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Then, without farewell, he turns around and marches into the dining hall.

Genevieve looks after him, aghast. For a moment, all she can feel is insult; but then she thinks of his words, the shadows she saw in his eyes. And she realises that, in his own stumbling way, he is trying to warn her.

The first feature of the dining room Genevieve notices is the vastness of the space, better befitting a ball than a dinner. But this is not a dinner, after all—it is a feast. She can see only nine chairs, and yet around the edges of the room there have been laid so many tables and so many dishes Genevieve can hardly comprehend it. There is a tall bronze podium on which sits a mound of burst grains flecked with gold, scattered over with blood-red pomegranate seeds, glinting in the light of the chandelier; a crystal amphora of bruise-purple wine as tall as she is, within which drifts flower petals and crushed seeds of cardamom, and on top of which floats a sugar lotus tinted a delicate pink; and an entire roasted deer, stitched back into its skin, eyes replaced with warped white pearls. A life-size tree carved from amber stands between two columns, bearing sugar-glazed apple-shaped pastries that ooze scarlet juice. One table is dedicated entirely to ball-jointed dolls formed delicately out of marzipan, propped up in various coy poses—Missah stands there, gnawing uncertainly on a forearm.

Genevieve almost laughs with delight, with astonishment, with a sort of bemused horror. Then she sees Leander Sterne, standing in the far corner of the hall, watching over the feast with narrowed eyes. He has dressed for the occasion, at least—his coat is navy, embroidered with silver ships—but his expression is hardly festive.

Their eyes meet. He does not smile at her, but he does not glower, either. He simply stares, and she stares, and she thinks of his arms around her and the way he whispered in her ear. We both know what would happen once I caught you.

Swallowing nervously, Genevieve walks towards the table of fish. A bland-faced server immediately takes up a plate and slices a wafer-thin filet of trout for her; the flesh glistens oddly in the candlelight, and its scent is not fishlike at all, but rather a gamey sweetness. It should be repellent, but something about it is compelling, and Genevieve feels her mouth water as the plate is handed to her.

She takes a bite. It is incredible, melting like butter on her tongue, salty and savoury. She has not had food so delicious since she left the Court.

A hand is laid on her arm. It is Leander. ‘You shouldn’t eat that,’ he says.

She shifts out of his reach. ‘I am hungry.’

He sighs. ‘Genevieve. . .’

‘Leander,’ she returns, and takes another purposeful bite of the fish. He does not even pretend to look away—he watches her mouth close around the fork, the bob of her throat as she swallows, and something about the desire in his eyes feels almost accusatory.

‘You ran away from me,’ he says, and the words are low, rough, as if it pains him to say them—as if he feels guilty. As if he was the one who had done wrong, rather than her.

‘I did.’

‘I put your figurine in the miniature. If you were wondering. I. . .’ He makes a frustrated sound. ‘I was worried for you.’

‘Oh.’ Genevieve’s throat suddenly grows tight; it is such a small thing to say, not the sort of grand statement a suitor would have made at Versailles, not like the heated flirtation they have shared before. But it feels realer, somehow, real enough to be painful—a suggestion of something meaningful.

The sounds of the feast fade into a background hum. They are lit by the candles on the banqueting table. The silence between them feels so heavy. She hears her breaths, quiet and quick, weaving between the steady pace of his own.

‘I notice that Saliha Sultan has yet to arrive,’ she says, in desperate need to end the tension between them. ‘Is it not a breaking of the rules if she is late?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Leander replies, beginning to frown. ‘She has not found her figurine, either. They have moved the miniature Château into the library—I passed it on my way here. It wasn’t there.’

‘But. . . she must place it by the end of the banquet, no? Otherwise. . .’

He does not reply. He only stares, lips pressed thin.

‘Should we try to find her?’ Genevieve asks him. ‘What if she is in distress?’

‘It isn’t our responsibility to help her,’ he says. ‘You needn’t worry for others, Genevieve. Not in this place. Not if you want to win the auction.’

‘I do wish to win, but surely that does not mean I should ignore the wellbeing of the other guests?’

‘Yes, it does mean that,’ he says curtly.

‘Then you ought not to be giving me this advice,’ Genevieve returns. ‘You should not care what I do.’

His jaw clenches. ‘That’s different.’

‘Why? Because you think me beautiful?’ He scoffs, and she sighs. ‘One of the rules of the auction is fraternity, no? I will search for her myself. If I permit this competition to make me unfeeling, I would rather not be competing at all.’

Leander’s expression is inscrutable. His eyes seem darker this evening, the blue dark of the sea, and the slight hook of his nose casts a jagged shadow over one side of his face like a cresting wave.

‘Very well,’ he says, and he turns to make his way out of the ballroom. Genevieve hesitates only a moment before chasing after him.

‘You are coming with me?’