"You can drink alcohol," Raye murmured, squeezing my hand as the music swelled and the crowd folded us in. "I strictly told the vendors—no aphrodisiacs in anything. But don't drink too much, okay?"
"Mothering me now?" I teased.
She rolled her eyes. "You certainly need some mothering. You're a trouble magnet."
We'd barely stepped into the main thoroughfare when the ground turned to water—people moving in currents, lanternlight rippling over shoulders and silk.
A horn sang out, and somewhere to our left a cheer lifted as a troupe of drummers struck a gallop.
The men from the House of Ambrosia appeared as if Raye had ordered them from a menu: smiling, graceful, dangerous in that particular way of men who knew they were handsome and had survived it.
Their clothes and skin shimmered, their smiles had the charm you could fall into.
"Raye!" one of them called, eyes twinkling as he reached for her. "Dance with us or we'll have to make a complaint to the moon for negligence."
