Cora danced wonderfully when threatened with death. Their movements had a real vitality. “Wonderful party, isn’t it?” His voice was too normal. They had been expecting a snake’s hiss, a devil’s rasp. Yet the voice was human, with the cut-glass accent of a gentleman.
“Yes,” they replied, masking their fear. “Wonderful.” His smile grew too wide. Cora kicked themself for giving their first attempt at an invisibility potion to Marie. They reminded themself that they didn’t need it; they knew how to disappear in a crowd without magic. Trying not to elbow too many noblemen, they slipped in between the dancing crowd, pulling the oblivious couples around them like a cloak. They wanted to run. To pull their knife. To find Marie. They wanted to do many things, but all of their plans were cut off by trumpet-blasts. The king had arrived. 

They had a good view, their back pressed against a wall. They noticed that their hands were shaking. They brushed them over the pocket flashbomb. A man emerged from the top of the golden staircase, and put the most beautiful room Cora had ever seen to shame. He was not pretty; he had the beauty of sheer power. His hair was golden, his eyes bright blue, his fine clothes modelled on a military uniform. He held a bejewelled sword at his hip - it had been polished, but that did not disguise its frequent use. His presence, in a strange way, reassured Cora. Yes, they thought the institution of monarchy was ridiculous. But if they were to have a king, they were glad he looked like something out of a fairytale. 

He was followed by a smaller man in an ostentatious outfit which he appeared to be drowning in. The fur mantle looked far too heavy for his narrow shoulders to support, and the gold accents fell flat against his pallid skin. He was small and slight and frightened looking, and he had a circlet of gold on his head. He was, Cora realised, the king. 

They could have laughed. It suited the country perfectly; a small ineffectual king for a small ineffectual monarchy. Everyone made an effort to create thunderous applause. It fell a little flat. Even with all the shushing, his quiet, hoarse voice was difficult to hear. The speech was about unity, with a little fire and brimstone for those who failed to be unified enough. He delivered it in a monotone, having clearly been handed the words an hour ago. Cora was oddly reassured; if the disturbance came from the palace, a charismatic king was bad news. This man couldn’t convince a fish to swim. Cora tried to imagine him joining forces with strange dark fragments in order to purge a city, and came up blank. 

Cora snapped themself out of their reverie. This party was something to do with the solstice (which they thought was oddly pagan for a hyper-orthodox monarchy), so the king would mingle among the partygoers. They looked above the throng, into his eyes. Rather than mysterious, they aimed for reassuring. Safe. He was afraid, and he’d want someone who didn’t scare him. Colette, boring minor aristocrat, could be exactly that. 

Two minutes later, Cora was dancing with the king. He had offered formally, they had gasped and bowed. They were not often taken aback. It was easier than they expected, apart from all the eyes on them. The steps were easy, the king a good, if mechanical, dancer. His palm was sweaty in theirs. Cora got a good look at him, his drawn human face and pale human hands. Cora tried to follow his gaze, to see if he glanced at a fragment; it landed squarely on the wall. He was either entirely focussed on the dance or a damn good actor. 

“That was an impressive entrance there…your highness.” Sir? Your grace? They should have found out beforehand.
“Was it? I hope it was. There’s so much written about these entrances, and not a word on how to…make an impression.” Cora, with their deep-rooted hatred of the monarchy, felt a twinge of pity for the little king. They knew about being reserved, and about books that failed them. 

“You made a wonderful impression.” His gaze kept skittering over to the beautiful blonde man. 

“Really?” He was easy to compliment, not searching for an ulterior motive behind any kind words thrown his way.
“Who was the man who entered in front of you? Was he military?” Cora half-expected an outburst of childish jealousy. The dance became more complicated, with a series of dips and spins that rattled their brain. 

“No. Well, yes. In a sense. His name is Arden. He’s my advisor. He’s the only man I can trust in this viper-pit.” Where Cora had expected jealousy, there was something that bordered on worship. “The only honest man. Although…” His face clouded. Cora was about to press further, but at that moment the last strains of the music played. With a formal bow, the king walked away. He was immediately surrounded by adoring subjects. 

Cora reeled from this new, strange puzzle piece. The king knew something, but not much. He was in Cora’s position, seeing enough to be disturbed but not enough to understand what was going on. They had a hunch that if anyone here knew something, it was the golden beauty Arden. The only honest man in the palace. They knew how to follow from being seen, and it would be a pleasant break from cloying perfumes and inane chatter. 

Cora knew how to disappear without clothing or magic. It was a skill that could be honed, but to them it was instinctive. It was a tilt of the shoulders, a quiet tread (not silent, nothing unsettled like silent footsteps). It was a bland, quiet face. Arden was radiant and also at least a foot taller than anyone else at the party, so finding him wasn’t a problem. He swept through the party, making quick introductions when needed. He wasn’t rude, but he didn’t tarry; he was going somewhere. Cora spotted Odessa over the heads of the crowd, her eyes fixed on Arden. Cora locked eyes with her for a moment, and they nodded to each other. 

Arden danced through the crowd, making his way to the door. Even preoccupied he was an excellent dancer, with a brutal physicality that suggested he was more used to fighting than dancing. He was carefully charming towards people who mattered, but shoved away anyone who wouldn’t complain. Cora filed that information away. 

Cora struggled through the crowd behind him, the necessary few metres to throw off suspicion. They faked the universal drunken stumble and muttered something about ‘needing some air’. No one was watching, but if anything went wrong people would wrack their memories for any odd happenings. A boring minor aristocrat who couldn’t hold their liquor. Forgettable. 

Arden walked with the unshakeable confidence of a nobleman. In other words, he didn’t look behind him. None of Cora’s careful backup plans needed to be employed - he was pleasantly easy to follow. He sped up, rounding a corner. Something cut into Cora’s mind.

It sliced with a scalpel so thin there was no pain. There was a thought in Cora’s mind. The thought did not belong to them. It was sharp and heavy. The thought was cold and collected on the surface, but Cora could feel the heartbeat of fear beneath it. Whoever sent it was panicking. 

Get to the ballroom, now. We need to leave.

Odessa. Or a very good mimic. Hand on their knife, Cora made their way back to the ballroom.