“We’re still us. They’re still them.”
Henry lifted his hand in agreement to Charlie’s response. He’d felt the eyes on him, the scrutiny, the judgment. What was Theodore Burnett, Marquess of Fellswood, playing at by bringing some common soldier to one of Baselton’s evenings? Someone who did not belong. Someone beneath them, magician or not. Nothing more than an insect to be squished under their polished shoes.
And the condescending smiles and the pity in their eyes and the backhanded compliments. The desperate races they all ran to prove they were better than everyone else, trampling over anyone who might get in their way.
He thought about Lady Mariah, and Miss Kittering, and jellies and ices and diamonds and glitter. About Clarence, Theo’s brother, and the casual loss of a jeweled shoe,
