“Every night you will dream of my return, and every nightmare will echo with the pounding of my fists. You fear me, even now. You are right to fear me. I will not rest. I will never rest. I will rise up against you, and I will come with stars blazing at my fingers—”

—The last recorded words of the angel Kalmaroth

The city of Festival was awash with light.

It sat high on the mountainous shore, looking out over the ocean—an orderly city, built on terraced cliffs that climbed up from the water like mammoth steps to some castle in the sky. The buildings were constructed of white stone, the roofs of overlapping white and gray tile, the roads a soft heather gray like a dove’s downy underbelly. Courtyards spilled over with greenery, and abundant sprays of flowers punctuated each neighborhood. The air was warm and salty; gentle waves dark as night left the gray beach streaked with white foam. Beyond the shore, sitting dormant at the vast docks, were several enormous ships, painted orange and gold with torchlight. The Jubilee, it seemed, extended even into the water.

And the brilliance of it all, the sheer splendor—thousands of gold lanterns hanging from every door and window; strings of buzzing white galvanized lights draped from shop to shop and apartment to apartment, capping the roads in brilliant grids. Candles everywhere, dripping wax onto windowsills and wrought-iron gates, smoke from torches and incense pots blackly sweetening the air.

Dani had described what it would look like, had even taken Eliana on a brief tour through the estate to show her oil paintings of past Jubilees. But nothing could have prepared her for the reality of Festival’s wildest, brightest night.

The streets teemed with people, a constant parade of bodies sauntering and whirling their drunken way from building to building, each room bursting with parties. Capes, gowns, and long glittering cloaks swept the crowd along, hemmed with feathers dyed azure and gilt and scarlet. Bare arms and legs wrapped around bare backs and hips, each stretch of exposed skin dusted silver and turquoise with shining powder. And on every face, a mask—velvet, hemmed with satin ribbons, rigid and sculpted to resemble animals. Foxes, bears, and birds most of all, their beaks hooked and grinning.

Eliana had attended many such parties at Lord Arkelion’s palace back in Orline—but that had been another life, and it had been some time since she’d worn a fine dress, pasted on a false, demure smile, and entered an environment such as this.

And besides, none of Lord Arkelion’s fetes had ever approached the size and splendor of this one. A city-sized feast, which Dani had said would last for days, the frenzy of it never diminishing. Through windows thrown open to receive the night air, Eliana caught glimpses of couples in the throes of ecstasy, ballrooms effervescent with color and light, dining halls crammed full of bodies.

And it was nearly impossible to tell, on such a night, which bodies were human and which were angel. Only the black eyes would give them away, and their unusually fluid style of movement, impeccably graceful. But some of the masks had mesh for eyes, and not even angelic bodies were entirely immune to the stupefying effects of alcohol.

Eliana’s skin crawled from the noise and from the oppressive heat of so many people packed in such close quarters. Given that, she was particularly grateful for what Dani and Ester had done to her hair. Not long enough to gather into a plait, it was now a short, riotous spill of dark curls, the ends of which brushed her jawline. Remy had taken one look at her, gathered her into a fierce hug, and then whispered that he would miss braiding her hair before parties.

So she had let him help her fashion it into something of a style—two slender braids, starting near her temples, their ends held in place amid her curls with a cluster of black pins. Her mask was black too—soft and velvet, lace-trimmed, with gossamer ribbons that tied at the back of her head. A more delicate, more elaborate version of the mask she had worn as the Dread of Orline. And as she moved through the streets of Festival, it felt like a shield behind which she was only too glad to hide.

She reminded herself that in thirty minutes’ time they would have made their way through the choked city streets and be safely aboard a cargo ship called the Dovitiam, ready to disembark and leave this continent far behind.

Then Simon touched her elbow, making her pause.

She stopped, bending down to adjust her skirts, and glanced over at him. He stood close by, next to the courtyard wall of a narrow manor house, candlelit sapphire blooms spilling over the stone. Another masked man, whom Eliana recognized as one of their Red Crown scouts, was in conversation with him, neither of their voices audible over the street’s jubilant racket.

But whatever they discussed, it couldn’t have been good. As she watched, Simon’s body sharpened into the shape of anger.

A few seconds later, the scout melted back into the crowd. Eliana watched him go, quickly counting the twelve others in their team—six before them, six behind, stretching down the road like floating links in a chain that seemed suddenly fraught and fragile.

She drew a deep breath to steady herself, met Simon halfway.

“What is it?” she murmured.

He put a hand on her waist and gently pulled her close. Lips against her ear, he said tightly, “New intelligence. The ship isn’t here yet. Should arrive in three hours.”

Her body went heavy with fear. Any moment, the army would arrive on Festival’s doorstep.

“We can’t linger on the street,” she said at once. “We’re too exposed, even dressed as we are. And I’ll go mad if we stand here waiting for three hours. Is there a safe place we can wait?”

“No safe places anymore.” He wrapped her hand in his. “Follow me.”

• • •

A mile down the road, in the easternmost ballroom of Lord Tabris’s palace, Eliana made for the second-floor mezzanine.

It was a laborious process that took her the better part of ten minutes, each of which was excruciating. Simon had ordered their team to enter the ballroom separately, in the name of discretion, and now, navigating the crowd, the air ripe with wine and sweat, Eliana had never felt so alone in her life.

A waltz chased her upstairs, the enormous orchestra at the far end of the room playing so loudly that were the room not so packed with revelers, the music would have drowned out everything but shouts. As it was, a steady hum of laughter and conversation floated atop the lilting, somewhat disjointed melody—a waltz, yes, and unexpectedly joyous, but also a bit off-balance, as if composed by someone whose perception of the world were skewed.

Finally, she reached the mezzanine and clung gratefully to the stone railing, each slender pillar carved to resemble wings. She grabbed a glass of red wine from the platter of a servant gliding by and drank it so quickly her eyes watered, desperate for even a thin gloss of calm over her nerves.

Alone, she waited for Simon and thought once more through the outline of their modified plan.