Others were less easy to identify. There was the young man with the lion mask dressed in red velvet. While Amberhill could not figure out who he was, it was easy to see he was nervous about something, even with his expression hidden behind the mask. He stood off by himself, not attempting to converse with anyone. He played with the cuff of his left sleeve, fidgeted, and tapped his toe, but not to the beat of the music. He kept glancing this way and that as if fearing someone or something. Likely he was hoping to use the cover of the masquerade to make off with some lovely maiden beneath the nose of her father.

Amberhill continued on to one of the food tables. He passed on the jellied sea urchin, instead helping himself to a scallop wrapped in bacon, savoring the butter and juice that slathered it. He licked his fingertips observing, with consternation, the number of guests wearing some variation of a raven mask. He supposed he ought to be flattered, but more than a few of the gentlemen bore a generous paunch, which he found repugnant. It was not at all how he viewed himself as the Raven Mask, and he could not see these fellows managing to scale walls or leap across rooftops.

He moved to the end of the table loaded with an array of sweets and pastries. As he surveyed the offerings, he overheard snippets of conversation, from the usual commentary on the weather to the price of silk. It was terribly mundane, but one conversation did pique his interest. It was between an older gent and a younger one.

“I weary of these parties,” the older man said. He wore a helm mask with a stuffed seagull perched atop it. Pinned to his lapel was a cormorant brooch.

Lord Coutre, Amberhill decided. The voice sounded right. The younger man also sported a cormorant brooch, but he wore a more simple eye mask of black silk with silver-blue feathers pluming from it.

“It is your daughter who is responsible for several of them,” the younger man said.

Amberhill thought the fellow likely to be Estora’s cousin, Lord Spane. He was often in close company with Lord Coutre and served as Lady Estora’s chaperone and representative.

Amberhill hovered over the table pretending to be caught in indecision over whether to try a piece of lemon cake or a fruit tart as he continued to eavesdrop.

“I know, I know,” Lord Coutre said. “I wish we could just dispense with it all and get the two married and have done with it.”

“The solstice will arrive soon.”

“Not soon enough. But we must defer to the moon priests on the date since they believe it auspicious. The gods know we want it to be a prosperous marriage; prosperous with many children so Coutre maintains its influence on the throne. Think of it Richmont! One of my grandchildren will one day reign over Sacoridia.”

“It will happen, my lord,” Spane said.

“We must ensure nothing goes wrong and that it all happens in a way that makes Estora happy. Even if it means attending these damned parties.”

“You have done everything for her,” Spane reassured the older man.

“Yes, well, I want you to promise me Richmont. Promise me that you will see to it this marriage proceeds no matter what. The future of Coutre depends on it.”

“Yes, my lord, on my honor. I promise nothing will interfere with the marriage. Nothing.”

Amberhill caught, from the corner of his eye, Spane bowing to Lord Coutre. The man came across as a sycophant who would follow through on that promise no matter what, especially if there was some reward in it. Anyone who got between him and his goal would no doubt live to regret it.

Amberhill selected a tart filled with raspberry preserves and bit into it, reflecting that while court intrigue was entertaining to watch from the fringes, he had no desire to get caught up in it himself. Too much trouble.

He left the table thinking to make a circuit of the ballroom, but the tumbler in the looking mask bounded up to him. He grinned at his own warped reflection. “Just you, old friend, eh?”

But he gasped when his reflection misted over and vanished.

“What the bloody hell?”

The mist cleared, showing his face again, but not his present face. The mirror revealed him unmasked and his hair wild in the wind, his face unshaven. He could almost hear the cries of gulls, smell the salt of the sea, feel the sway of a ship on the waves.

No, he thought, this is not real. I am in the ballroom. But he could not tear himself from the vision. The masquerade ball seemed miles and miles away.

His reflected face glanced upward and a shadow fell across it. Amberhill thought he heard the beating of immense wings on the wind. He could not discern whether he should be terrified or in awe, or both. He felt the strain of muscles demanding he duck for cover.

The shadow dispersed and then nothing. Amberhill gazed at his own reflection in the present as if that’s all there had been all along. He took a step back and the tumbler somersaulted away.

Did I truly see that? Or was it some fancy?

At some point he had crushed the remains of his tart in his hand, raspberry preserves oozing between his fingers like blood. Whatever he did or did not see, it left him feeling off balance. No wonder Karigan G’ladheon had been so disoriented after gazing into the looking mask. What sorts of things had she seen? She who had access to powers ...

He glanced at his dragon ring, but it revealed nothing more than its usual ruby radiance. What had he expected? Some flare of magic? For the gold dragon to wriggle around his finger? He shuddered. Whatever the looking mask had shown him, real or not, was damned disturbing.

He could have wondered about it more, but there was an outcry from the center of the ballroom floor.