partygoers. They appeared to be attending a ball.

Not just a ball, she realized, watching the river of guests.

A masquerade.

Every man and woman wore a disguise. Some masks were simple stained leather, some far more ornate, adorned by horns or feathers or jewels, some fell only across the eyes, and others revealed nothing at all. Lila broke into a wicked grin. She wouldn’t need to be a member of society to get in. She need never show her face.

But there was another thing that every guest appeared to have: an invitation. That, she feared, would be harder to obtain. But just then, as if by a stroke of luck, or providence, Lila heard the high sweet sound of laughter, and turned to see three girls no older than she being helped out of a carriage, their dresses full and their smiles wide as they chattered and chirped and settled themselves on the street. Lila recognized them instantly from the morning parade, the girls who had been swooning over Rhy and the “black-eyed prince,” whom Lila now knew to be Kell. The girls who had been practicing their English. Of course. Because English was the language of the royals, and those who mingled with them. Lila’s smiled widened. Perhaps Kell was right: in any other setting, her accent would cause her to stand out. But here, here it would help her blend in, help her belong.

One of the girls—the one who’d prided herself on her English—produced a gold-trimmed invitation, and the three pored over it for several moments before she tucked it beneath her arm. Lila approached.

“Excuse me,” she said, bringing a hand to rest at the girl’s elbow. “What time does the masquerade begin?”

The girl didn’t seem to remember her. She gave Lila a slow appraising look—the kind that made her want to free a few teeth from the girl’s head—before smiling tightly. “It’s starting now.”

Lila parroted the smile. “Of course,” she said as the girl pulled free, oblivious to the fact she was now short an invitation.

The girls set off toward the palace steps, and Lila considered her prize. She ran a thumb over the paper’s gilded edges and ornate Arnesian script. Her eyes drifted up again, taking in the procession to the palace doors, but she didn’t join it. The men and women ascending the stairs practically glittered in their jewel-tone gowns and dark, elegant suits. Lush cloaks spilled over their shoulders and threads of precious metal shone in their hair. Lila looked down at herself, her threadbare cloak and worn brown boots, and felt shabbier than ever. She tugged her own mask—nothing but a crumpled strip of black fabric—from her pocket. Even with an invitation and a healthy grasp of the English language, she’d never be let in, not looking like this.

She shoved the mask back in her cloak pocket and looked around at the market stalls that stood nearby. Farther down the booths were filled with food and drink, but here, at the edge nearest the palace, the stalls sold other wares. Charms, yes, but also canes and shoes and other fineries. Fabric and light spilled out of the mouth of the nearest tent, and Lila straightened and stepped inside.

A hundred faces greeted her from the far wall, the surface of which was covered in masks. From the austere to the intricate, the beautiful to the grotesque, the faces squinted and scowled and welcomed her in turn. Lila crossed to them and reached out to free one from its hook. A black half-mask with two horns spiraling up from the temples.

“A tes fera, kes ile?”

Lila jumped, and saw a woman standing at her side. She was small and round, with half a dozen braids coiled like snakes around her head, a mask nested in them like a hairpin.

“I’m sorry,” said Lila slowly. “I don’t speak Arnesian.”

The woman only smiled and laced her hands in front of her broad stomach. “Ah, but your English is superb.”

Lila sighed with relief. “As is yours,” she said.

The woman blushed. It was obviously a point of pride. “I am a servant of the ball,” she replied. “It is only fitting.” She then gestured to the mask in Lila’s hands. “A little dark, don’t you think?”

Lila looked the mask in the eyes. “No,” she said. “I think it’s perfect.”

And then Lila turned the mask over and saw a string of numbers that must have been the price. It wasn’t written in shillings or pounds, but Lila was sure that, regardless of the kind of coin, she couldn’t afford it. Reluctantly, she returned the mask to its hook.

“Why set it back, if it is perfect?” pressed the woman.

Lila sighed. She would have stolen it had the merchant not been standing there. “I don’t have any money,” she said, thrusting a hand into her pocket. She felt the silver of the watch and swallowed. “But I do have this.…” She pulled the timepiece from her pocket and held it out, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice the blood (she’d tried to wipe most of it off).

But the woman only shook her head. “An, an,” she said, folding Lila’s fingers back over the watch. “I cannot take your payment. No matter its shape.”

Lila’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand—”

“I saw you this morning. In the market.” Lila’s thoughts turned back to the scene, to her almost being arrested for stealing. But the woman wasn’t speaking of the theft. “You and Master Kell, you are … friends, yes?”