by C. L. Polk
But she couldn’t stand his company, not for another minute. She wrinkled her nose at the question, and let a small laugh escape her.
“I haven’t devoted any time to thinking of it,” Beatrice said. “What an interesting question.”
They stepped back as the music drew to a close and applauded for the musicians. “It was wonderful to meet you, Miss Clayborn. I hope to meet your father soon. May I have your card?”
He escorted her off the dance floor, bowing over her hand before he took an invitation card from her and left. She’d failed to measure up to Charles Cross’s criteria for a political wife, but she was still valuable. Did any of the gentlemen who had crowded around her see her? Did they care who she was? Did anything about her matter at all?
The grandest time of a woman’s life. Mr. Cross probably didn’t realize how true or how horrible that was. She searched the crowd for Ysbeta, but she startled as Elon Poli appeared before her, bowing.
“May I have this dance, Miss Clayborn?”
Behind him, other gentlemen were headed her way. If she said no, it wouldn’t stop any of them. Danton Maisonette shouldered his way past the others, gaining the lead.
Beatrice smiled at the most famous actor in Chasland and took his arm. “It would be my pleasure.”
The ballroom smelled more like sweat than perfume, and Beatrice couldn’t find Ysbeta anywhere. She had danced with one partner after another for more than an hour. At least Danton never managed to become one of her partners, though she had to pretend to mis-hear him to accept someone else. But no more. Her feet ached. Her throat was dry. It was time to escape these sorceress hunters and find Ysbeta.
She had seen her friend once all night. Ysbeta had danced a pivot with Bard Sheldon, but when Beatrice tried to join her, she had been overtaken by the pack. She couldn’t even remember half their names. And all of them announced their intention to meet with her father, rather than asking her to join them for any games or outings as she had a right to expect. Why the hurry to close the bargain? They were only in the season’s second week—what was happening?
She fluttered her fan, moving a little of the too-warm air across her face, holding it before her mouth as a shield signaling that she was disinclined to socialize. She roamed through the fringes of the ballroom, ducking into the conservatory where Harriet played a sparkling bit of piano to accompany Julia Robicheaux’s command of the violon, her bow dancing over the half-dozen strings in sharp, precise movements.
Her pride of young ladies gathered around to listen and applaud. So did an astonishing automaton, which moved gracefully to its feet to lead the praise. Beatrice watched the masterwork raise its hands, nod its head, and then sit in a padded chair, lifting one hand to cup around its ear. Harriet laughed and surrendered her seat at the pianochord to another young lady, who began a brilliant solo. Julia took Harriet’s arm and led the way past this amusement to find another out in the torch-lit garden.
Harriet was in her element. Now experiencing the pages of one of her silk ruffle novels, she had found her place and reveled in it. Harriet deserved a bargaining season of her own, one where she would probably dance her suitors into the floor and dash about all day, attending this social or that tearoom visit, and keeping up with dozens of friends. Harriet would make an excellent partner for a man like Charles Cross or a trade baron who needed a lively, connected spouse to take on a whirling social calendar.
Beatrice couldn’t rob her sister of that. She would not. Somehow, she had to sail through this bargaining season without a single error, and then find a way to save Riverstone. She needed an opportunity. She needed impeccable timing.
She needed luck.
:Nadi,: Beatrice reached for the spirit inside her. :How do I win?:
:We do it together,: Nadi said. :Are we done dancing?:
:Yes. We need to find Ysbeta.:
:I see Ianthe,: Nadi said. :He’s hunted too.:
:What?:
But then she saw Ianthe, splendid and vibrant in a primrose pink dancing suit that matched his sister’s, doing his best to smile at half a dozen young women crowded all around him. They giggled. They heaved their bosoms. They touched his arm and tried to hold his gaze—and whoever held it smiled as she ignored the others glaring murder at her.
Beatrice watched a little longer. It shouldn’t matter to her one bit. Her heart shouldn’t ache. She shouldn’t feel her breath fighting its way out of her chest as she waited for him to look up, to see her, and—
Beatrice’s hands trembled. That dream was done. She had one path now.
:Do they bother you? I can hex them.:
:No. They’re just talking,: Beatrice assured. :And it doesn’t matter anymore.:
:You still like him. It still thrills you to see him.:
:That isn’t important.:
:Isn’t it?:
It wasn’t. There was only one thing for her now. Ianthe was a beautiful dream, but she had to wake up. :Not anymore. Where’s Ysbeta?:
:There.:
The only woman in a group of men. Beatrice should have figured that. But standing at her side was Bard Sheldon, smiling and leading the gentlemen in conversation in Chasand, while Ysbeta, beautiful even when sulky, remained silent.
Beatrice had grown so used to speaking Llanandari that she forgot that Ysbeta hadn’t as much facility with Chasand. Imagine, leaving her out of the conversation like that!
“When do you suppose the automation and manufacturing scheme will be approved by the ministers?” a cheroot-smoking gentleman asked Bard.
“Once all those ministers have their own pursuits ready to sail,” another said. “A dozen new corporations will form before the ink’s even dry on the writ.”
Bard laughed and conjured a flame to relight his pipe. “I can’t say, fellows. You know that we can’t speak on what the Ministry is going to do. But there are multiple opportunities afoot. Father gave me an interesting book on mine safety and management. It’s all in Makilan, but it’s worth the slog.”
All the gentlemen nodded, avid for more hints from Bard.
“Pardon me, gentlemen.” Beatrice took Ysbeta’s hand and pulled her out of the ring of conversation. “Come on. If you’re going to meet gentlemen, you can’t do it stuck to Bard’s side.”
“I tried. He would— Good evening! Mr. Beecham, is it not?” Ysbeta smiled brilliantly at the gentleman who closed in on the two of them.
“Miss Lavan, Miss Clayborne.” Mr. Beecham bowed. “I hope you are both enjoying the dance.”
“Beatrice has been danced right off her feet,” Ysbeta said, “but I haven’t had much of a chance to take a turn around the floor. Mr. Harlow, how do you do? Thank you so much for the primroses last week. I enjoyed them so.”
Mr. Harlow’s smile faltered before he stretched it over his mouth. “I’m pleased to hear they brightened your day, Miss Lavan.” He flashed another smile and turned to Beatrice. “Miss Clayborn. I would be enchanted if you would consent to dance with me.”
It was all Beatrice could do to keep her expression from falling into shock. He’d nearly snubbed Ysbeta, trampling over her invitation to converse to get closer to Beatrice. “I couldn’t possibly dance while Ysbeta is unpartnered.”
Ysbeta snapped her fan shut and let it dangle from her wrist. “I would adore a dance.”
Mr. Beecham nodded. “Please allow me to escort you to Lord Powles’s side.”
Ysbeta laughed. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Beecham. I know Sheldon believes that his work is done, but I am not that easily won, and I would like to dance.”
A competitive light sparked in Mr. Beecham’s eyes. “Then may I have the honor?”
Ysbeta lifted her hand and Mr. Beecham took it, leading her to the parquet. Mr. Harlow gave Beatrice a deep nod and guided her out to dance beside her friend.
CHAPTER XI
They danced another basketweave chase, a dash-in-square, and a triple-step. The hem of Ysbeta’s pink gown belled out with every spin, her laugh
like the chiming of bells as she danced with Mr. Beecham, then Lord Overston, and Ellis Robicheaux himself, and whatever Ellis said to her as they wove their teasing steps around each other had Ysbeta glowing with good humor.
Beatrice did her best to keep up, accepting another cup of punch and the partnership of Fitch Amesbury, the son of Amesbury Steel and Smithworks, Gilbert Arquelon, a much kinder citizen of Valserre than Danton Maisonette, and Neville Ordin, a wealthy landowner with the best Arshkatan horses in Chasland. They charmed. They flattered. They hinted at wanting a card from Beatrice’s pocket, and then, invitation in hand, they bowed and brought her back to the corner she and Ysbeta ruled, back to the waiting gentlemen who jostled for a chance to partner them.
But when they returned from the triple-step, Bard Sheldon stood in their midst, an indulgent smile on his face. “Miss Lavan,” he said. “If you wished to dance, you only needed to say so.”
“You were quite busy, Mr. Sheldon,” Ysbeta said, showing her teeth as her cheeks plumped in a smile. “But now I must retreat for the moment to the ladies’ lounge.”
Her fan unfurled with a snap of her wrist, blocking the sight of her mouth so they could retreat to the ladies’ lounge in peace.
Once inside the lounge, Ysbeta’s shoulders slumped. “Well, that was fun while it lasted.”
“Have you been shackled with him all night?”
“He won’t leave my side, even though I understand half of what his friends say,” Ysbeta groaned. “I tried to say that I should see the dancing. He came with me. I waited until he was deep in a talk about spinning automatons with Ellis and mumbled about wanting some air. He stopped mid-sentence and came with me. I haven’t had a moment to breathe until you came. You are my knight in shining aspect. My rescuer and hero, St. Ijanel herself come to save me.”
Beatrice laughed. “I don’t know where you heard of St. Ijanel.”
“Do you joke with me? She’s famous here. The maiden who repelled invaders with the blessing of the wind-lord, who sent a vicious storm to sink the fleet of conquerors before they could make shore?”
Beatrice smirked and leaned closer, as if confessing a secret bit of gossip. “Do you know what I think? St. Ijanel was a sorceress. But no one wants to admit that, so they made her blessed of a god and gave him the credit for her magic.”
“It’s as good a story as any, and in all honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ysbeta said, chattering until the last young lady left the comfort room. Once alone, she stepped so close to Beatrice their skirts pressed together, almost whispering. “Listen. Ianthe wants to talk to you, but he’s buried in young ladies and is too polite to walk away from them. He tried to catch up with your carriage, but you were in the bath when he made it to your house.”
He had? And Father hadn’t said anything of it? “I’m sorry I didn’t ride with him. Mrs. Lavan provided a carriage for me after she gave me some flowers from her greenhouse.”
“They’ve already fought over that.” Ysbeta led her to the vanity stands, where they could retouch their maquillage. “She treated you like some common fortune hunter.”
Ysbeta stood before a gilt-edged mirror and inspected her countenance. She didn’t wear a mask of paint and powder over her face, as Chaslander ladies did, preferring a whisper of powdered pearl left to shimmer on her cheeks, which only emphasized the flawless, glowing skin she was blessed with.
“As far as she knows, I am a common fortune hunter,” Beatrice said. “But I don’t know how we will continue our studies if I’m no longer welcome in her house—”
“My house,” Ysbeta said. “Remember? I own it. I direct the staff. I say who is welcome and who is not.”
How like Ysbeta, to plant her feet and demand her mother give way to her. Beatrice would have attempted something gentler, more winsome and persuasive, but Ysbeta charged in, ready for a fight. “She’ll be unhappy.”
“I will take the brunt of her displeasure,” Ysbeta said. “There is nothing she can do to stop me from entertaining my friends. But you need to talk to Ianthe. Tonight.”
“Should I really be speaking to him?”
“Listen. You must let him know that you’re willing to fight. We dined at Bard Sheldon’s tonight. Lord Gordon spent most of the meal talking with Mother.”
What did that have to do with Beatrice battling to stay at Ianthe’s side? Beatrice tilted her head and watched Ysbeta’s reflection. “Did they have a pleasant conversation?”
Ysbeta watched her for a moment, a corner of her lower lip caught in her teeth. “Lord Gordon toasted us with mouth-blown Makilan goblets, the finest glass in the world—and he wants a partnership that will bring Makilan glass genius to Chasland.”
“Instead of rubber?”
“In addition to it,” Ysbeta said. “He also mentioned that he hadn’t visited Makila in years, but that he remembered the governor of trade had the most adorable daughter, who is probably near her eighteenth birthday now.”
Beatrice’s shoulders released and lowered. “He’s interested in a different bride for Bard?”
The look Ysbeta traded her in the mirror was heavy with sadness. “He’s interested in a bride for Ianthe. With me married to his son, and Ianthe married to a trade princess, he’d have exactly the fulcrum he needed to tip Makila’s wealth into Chasland’s coffers. Mother all but started planning her cargo for the trip.”
A weight lodged in her chest. “And so she will trade another child’s happiness for yet more wealth and power.”
“Unless you act now. Father pointed out that we have to stay in Chasland to finish my bargaining season. Mother said that he and Ianthe could leave for Makila immediately. Father pointed out that he couldn’t leave before they hosted the party on the Shining Hand—but the moment we’re done in Chasland, she’s taking Ianthe south to meet this family.”
And then Ianthe would be gone. Forever. Ysbeta would be bundled off in a green gown and married as fast as they could make the arrangements. Everything was happening too quickly; everything was falling from their grasp.
They stood alone before the mirrors, the embroidered, lace-ruffled young women across the room out of range for any but the sharpest ears, but Ysbeta whispered into their reflections.
“Tell me how to read the books,” Ysbeta said. “Ianthe’s yours. I know you know it already, and I haven’t a thing to bargain with you. But—”
But it wasn’t that simple. “I need that book too,” Beatrice said, “so you have plenty.”
“You still want to—”
“Never mind what I want. You’re not ready to undertake the ordeal of the greater summoning yet. We must find more time.”
“There isn’t any more.”
“Then we must make some,” Beatrice said. “If we are going to escape this—”
Ysbeta’s eyebrows pushed together. “We? But Ianthe—”
“Would be the finest husband in the world,” Beatrice said. “He’d give me everything it was in his power to provide. But I would have to give up my fight.”
“Your fight? What do you mean?”
Beatrice leaned toward Ysbeta, her voice so low it only carried to her ears. “I want magic, Ysbeta. Not just to escape the marriage collar. I want the life of a thornback daughter, secretly aiding her father in his business affairs, but I will save my family and get Harriet into ladies’ college. I will finance her bargaining season.”
“Ianthe will gladly pay for all of that.”
“I know he would. But I want magic aside from all that. I want it because it should be mine.”
Ysbeta went still, her eyes huge. “You don’t want him.”
“I do,” Beatrice said. “But I want magic, too. I can’t have them both—Ysbeta, what would you choose, if it were you?”
Ysbeta’s reflection pressed her lips together. “I’m not in your position. I can’t imagine the choice you face. If a man turned my head the way Ianthe does yours, I’d be in agony.”
She did need to speak to Ianthe. It wa
s the least she could do. She owed him an explanation. “I will talk to him. Are you ready to brave the party?”
“What will you wager Bard is hovering outside?” Ysbeta asked.
“I’m not inclined to lose any coin to a fool’s bet.” Beatrice fished in her pocket for her handkerchief and wiped lip rouge off her teeth. “Ianthe is completely surrounded. What is our plan of attack?”
“What you did for me. Barge straight in and take him away,” Ysbeta said. “It’s simplest.”
“Beatrice?”
A small figure in lilac silk brocade burst into the powder room and rushed to them in a flurry of skirts. “Beatrice,” Harriet said. “Oh, Beatrice. It wasn’t you. I was so worried—”
“What is it?”
“There’s been an incident,” Harriet whispered. “One of the ingenues is in disgrace. They’re sending her home right now.”
“Why?” Beatrice and Ysbeta chorused.
“Not so loud,” Harriet scolded. “She used magic on a gentleman. He was troubling her, but it doesn’t matter. She called a spirit’s name and doused him in water that came from nowhere, so she’s in trouble, and not him.”
“That’s not fair,” Beatrice said. And society would extend her the same justice, if she were caught with Nadi. She’d be warded, marked as a disgrace. If anyone knew she regularly hosted a spirit, she’d be ruined.
:Nadi is lucky,: Nadi assured. :That won’t happen.:
“What was she supposed to do?” Ysbeta demanded.
“I know, but it’s done,” Harriet said. “Wendera Heath has danced twice with Charles Cross. Genevra Martin introduced Stephen Hadfield to her father. You’ve been danced off your feet, Beatrice. The gentlemen are moving quickly to secure brides. There are only twelve unattached ingenues now, and that’s not going to be for much longer.”
“Twelve? What happened to the other one?” Ysbeta asked.
Harriet licked her lips. “No one wants to cross Lord Powles. Everyone knows your parents are talking to each other.”