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520 pages, Kindle Edition
First published December 17, 2021
“The masquerade is a beautiful lie upon a lie. Nobody wants to be faced with the ugly truth of their insignificant lives.”
For some, receiving an invite meant a chance to witness real magic, offering an evening of fantasy, a chance to visit a world where every hunger and desire imaginable was sated over and over. Rumors swirled every year of how a guest might find their fortune at the masquerade, of how a fae could bestow immortality on a lucky mortal, or of how the lonely might fall in love. Nobody cared to mention the guests who vanished or the rumors of how the vicious host could turn a mortal mad with a single unmasked glance. Those horrors were conveniently ignored or wilfully forgotten.
They will offer you that which you most desire, but it will come with a heavy price.
The masquerade calls, Mother had told him over and over. Can you hear it, Brice? The fae have all the time in the world, but ours is finite. When they call, you must never answer.
(…)
They don’t like to be ignored. They’ll take something of yours, taking your choice with it. Hope they never call, Brice. It is the only way to survive them.
Stepping back, Raoul offered the crook of his arm. “Brice LeChoix, you are hereby invited to the masquerade. Guard your mask and your heart, for the masquerade takes both from fools in love.”
“A fae’s love is a fierce thing,” Chantel said. “Everlasting. Consuming. It outshines stars and outlives mountains.”
You deny me, you puzzle me, and you tear me asunder. Yet I’d surrender the last of my immortal moments if I could spend a mortal life with you. I see now why my kin fear love.”
He loved the obnoxiously flamboyant way he demanded everyone watch him, the way he laughed when he shouldn’t, the way he sketched Brice with all the feeling and heart he’d denied himself. He was the dancer trapped in the music box, and by God, Brice would burn it all down to set him free.
“Perhaps that is the masquerade’s gift? Not knowing what we should miss, freeing us of its grief. Wouldn’t it be worse to know the things you cannot return to?”
“I am a trickster, a dancer, a player behind the scenes. This isn’t my story. It’s yours.”
“It could be ours?” What was he saying? It was madness. But it did not feel insane. It felt like the only true thing in this place.