The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

  Beatrice’s middle flipped over. Ysbeta did not suffer the same dilemma she did. Ysbeta did not want marriage—not to Bard, or to anyone. If she wound up a bride—no. She could not. She had to help Ysbeta, no matter what she chose for herself.

  “I’m not off the market.” Ysbeta went gray. “Not this early. I won’t be.”

  Harriet looked sympathetic. “Was there someone else you wanted?”

  “I think Miss Lavan is entitled to her privacy,” Beatrice said. “She doesn’t have to tell us who she’s drawn to.”

  “I apologize, Miss Lavan. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No offense taken,” Ysbeta said. “But I slipped in here to rest and hopefully recover from this awful headache. I’m afraid it hasn’t subsided. I think I should go home—I should fetch my brother right away.”

  “There are gentlemen hovering near the ladies’ lounge,” Harriet said. “I saw some of them dancing with Beatrice.”

  “Oh no,” Beatrice groaned. “Maybe I should leave with you, Ysbeta—”

  “You can’t,” Harriet said. “If you leave with Ianthe, it will be a perfect scandal. But you haven’t danced with him yet. You have to dance with him. Everyone will notice if you don’t.”

  Ysbeta regarded Harriet with a nod of respect. “You know more about this than me and Beatrice put together.”

  “You must tell Bard that you are unwell. Here.” She slipped a hand into the fold of her skirt and produced a tin of fennel pastilles. “Eat some of these, so it seems like your stomach rebelled. It’ll excuse why you’ve been in here for so long. I’ll fetch Mother, and we will defend you against Bard’s presumptuous attentions.”

  “Harriet.” Beatrice looked on her sister—her knowledgeable, clever, socially adept sister. “You’re a gift.”

  Ysbeta took another pastille. “I expect your bargaining season will bring you unprecedented success, Miss Harriet. I almost want to be there to watch you do it, so I can see how it’s properly done.”

  “Thank you,” Harriet said. Her smile deepened the dimples in her cheeks. “Stay here. I’ll bring Mother.”

  Harriet had done more than bring Mother to the powder room where Beatrice and Ysbeta huddled in wait. Ianthe waited by the door, and clasped Ysbeta’s hands. “You are unwell.”

  “I am, but I don’t think I can manage the carriage just yet.” Ysbeta’s fennel-scented breath wafted from her smile. “Mrs. Clayborn has offered to sit with me until I feel steady enough to travel. Perhaps you could enjoy one more dance?”

  Ianthe squared his shoulders and turned to Beatrice. “If I might have the pleasure?”

  “I accept.”

  Ianthe carried her hand as if it were a delicate crystal, and just that was enough to feel as if she touched magic. It brimmed over in the valley of his palm as they took their place on the parquet, posed, waiting for the musicians to begin.

  The first chord made her heart leap, as it was the Llanandari quanadar, one of their daringly intimate dances where the couples danced only in pairs. Beatrice turned to face Ianthe and raised her hands high, their hands and arms touching to the elbow, their faces close enough together to kiss. Perhaps they did kiss in Llanandras, but Beatrice hovered just a few inches away from Ianthe’s mouth, drawn helplessly into the depths of his eyes.

  “I have been wanting to dance with you all night,” Ianthe said in Chasand, and Beatrice spun away from him, her arms floating at her waist, stretching toward the walls of the ballroom before Ianthe caught her arm and reeled her back, catching her up in his hold.

  “Harriet said that we must, or it would seem that we had grown cold to each other.” Her body bumped against his. She put her hands on his shoulders, ready for him to raise her in the air and spin.

  Ianthe’s hands gripped around her nipped-in waist, and her skirts flared as they spun. “I am not cold. Are you?” He set her down and they circled each other, palms touching. “I must know. Did Ysbeta tell you of our dinner with Lord Gordon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that my mother plans to sail for Makila once this bargaining season is done?”

  “She told me.”

  Ianthe’s brow furrowed, his eyes pained. “Is your heart cold at the thought of marriage? Do you—do we have a chance?”

  Beatrice whirled away, but her steps spiraled inexorably back to Ianthe. “Your mother is not pleased at the idea of us marrying.”

  “I don’t care what pleases her,” Ianthe said. “I care what pleases you.”

  She had to choose. How could she? Now? In the space of a dance? “I thought magic was the clear choice. I thought I had nothing to lose.”

  Ianthe pressed his palms to hers. “But now?”

  Their faces were so close that Beatrice could whisper. “No matter what I do, it will hurt. I am torn in two. But am I selfish? Shouldn’t I be a good daughter and—”

  “You know the mystery of the rose.” Ianthe gripped her hands, stepping back, and then so close his personal heat radiated on her skin. “If you were a man, no one would dream of asking you to turn away from the starlit path. And yet I—”

  He caught her up in his arms. “I am selfish. I know your anguish. But no one captivates me except you. And I tell myself that no one will understand what you sacrificed, that only I can ease the blow of coming so close. I am the selfish one, Beatrice.”

  Oh, he couldn’t call her that. He couldn’t just say her name like it belonged to him. She wanted to hear it again.

  He reached up to touch her face and slid his fingertips along her cheek. “I’m the selfish one. Because if you don’t find what you seek, I must be there to be the one you turn to. And that’s like hoping you fail—and I hate that.”

  He wanted her. He understood her need, and it tore him apart just as it did to her. The butterflies burst into delirious flight. Her heart cracked in two. “Ianthe.”

  They spun apart. Beatrice couldn’t smile, couldn’t weep. Her heart trembled with the knowledge of the sound of her name on his lips.

  They met palms first, and Ianthe’s gaze locked with hers. “Say it again.”

  “Ianthe. I understand.”

  Ianthe closed his eyes. He nodded, his face overbrimming with relief, and guilt—and when he opened his eyes, the longing wrote over it all.

  “Beatrice,” Ianthe said, and he drew closer, bringing with him the sweet fragrance of white flowers and sweetwood. They stood in the final chord in the same position they began—pressed together, their lips an inch apart. The sensation swept through her, sparkling like tiny lights.

  The top of her head felt light as the rarest bubbled wine. She felt as if she were swinging high in the air, laughing at the swooping feeling in her middle just as she fell back to the world, falling and never crashing.

  “Ianthe.”

  The final chord died from the air, and they stepped away from each other, staring. Beatrice still felt his touch. Her hands remembered the warm satin of his coat. Her heart beat as if she had run three miles, her breaths swelling against her stays.

  Ianthe bent his head. He extended his hand, and Beatrice laid her fingers in his palm. He turned and led her back to the chairs lining the wall where Harriet and Ysbeta and Mother all sat, watching.

  “Thank you for assisting my sister, Mrs. Clayborn, Miss Harriet,” Ianthe bowed to them and then regarded his sister. “Are you well enough to travel?”

  “I believe I can manage,” Ysbeta said. “You dance the quanadar gracefully, Beatrice. It was a most absorbing sight.”

  Beatrice’s face heated, and she glanced away, but everywhere she looked, young people watched her. In the corner, Danielle Maisonette clutched a handkerchief and turned her back on her brother’s attempts to cheer her up.

  Beatrice looked back at Ysbeta with dismay. “So it seems.”

  “We’ll come get you after breakfast tomorrow.” Ysbeta rose to her feet. “Until then.”

  Ianthe led her away, daring one backward glance before they left the ballroom.


  CHAPTER XII

  Father watched Beatrice with narrowed eyes as she deftly handled every dish at breakfast without incident. When she had finished eating and asked to be excused, he didn’t answer immediately.

  “I trust you have recovered from whatever ailed you last night?”

  “I think so, Father.”

  “I hear you were popular at the dance,” Father said, nodding to Mother. “And that you danced with Sir Charles Cross?”

  “I did,” Beatrice replied. “He’s seeking a wife who can manage a demanding social calendar. I don’t think I’m quite up to the job.”

  “Don’t think you failed to impress him, my dear,” Father said. “He’s coming for lunch.”

  “I am sorry I won’t be here,” Beatrice said.

  “He regrets that you already have an engagement. Another outing with Ysbeta and Ianthe Lavan,” he said. “Do you have confidence in his regard for you?”

  “Ianthe holds Beatrice in tender regard,” Harriet said. “I saw how he is with her last night, and his interest is plain. Everyone sees it but you, Beatrice.”

  Father leaned back. “Mr. Kalman Lavan has invited us to the feast aboard the Shining Hand. It’s a very exclusive party.”

  Beatrice reached for her cup of tea and gulped down a mouthful. “He did?” After Mrs. Lavan had all but run her off the property?

  Father nodded, but his expression had doubt in it. “But Mr. Lavan cited your friendship with Ysbeta before he extended the invitation itself. He could have simply meant to include you for his daughter’s sake.”

  “No, Father.” Harriet shook her head. “Ianthe is courting her, believe me.”

  “Friendship with Miss Lavan is not courtship from Mr. Lavan. I understand that it’s exciting to have his attention, but without knowing his intentions, you can’t afford to drive suitors away. You must come away from this bargaining season as a bride. It is the only thing that matters.”

  Father had stuck with his usual habit. He had invested everything into a single enterprise—getting Beatrice married. If she failed, there would be nothing left to invest. The Clayborns would be ruined. She couldn’t allow that to happen—she would not.

  “As you say, Father.”

  “She did have the attention of many gentlemen,” Mother said, and sipped her tea. “But you should attend me, Beatrice, before you leave on your outing.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Beatrice said. “Father, Mother needs me for something.”

  “Go on,” Father waved his hand in permission. “So Harriet. I hear you were also a success. Tell me about your new friends.”

  “They’ve asked me to come calling at Georgiana Sheldon’s this afternoon for tea,” Harriet began.

  “Sheldon! A fine connection. Bard Sheldon’s only brother is still a child, however. Who else will be there, my dear?”

  The door to the breakfast room closed, and Beatrice could hear no more.

  Mother moved swiftly up the stairs, leading Beatrice into the room that was for Mother’s personal use, with a door joining on the private bedchamber she shared with Father. Beatrice adored the room’s ribbon-and-rose wallpaper, and the delicate, shapely-legged furniture tufted in the same rose, a perfect companion to the gilded carvings that supported each seat.

  “Sit here,” Mother said, and patted the place next to her on the settee. “This came for you a few days ago. I wanted you to see it.”

  Beatrice watched as Mother picked up a low wooden box, carefully opening the lid. Silver glinted from a satin bed, and Beatrice’s stomach wrenched as Mother picked it up and held it on her spread hands.

  It was a round, silver collar, engraved all over with briar roses. Mother turned it over, showing the sigils worked into the underside—the symbols of warding that locked in the magic stored inside.

  Father would give this collar to Beatrice’s groom once they had drawn up the nuptial agreements. Her husband would lock it around her neck at the point of the ceremony when she became his instead of her father’s. It made her sick just seeing it.

  “Your father paid extra to have the sigils on the inside.” Mother turned the collar back and forth, and it glinted in the sunlight. “He wanted it to be a pretty thing, I think.”

  It was hideous. Horrible! She couldn’t bear the sight of it. “Put it away, Mother. I don’t need to see it until I’m wed.”

  “I did not raise my daughters to hide from difficult truths,” Mother said. “I didn’t see my own warding collar until the ceremony. I swore I would not leave my daughters in the dark about the thing that would shape their futures.”

  “Mother . . .”

  But she went on, using the same calm tone Beatrice knew from all the hours they spent in schooling. “This is an object of magic. It is made from an alloy of silver and antinarum. The secrets of making it are forbidden to women, but you must be a magician to craft the metal. They have kept our bodies safe for children for thousands of years.”

  She would only wear it sometimes. When she was pregnant. Only then.

  “I understand,” Beatrice said.

  “You do not understand,” Mother said, and raised the collar. “Put it on.”

  Beatrice stared at the collar as if it would spring shut and choke her. “You’re not supposed to,” she said. “Not until the ceremony.”

  “I know,” Mother said. “That is how I did it. That is how every woman does it—they don’t know what the collar is like until they marry.”

  “It’s bad luck.”

  “That is what they say,” Mother said. “Raise your chin, Beatrice.”

  “But—”

  The touch of cool silver and something hair-raising on her throat made her gag. She tried to pull away, but Mother was too fast for her. The collar clasp clicked shut.

  Everything dulled. Colors washed out. Sounds dampened, and she heard a hiss, but it was inside her head, not her ears. The world was drab, as if a veil clouded her vision. She should have been sick. She should have cast up her breakfast all over her day gown and the hand-knotted carpet at her feet. But her stomach was just as she was—a little dull, something vital simply drained away.

  “Take it off,” Beatrice said. “Mother, please.”

  “Henry Clayborn was the handsomest man in the province. He memorized poems and recited them to me. I was entirely dazzled by his looks, his romantic gestures . . . I never stopped to wonder if he would respect me. I never considered that looks fade, and it takes effort to be charming.”

  Beatrice gazed at her mother. “Did you stop loving him?”

  “It’s not that I stopped loving him,” Mother said. “It’s that I started resenting him.”

  Mother took up the key nestled in the satin-lined box. She slipped her arms around Beatrice’s neck and the catch popped open, the arms of the collar slithering loose to fall in her lap.

  Color, light, sound all rushed back, and Beatrice covered her mouth with one hand. Mother plucked up the collar and key and put them back inside the box, snapping the lid shut.

  “Now you know what I did not,” Mother said.

  “It’s horrible,” Beatrice said. “It’s horrible. Oh, Mother—how do you stand it? How—”

  “I remember what the world is like without it,” Mother said. “I thought Henry was the light of my life. That I was simply going to be a safe haven for you and Harriet. I didn’t know the price until it was too late.”

  Beatrice wrapped her hand around her throat. She couldn’t get a decent breath.

  “You grow accustomed to it,” Mother said. “And I wouldn’t trade you or Harriet for anything in the world. Not even magic. When you were born—that was when I could count the cost and be glad of it. But I couldn’t let you go into marriage without the truth.”

  “I can’t do it.” She couldn’t stand it. If she tried, she would lose her reason to despair.

  “You are strong, Beatrice. Strong enough to know the truth. Strong enough to last through this. I saw you dance all through last night, and no one sh
one in your eyes like Ianthe Lavan. No one stirs you the way he does. And the way he looks at you—if you marry any man, my dear, it had better be him, for he will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  “Then why show me this? Why, Mother?”

  “So you will be able to fairly judge the price,” Mother said. “So you walk into that temple with clear eyes. So that first clasp of the warding collar will not betray you the way it did me.”

  So she could know the cost before she paid it. But Mother had said if you marry any man—did Mother know? Did she know what Beatrice planned?

  “Mother.” Beatrice reached out and took her mother’s hand. “Do you want me to get married?”

  “I want you to be happy,” Mother said. “I want you to choose your happiness.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” Beatrice whispered. “Mother, I learned the grimoire code from the books you gave me. Magic is so wonderful. How can I give it up?”

  “I didn’t know what I was giving up,” Mother said.

  “The collar is horrible. Horrible. How do you stand it? How do you not take Father’s key, and free yourself, and run far from here?”

  “Then I would lose you and Harriet. I couldn’t bear that.”

  “But how . . . how do you not hate it?”

  Mother touched the silver collar at her throat. “I do hate it. I loathe the necessity of it. But it gave me my daughters. I hear the carriage,” Mother said. “You’d better hurry.”

  Mother picked up the satin-finished wooden box and entered the next chamber, leaving Beatrice to rush downstairs, desperate to escape.

  Ianthe Lavan waited on the step for her in a sunburst-orange coat and breeches, the weskit and coat embroidered in saffron-yellow silk. His smile lit his whole face as he guided her into an elegant ivory and gold lacquered landau. “My deepest apologies for our lateness.”

  “Were you delayed?” Beatrice asked.

  Ianthe guided her to the landau, where Ysbeta lounged in the forward-facing seat, one elbow propped on the carriage’s edge, her feet thrust straight out and ankles crossed under a froth of petticoats in the picture of complete leisure. Her orange gown, festooned with ruffles, centered attention on a row of plush saffron bows rising up her stomacher to her bosom, barely concealed under a filmy voile fichu.