A whizzing sound—then a BOOM exploded overhead, drowning out the music and illuminating the sky with a starburst of violent silver. I stood in the middle of the lawn staring up into the velvety night sky with a grin of sheer wonderment. My gaze drifted with the fire raining downward to the crowd gathered around the dancers erupting into cheers, who were just as enrapt as I was with the first of the fireworks. A few more would be let off before the main display in half an hour's time. And it was a pressing reminder that I was running out of time if I wanted to talk to Tomas and entice another kiss from him.

As my gaze sharpened on the group gathered near a cluster of tall wildfyre torches, my stomach pitched and rolled, and my smile slipped from my mouth.

Master Sirro stood with Marissa's parents, Sanela and Romain, and a few other heirs, including Aldert Pelan, whom Marissa was clinging to with a dazzling smile almost as wide as her face.

The Horned God had almost caught me out when he'd arrived at the Servants' Dance. How he suspected I was other, I had no idea.

The past few hours, I'd kept a close eye out for Master Sirro, making sure to keep myself concealed within the sea of dancers or the crowd surrounding them, but I hadn't seen much of him after his urging to continue with the festivities. He'd disappeared soon afterward, and now obviously had returned from wherever he'd been.

It was deceptive, the immense power wrapped around him. He looked like a debonair playboy, casually at ease and flashing a devastating smile, with his Familiar standing subserviently to the side but slightly behind him.

The group turned away from their skyward staring and resumed their conversation. While Romain listened to Sirro, he stroked his cleft chin with a curled forefinger, his eyes hooded in thought. His thin, winged mustache twitched with his upper lip as he murmured a reply.

Sanela, a woman with refined elegance, stood at the edge of the group looking bored. Her gaze drifted leisurely over the nearby servants. I wondered if there was any merit to the gossip amongst us, and if, what Marissa seemed to believe, one of them was having an affair with one of us.

I realized a minute later I was doing the same thing as Sanela when I woke up to the fact that once again my gaze was roaming over the wall of revelers, once again not searching for Tomas, but Mr. Whiskers.

I hadn't spotted him earlier, either. I'd even done a walkabout when that five minutes Tomas had promised me before a dance had, in fact, turned to a disappointing thirty. I'd wandered about trying to locate Mr. Whiskers' tall frame, trying to convince myself that I was merely curious, and not at all hopeful that I would find him alone, rather than dancing with some other woman.

It was confusing and conflicting. On one hand, there was a surly man who had displayed no interest in me whatsoever. On the other, there was easy-going Tomas with his gorgeous eyes and pouty lips who had agreed to meet me in the kitchen cool room. I turned away from the dance and hurried across the lawns to the mansion, and in particular, the kitchen.

The last hour at the dance had been a mixture of emotions. Elation had pumped my heart faster when Tomas eventually sought me out, much to Oswin's astonishment.

Tomas and I had danced together, spinning and swaying to the pound of taiko drums and lutes and reedpipes. I couldn't raise my arms very high, the sleeves my aunt had sewn were far too tight for that, but I'd clapped my hands as we'd twirled, then ducked under the line of arms raised like a pitched roof to the other end of the dancers, held hand with Tomas, let go to twirl and clap, before linking my arm with his once more.

And then in between dances, or when the melody became whisper-soft and gentle, Tomas had leaned in to ask about Dolcie.

And kept asking about her.

The questions—How is she? What has she been up to? Where is she?—turned my happiness and exhilaration to uncertainty, and then a horrible feeling fell through me like a stone sinking to the bottom of a pool of icy water. He had forgotten all about last weekend, and he wasn't interested in me, in that way, at all.

The folk band had turned to older boisterous songs, encouraging joyous shout-singing, and it was too loud for Tomas to hear what I'd been asking. Which was, of course, about last weekend. So I'd invited him to the kitchen cool room where we'd first maybe-kissed last weekend.

Quite frankly, I'd had enough. I was irritated with all the Dolcie questions and I wanted to know from Tomas if indeed he had kissed me or not. What did last weekend's kiss qualify as? And was he really into me?

Besides all that—I just wanted a freaking kiss! Was that too much to ask for?

Tomas was to meet me in five minutes time. We needed to arrive separately, so it wouldn't seem suspicious. Even though this dance was for us to meet and mingle, there were still rules.

Holding up my skirt, I skipped up the stone stairs in quick, light steps, across the porch, and entered the kitchen. The music fell away as I closed the door behind me. The silence of the kitchen was strangely eerie, compared to the times when it was bustling and loud and full of heat. Except, I slowly realized, it was neither empty nor quiet.

I drew to an abrupt halt, stunned to find that Markel was in here with Aunt Ellena and Wallace. The little boy sat up on the steel countertop beside a flat plate of the commercial grill—the metal mottled and blackened from long use—with a trouser leg pushed up mid-thigh. Markel handed Aunt Ellena a damp cloth, and she used it to dab Wallace's grazed knee, making soft comforting sounds.

Wallace sniffled, rubbing his wet eyes with his shirt sleeve. He winced and wailed, "Ouch," when my aunt carefully wiped the blood from the wound.

"I'll get a plaster from the first aid kit," Markel rumbled, turning his broad figure away. He dragged a large hand over his silver-tipped hair as he ran his gaze over the high-running cupboards before striding toward the middle one.

"Tabitha." My aunt rose from her crouched position, surprised and pleased to see me. "Don't worry Markel, Tabitha will have a plaster on her," she said, smiling at him, eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy and healthy. Keeping company with Markel suited her.

I did have a plaster. As I approached, I fished one out of the side pocket my aunt had thoughtfully sewn into the dress. The pocket itself was a little tight and shallow, but I'd managed to fold a few plasters in half, as well as lip gloss and a few boiled sweets in there too. I offered one to Wallace, who brightened immediately.

"Thank you, Tab," Wallace grinned with a flash of tiny baby teeth. He unwrapped the sweet from the cellophane, then popped it into his mouth and began sucking on it.

I peeled back the layers of the plaster, discarding the paper and plastic wrapping on the counter beside the large flat metal grill.

I always had several plasters on me at all times—something my Aunt Ellena had encouraged at an early age. Maybe it had started with my mother; I wasn't sure since my memories started with my aunt. I didn't carry plasters because I was clumsy, but because I had to hide the fact that I healed fast, really fast, so quickly there wasn't even a scar within five minutes.

"What are you doing here?" Aunt Ellena asked.

For one long, horrible moment my mind was blank. And the first thing that popped into my head was—"Apples."

"Oh, for the barrel bobbing, have they run out already?" my aunt asked, her mind already supplying an innocent reason.

I cleared my throat and nodded.

"I'll help you carry them out," Markel offered as he sidled back up, collecting the plaster wrappers, and heading to the silver bin to discard them into the trash.

"No need, Oswin's coming to help me." So easily did it trip from my mouth, even I was astonished at how even my voice sounded delivering the lie.

As I stretched my hand toward Aunt Ellena with the sticky end of the plaster stuck to a finger, my hand swept over the top of the seasoned metal grill, and the strangest thing occurred.

Phantom pain, intense mind-eating pain, set my hand on fire.

A vague image, a memory perhaps, scored through my head. Fire and heat and fingers forced against a red-hot element. And screaming, such agonizing screaming, drowned out my thoughts. I swore I saw the skin on my fingers bubble and melt with blistering heat—

I jerked back, shocked. A gasp very nearly escaped my throat.

The pain vanished.

There and gone.

I stared at my hand, my fingers spread wide.

What was that?

"Tabitha?" my aunt asked, worry lacing her tone, jarring me to the here and now. Her spruce-green eyes were wide and her features pinched tight with concern. "Are you okay?"

I minutely flexed my fingers, whole and healthy.

I'm fine...I'm fine.

I swallowed and nodded, flashing a reassuring smile as she peeled the dangling plaster from my fingertip and turned back to Wallace, who was grinning and swinging his good leg back and forth, his heel kicking against the cupboard door.

Whatever that was, now wasn't the time to mull over it, but it still left me with an edgy, wary feeling.

"What happened?" I asked Wallace to distract myself.

"I fell over when I was chasing Freddie," Wallace mumbled around the sweet in his mouth, the boiled treat clicking against his teeth as he sucked on it.

Aunt Ellena gave me a wary glance—information she'd already gleaned.

"I'll look out for him," my aunt replied quietly under her breath as she half-bent over and covered Wallace's wound with the plaster, smoothing it over his knee.

Markel ruffled Wallace's thick, brown hair. "Let's go find your parents, Mister. I'm sure they're worried about you." Aunt Ellena carefully pulled Wallace's trouser leg down, and Markel lifted him off the counter. "Then we dance," Markel said to Aunt Ellena. "Like you promised."

"One," she replied.

"Two," I shot over my shoulder as I headed to the cool room. "Or however many Markel desires."

I heard a low, rich chuckle from Markel as the trio left the kitchen, the door swinging shut and mine opening as I pushed the tall metal door to the cool room wide.

I paced back and forth in the cool room, which was scented with crisp vegetables and fruit. My sensible, boring heels clipped on the tile floor, and the soft whir of the temperature cooler competed with the rapping of my heart. Five minutes had dragged into ten. I was so jittery and on edge, I was about to shatter into a million pieces or throw up, and I wasn't okay with either option. I checked my digital watch once more. Time was marching on and soon, very soon, I'd lose this opportunity with Tomas and I would have to move ahead with my plan to steal the Wychthorn Princess's crown.

I used the reflective surface of a metal tray to fluff my hair, check my teeth, and pat my face free from the sheen of nervous sweat. I applied lip gloss, smacking my lips, and tasted strawberry. Adjusting my sleeves as best I could, I smoothed down my skirt and worked out how to stand after trying a few different casual poses, finally settling with simply standing there with my hands clasped at my waist. But as time ticked on, it became glaringly obvious that Tomas wasn't going to meet me here.

I gave up with a disheartened sigh and leaned my shoulder against the bare wall between two tall metal shelves filled with baskets of vegetables and fresh fruit.

I didn't know how I felt.

Part of me was strangely relieved, and part of me was disappointed. Most of me was slowly awakening to the fact that somewhere along the way the shine of Tomas had dulled like a silver teapot that needed buffing. I couldn't work out why I felt off-kilter, as if I'd been on the verge of betraying someone else.

I reminded myself what this was all about. A kiss. I just wanted to kiss someone, and Tomas was the first boy who'd shown interest in me—enough to have maybe-kissed last weekend. He'd even broken up with Dolcie to be with me.

Which he shouldn't have done, and probably regretted. Maybe that was the reason why he wasn't here with me...he was seeking out Dolcie. Or he'd been detained like I had been with Aunt Ellena and Markel. Maybe he was trying to find a way to excuse himself and get to me.

Suddenly, the door to the cool room blew open. The heavy metal door crashed against a shelf, rocking the fragile nest of eggs and rattling the glass bottles of milk. It didn't sound as if the door had been pushed or shoved open.

It sounded like someone had kicked the freaking door in!

I whirled around. My heart beat as fast as a hummingbird.

It wasn't Tomas.

It was Mr. Whiskers.

Holy Hellsgate.

His formidable size swallowed the doorframe. He looked thunderous and ferocious and violent like brewing black storm clouds, roiling and tumultuous, wanting to spew their wrath upon the earth. I could almost feel ice and water particles colliding with one another, charging with energy and about to spark into lightning.

The bloodhound in me pricked its ears.

My mouth gaped as I stared at him, wide-eyed. He glared back at me, and there was something fierce and territorial burning in the depth of his dark violet eyes. And for some strange reason, a little thrill rushed through me. But there was something else blazing in his gaze. Anger. As if I'd done something wrong. Which I hadn't. Well, maybe he might have caught me in the act of doing something wrong if Tomas was here. But Tomas wasn't. It was just me and Mr. Whiskers.

He stalked into the room. I was beginning to think, with the way I was struggling for breath, that he'd burnt all the oxygen from the room with his fiery mood. His eyes hunted as he prowled around the small confined area as if he were looking for something...or someone. As if he suspected I'd hidden someone away. There wasn't much to see, just food items on metal shelving units, lining the walls.

Mr. Whiskers' body was tall and broad and corded with muscle, but that wasn't what had me frozen to the spot in fascination. It was him, what he projected—savagery and viciousness tempered with brutal good looks—tempting in an inexorable way like a kiss laced with poison. Deadly yet desirous.

Either way, there was something irresistible about trying to tame this man. But that was something, I realized with blinding clarity, I wouldn't want to do, even if there was something seductive about the thought of playing with something that could bite your hand off.

Or tear your heart out—part of me whispered.

There was the meat locker room within this one and not far from where I stood. He peered through the glass windowed doors, misted with condensation, at the rows of hanging haunches and salamis and chains of sausages, and I let my gaze stray over his profile at the disheveled black hair, the ends raking his shoulders; piercing violet eyes, such a dark purple they were almost fathomless; and a beard that wasn't trimmed and kept neat, but neither had it the time to grow properly shaggy. There was enough to shadow his full lips...sensual lips, I realized as I started noticing him. Really noticing him. More so than I had over the course of the day now that we were alone in confined quarters.

I wanted to shave off the beard and find out what his chin and jaw looked like—square and strong to match his forehead. Were his cheekbones sharp or flat? Were there hollows in his cheeks? I had no idea. I stroked my gaze down his figure, his massive shoulders and barrelled chest that I'd felt up last night—glorious—trailing down to his tapered waist, his white dress shirt pulled tight and tucked into his suit pants.

My eyes bugged, and my intrigue about the man shattered like glass on concrete.

What in hells did he think he was doing?

Miss Uptight Spinster reared her head once more.