Instead of our usual painting session, Aerwyna invites me to her coronation dress meeting. No doubt she wants to avoid the incoming knights, fighters, and mercenaries flocking to the palace in droves. Next week's dueling tournament is one of the three major festivities leading up to the coronation, followed by the ball and The Goblet.

"So my designer, Finocchi," Aerwyna says as we stroll down the hall, arm in arm. "He oversees all the resident artisans and is supposed to be one of the greatest dressmakers in history. He was one of the resident artisans that won The Goblet."

I only vaguely recognize the name, but I do not doubt this Finocchi guy's greatness. The royal family and their closest advisors only grant one individual per year a sip from The Goblet – a sip that severs their connection to the mortal realm and turns them into one of the immortal fae. 

"Tapestry is such an underappreciated art," I say. "I'm glad it's finally getting some attention."

"You mean dressmaking?"

I blink. "What did I say?"

"Ah, never mind. Are you alright?" Aerwyna's stare flickers between my eyes and mouth, the only parts of my face visible through my mask. "You seem off."

I am off. My head is cloudy, and my palms have been rubbed pink and raw, but I have let my person reach far worse states to finish other art pieces. Living in a constant state of exhaustion did not bother me as much as not being able to draw Devlin. 

Now that Silas knows my habits, he randomly drops in on my painting sessions with Aerwyna under the guise of speaking to her when he is really ensuring I do not slander his brother again. Oh, and the fireplace incident. I did not take too kindly to that.

But I cannot tell Aerwyna any of this because as much as she likes me, I would have to be insane to expect her to side with a copper over a brother-in-law. While I am busy coming up with an excuse for my behavior, I miss the group of fighters standing in the middle of the hall until I walk right into one of them. 

He is about to apologize, until he sees my copper mask. "Watch yourself," he snaps, pushing my shoulder.

"My apologies, sir," I mumble, just as Aerwyna shoves the fae twice as hard as he pushed me, her two ivory gloved hands hitting the fae's back with a solid smack, hard enough that he falls to the ground.

"Watch yourself," Aerwyna says.

The group of fighters turn to Aerwyna with curses on the tip of their tongues, only for their faces to drop when they see the shiny tiara fixed atop her head. The one Aerwyna pushed to the ground scrambles into a bow, and the rest follow suit. Aerwyna tips her head in acknowledgment, then strides right down the middle of the group, forcing the males – still crouched in bows – to half scramble, half waddle to the sides of the hall to clear her path.

"I walked into him," I whisper once we moved out of hearing range.

Aerwyna pats my back. "I know, dear."

We reach Aerwyna's chambers to find a fae in scarlet robes directing ten assistants, who each carried a box piled high with every kind of fabric imaginable. Finocchi. As he shows Aerywna his final sketches for her dress, I study him for signs of transformation, but whatever he was before he drank from the goblet, it is gone now. 

 He looks like any other fae, every line of his body perfect and blemish free, as if the gods carved him from diamond and sin.

"What is this?" Aerwyna says, pulling back from the sketchbook. "I said match the late queen's brilliance, not her likeness. I need something new."

I glance over her shoulder, and indeed. Finocchi's sketch is a thread for thread copy of the late queen's coronation dress. Beautiful, no doubt, but wholly derivative. 

When Finocchi fails to move or look impressed, Aerwyna hikes an eyebrow, something dangerous flashing across her expression. "Is that a problem?"

"Your word is my command," he says in a flat, monotone voice. "But unfortunately, I already ordered much of the supplies." 

He gestures at the stacks of boxes in the corner, then at the sets of jewelry lying across the table.

"Buy new supplies. I will cover your expenses."

"And the jewelry? This set alone cost a small village."

"Isobel." Aerwyna pinches a long string of rubies off the table, tilting her head in my direction. "You like this color, don't you? You're always painting with it."

The assistants stop dead in their tracks, turning to gape between Aerwyna and I. As I return to the servant's quarters, I examine Aerwyna's gift. The piece advertises wealth more than beauty, with gaudy gold bands and ruby charms thicker than my thumb. 

But even if it was the most beautiful necklace in the world, coppers have no use for finery. I am better served swinging by town and trading it for some more art supplies.

Suddenly, a cry rings down the hallway. "The queen!" 

 The hallway explodes in chaos. Instantly, everyone – servant and fae alike – drops what they are doing to scramble for either side of the hall, shoving and tripping over each other in their urgency. Servants are thrown to the floor, high nobility leap over their bodies, friends jerk each other to safety. 

The royals and country folk alike adored the queen, so much so that when she died, they pressured the king into marrying her identical twin  – only to discover that the similarities ended at their appearance.

But just as quickly as it starts, the chaos ends. In a matter of seconds, everyone has dropped in a low bow or curtsy, their chests heaving with silent gasps. A moment later, the queen rounds the corner, flanked by three fae-knights. Keeping my head lowered, I steal glimpses of her beauty through my lashes. 

Even at her elderly age, the queen looks better than most fae in their primes. Her silver hair flows down her back like a waterfall, creating a halo effect so spellbinding, you could almost forget that she once shoved a visiting diplomat off a four-story balcony for laughing when she stubbed her toe. 

No doubt a similar tale plays in everyone's mind as the queen slowly descends the hall, but which tale is impossible to say, for their are too many to chose from. I let out a breath when the queen passes me – only for her to stop, her shoulders rigid. 

Everyone tenses. Then the queen turns around, her narrowed eyes honing in on the necklace sticking out of my pocket. My stomach flips.

"That is quite a necklace," she says. "Where does a copper acquire such a find?"

"The princess gave it to me, Your Highness. She had no use for it, so I am disposing of it for her."

"The princess has no use for a ruby necklace?"

"The necklace was intended for an old dress that she no longer wishes to wear. You may ask her yourself, Your Highness. I'm sure she can explain the story much better than I."

"Explain what? That you are a thief? Coppers are all the same. Wait until the week before your bargain ends and then pocket whatever valuables you can get your hands on. Perhaps it's time we set an example."

Then she jerks her head at one of her knights. With a teeth-grinding screech, he unsheathes his sword. All the blood in my body rushes to my face, and a choked noise escapes the back of my throat. 

Everything happened so fast that I didn't even have time to feel fear. My body is not my own. I feel as if I am watching someone else, from a mountain away.

"Quiet now," the queen advises, "or I'll have to cut that tongue, too."

Though I know I am no match for a knight, pure adrenaline takes over. I stagger back, and the knight swings – just as a hand shoots between us, catching the knight's wrist mid swing. 

The knight instantly relents, his grip on the sword going slack. "Your Highness!"

Releasing the knight's wrist, Silas tells the queen, "While we can all appreciate your passion for justice, the princess truly is partial to this copper."

The queen stiffens, then she paints a smile back on her face. "Is she? I had no idea our dear Aerwyna was fond of keeping pets."

"Indeed."

The queen pushes her palm in front of me. I am trembling like a rabbit. The last thing I want is to get closer to her, but I cannot risk offending her further. I am about to kiss her hand when Silas huffs under his breath and drops the ruby necklace in the queen's palm. Then he places his palm on my lower back, escorting me down the hallway.

"You saved me," I rasp, once we have moved a safe distance away. My hands move on their own, wringing together as if to double-check that they are still attached to my wrists.

"Of course I did," he replies, his mouth curving. "I can't lose your hands before your most important assignment yet."