by Rabia Gale
Trey had no need to look over his shoulder to know who she was talking about. There was only one person who delighted in amazing and shocking the ton with her sense of fashion. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I have it on good authority that the creature on Lady Grafton’s head is, in fact, quite dead.”
He felt Barbara’s glare between his shoulder blades and knew he’d have to pay penance for the remark soon enough.
It had been worth it, though. Mrs. Price’s eyes rounded to hear him tease such an important personage as the Countess Grafton. But then, to Trey, Barbara was only his cousin.
There had to be some advantage, no matter how small, to being related to such vast numbers of the peerage.
“Oh, but I believe you are acquainted with my daughter, Priscilla. My love,” Mrs. Price took the arm of the tall, slender girl next to her, “here is Lord St. Ash.” She added, confidingly, “It is only because of Priscilla I am here at all. She must come to this assembly, and no wonder, for young girls are so energetic these days. Whereas I would be perfectly content to be at home with a book. Is that not so, Priscilla?”
“Indeed, Mama,” said the girl with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. From her expression, she was already heartily bored, but a speculative interest kindled in her blue eyes as she surveyed Trey. “How do you do, my lord?” There was a subtle emphasis on the lord.
Trey’s smile, already fake, froze. As a plain Mister he had often been overlooked. But now he bore Damien’s title, and it wasn’t the first time previously uninterested parties looked at him in a matchmaking light. He gave a polite reply and ignored the sight of Arabella making faces at Miss Price.
Miss Price made a number of remarks in a grave tone at odds with their superficial content. Trey responded with noncommittal noises, while the translucent Arabella copied Miss Price’s languid hand gestures and struck the poses the blond was known for.
Abominable girl, he thought, trying not to laugh.
The line moved. Finally, Trey saw the doorman inspecting vouchers at the entrance. Grimm, the neatly-dressed gnome who managed Merrimack’s under the aegis of its patronesses, stood next to the liveried muscle, hands behind his back, shrewd black eyes missing nothing.
He nodded at Trey. “Pleasant evening to you, Lord St. Ash.” His voice was deep and gravelly, in contrast to his small stature.
That was all the admittance he needed. Trey didn’t even have to make a show of searching for the card he’d misplaced weeks ago; he strolled right in, while less exalted persons clutched their own gilt-edged vouchers and watched enviously.
There was a glimmer next to him, tingling against his skin. Arabella pressed close as they entered the foyer, flooded with light, reeking of perfume, and amplifying tenfold the chatter and rustle of the highborn.
Wards crackled against his skin. Trey noted the runes worked into the gilt decorations and brocade wall-hangings. Mirrors set into the ceiling duplicated the chamber below, one triangular section at a time.
Mirrors were used in powerful magic, both white and black. They could also show the unseen. Trey’s eyes narrowed and he glanced at Arabella. She had gone so transparent, he could barely make out her form. Only her eyes were dark and wide, like holes into the Shadow Lands.
She noticed him looking and offered a slight smile. Her eyes were normal, and he shook his head to clear away the unnerving fancy.
Divested off his outerwear by Grimm’s efficient underlings, Trey joined a short queue to greet one of Merrimack’s influential patronesses. Lady Kirkland raised her thin eyebrows at him. “This is unexpected,” she said bluntly, as he bowed.
“According to my family, I have obligations.” Trey felt no need to pretend pleasure. Lady Kirkland’s hawkish features and no-nonsense style had earned her a reputation for disagreeableness, but Trey preferred her to the other patronesses. She didn’t expect him to charm or flirt, nor was she fazed by his occasional brusqueness.
“Since when have those been a concern to you? Still, seeing you here will be heartening. You know how nervous people are before Holy Week.”
“Much as I’m flattered by this assessment,” said Trey, “you’d be far better off breaking those mirrors.” He nodded towards the offending decorations. “It wasn’t so long ago that you had to have special permission to own one—and for good reason.”
“I know.” Lady Kirkland’s lips puckered. “But I was outnumbered by the others.” She shrugged her bony shoulders.
Her mother, Trey recalled, had been from Ruthenia, that vast snow-bound country to the west, poised over Vaeland like a glittering wave in a slate-grey sea. Ruthenia revered their phantasmists, understandably so. Lady Kirkland would know the stories. She and the Viscount St. Ash were only acquaintances, but in some small way, they understood each other.
“Keep trying,” he advised her. “You may use my name.” He grinned. “Though that may have the opposite effect.”
She snorted. “It probably will.” And with that, Lady Kirkland turned to the next guest. Trey strolled away, Arabella full of suppressed questions beside him. In the light, she was so faint he was afraid he’d lose sight of her. Two ladies passed by; Trey tugged Arabella’s arm to prevent a dance card from slicing through her back.
There were too many people here, and anyone could have a touch of the sight, amplified by those blasted mirrors. Fortunately, good manners required elementalists to leave their companions at home. “Go to the Lilac Room and wait there,” he told Arabella.
She nodded, but before she could speak, a voice, speaking in a rich drawl called out, “There you are, Trey, old fellow.”
At over six feet, Beau Whitfield stood out above the crowd. In his inimitable way, he had cleared the space around him. There was no chance of anyone stumbling into him and wrinkling his coat or spilling claret on his snowy-white stockings.
“Go,” Trey muttered to Arabella and gave his cousin a rueful smile that acknowledged the other’s magnetism. Whit might be a leader of fashion, with his exquisitely-arranged cravat and elegant clothing, but he was also a fine sportsman. His coat was molded to his broad shoulders, showing off an excellent physique.
Whit had always been poised and well-dressed, much to the chagrin of his sister Barbara. Perhaps her outlandish attire, in part, was a rebellion against her older brother’s effortless charm.
Whit examined his cousin rather more critically. “You’ll do,” he finally said.
“It was your man, after all,” Trey pointed out.
“Indeed. How much did you make Briggs cry this time?”
“Only about a pint. I was in a tractable mood.” Trey watched Arabella’s ghostly form flit through the foyer and into the dancing room. He frowned, but he could hardly call out to her.
She probably just wanted a look. It’d be her bad luck—and his—if she happened to run into Winter.
Whit was still talking, but Trey missed most of it. “What?”
Whit followed Trey’s look. “Didn’t think she was your type, coz.” It took Trey a moment to register that the languid Miss Price, dressed in white, had entered the dancing room after Arabella.
“She isn’t,” he said shortly. “What about my father?”
“I asked if my esteemed uncle would be here tonight,” said Whit, with no ironic inflection on the esteemed bit.
“How should I know?” said Trey.
“He is your father,” Whit explained with exaggerated patience.
“I’m not in my father’s counsels. I’d be surprised if he were here. He doesn’t come to Lumen much anymore.”
“And you avoid going home to Whitecross,” said Whit. His tone was neutral, but it still grated.
“I’m not a gentleman of leisure, Whit. I work here.” Trey’s eyebrows drew together as he gave the Beau a suspicious look. “Why the sudden interest in my relationship with my father?”
“I think,” said Whit somberly, “your family’s been fractured too much already for the two of you to be at such odds.”
“We
aren’t at odds, Whit. Rest assured that my sire and I get along very well indeed—at a distance.” This state of affairs was nothing new. For as long as Trey could remember it had always been him and his mother, and Damien and his father. It was the way their magical gifts had manifested. Damien had inherited their father’s ferromental ability, while Trey took after their mother. All his life, Trey had felt a vague, unvoiced disapproval from his father, as if a Shield had no business dabbling in the things of the Shadow Lands.
It had only grown after what happened to his mother. Both had been relieved when Trey went off to Holyrood.
But now was no time to dredge up the past, no matter what Whit thought. He had other things to do. “Is the Duchess here yet?” he asked.
“Haven’t seen her. I was told her health was too poor for her to attend.”
Trey twitched his shoulder. “That’s what they always say, to keep her from being mobbed.” He felt restless. “I’d better go find her.”
“Still working, I see.” Whit shook his head. “All you Shields are the same. Thank the saints I wasn’t born one.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Trey amiably. “Because then I’d have to own you as a brother. Later, Whit.”
He stepped toward the dancing room, not because he expected the Duchess to be there, but to give a certain irrepressible ghost a stern frown and send her packing to the Lilac Room.
A familiar voice, rich and plummy and full of promises, caught his ear.
Atwater, in the middle of a group of cronies, was entering the card rooms.
Trey turned abruptly, making the lady behind him squeal in surprise. He neatly avoided a collision and threw a perfunctory apology over his shoulder. His eyes never left his target.
I’m not letting you get away this time, Atwater. Arabella’s life depends on what you may know.
Chapter Nine
The inner rooms of Merrimack’s were even more crowded than the foyer had been. And, of course, no one made space for a ghost. Arabella found herself pushed into pillars and tangled with draperies. At one point, a rotund red-faced gentleman swung his arm, hand holding a glass of wine, right through her.
“S-sorry!” squeaked Arabella, eyes wide as she stared at the blue-clad limb in her torso.
Of course, he didn’t hear her. The gentleman completed his gesture and moved on, leaving Arabella feeling rather shaken. It was decidedly odd, being impaled by an arm and a goblet.
She skittered onto the dance floor. The musicians played a stately quadrille, the strings straining to be heard above the ocean-murmur of so many voices.
Arabella wove among the dancers, walking on tip toes, trying to spot someone she knew. A statuesque brunette in grey silk clipped Arabella’s ankle with a swirl of her skirt. The touch was slight and cool and mildly ticklish. Arabella could only be grateful that voluminous hooped skirts and towering wigs had gone out of fashion.
She had fancied she had a decent-sized acquaintance in Lumen. Now, looking at the indifferent, unseeing faces of the ton, she realized just how few she knew. So these were all the people who had spent the last months at house parties and on lavish estates. Now they were back in town for the Vernal Rites. And the Season wasn’t even in full swing yet!
Arabella sidestepped a youth clearly concentrating on his steps and scanned the faces at the far wall. She didn’t expect to see dear Aunt Cecilia or her cousin Harry among them. Guilt throbbed in her chest—her own impetuous foolishness had given her kind relatives such grief and robbed them of their peace of mind.
Oh, but Charlotte and Viola were both here. Buoyed again, Arabella hastened towards her friends and stood beaming down at them. “Here you are!” she said merrily. “I know you can’t see me at all, but I’m with you in spirit. Despite what happened, I truly wish you would enjoy yourselves…” She faltered as she looked at their faces.
Charlotte’s expression was decidedly brooding, her usually laughing rosebud mouth thin and compressed. Her gloved hands were clenched in the pink skirts of the beaded gown she had coaxed out of her fond parents. Viola beside her looked more composed, but was paler than normal in blue satin edged with gold. She sat straight with her hands folded on her lap, but her lines were stiff.
Powder could not quite hide the shadows under their eyes.
“Oh, but you mustn’t distress yourselves so!” cried Arabella, distressed herself. “I’ll be back to myself tomorrow, and we shall all have a good cry and a good laugh over pastries and ice cream at Hunter’s.”
Neither girl’s expression changed, though Charlotte twitched a shoulder impatiently. Her brown ringlets brushed against her smooth, caramel-kissed skin.
“Do get up and dance! Charlotte, weren’t you looking forward to flirting with Lord Ellington?” Both of their dance cards were empty.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. She tilted her head slightly, as if a whisper tickled the edge of her hearing. Arabella focused her imploring attention on her friend, willing Charlotte to be her normal self.
To her horror, a tear appeared at the corner of Charlotte’s eye.
“Courage, Charlotte,” said Viola, not taking her gaze off the dance floor.
“I’m fine,” said Charlotte stoutly. “It’s just that Arabella would’ve loved to be here. She’d be so amazed at everything, the silly goose, like a child at the Amphitheater. I know I always tease her for being rustic, but it’s so much fun to watch her expressions. It’s all wrong that she’s not…” Her voice broke.
Arabella, struck silent, pressed her hands together, caught between two impulses. She didn’t know whether to rush and embrace her friends or tiptoe away and leave them to their sadness. It seemed all wrong to be privy to these confessions from Charlotte, who she’d always thought of as rather worldly and jaded.
“Dissolving into tears won’t help Arabella any,” said Viola, still with that distant calm. “Just bear it, Charlotte.” The words appeared cold, but Arabella could see the trouble in Lady Stanhope’s sea-green eyes.
“No, they won’t,” agreed Charlotte with a little laugh, dashing the tear away. “But Trey Shield can. And he’d better,” she continued fiercely, “or else I shall put toads in his bed and honey in his shoes the next time he visits!”
Arabella couldn’t help a watery chuckle of her own at these dire threats. “He will, Charlotte,” she assured her friend. “I trust him.” Right then, she believed the words implicitly. “And then you shall tell me why he calls you Charlie and what other pranks you’ve played on him.”
Miss Price glided past, casting a glance at Charlotte and Viola. She remarked to her partner, rather loudly, “I do not know why some people would come to an assembly if they were going to insist on looking like mourners at a funeral, do you?”
Charlotte’s eyes kindled. “Shrew,” she muttered. Viola shot her a reproving look that failed to quench her, while Arabella choked back a giggle.
She leaned over Charlotte and said, “You are a dear friend, and I hope to have many opportunities to tell you so.” She gently straightened the silk flower tucked behind Charlotte’s ear and floated away.
Behind her, Charlotte exclaimed, “Viola!”
“What is it?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
Charlotte’s voice dropped. “A kind whisper on a small, perfumed wind.”
Arabella smiled to herself and whisked into a supper room where, she had been told repeatedly, she would see culinary masterpieces designed to delight the senses.
Her aunt and friends had not exaggerated the gastronomical excesses of the Spring Assembly. Rows of silver chafing dishes, each covered with a silver lid engraved with Merrimack’s name, stood on a sideboard. Pyramids of fruit and statues of pastry reigned in an opposite corner.
Arabella took a pinch of sugared dough from the corner of a detailed model of the Keep. The crumbs fell through her hand, leaving a sweet sticky sensation in her fingers. She stuck them in her mouth.
Her incorporeal to
ngue tingled, and the sensation spread through her in an odd kind of shock, like pins and needles all over her skin. For a moment, she was dizzy with the feeling, lifting dandelion-light into the air.
Get a hold of yourself. Arabella forced her aethereal body to the floor, shaken. She had been so close to spiraling completely out of control, to be blown away wherever the wind took her. She had to remember that her substance no longer obeyed the laws of nature—and that could bring her real trouble.
Arabella backed away from the desserts. The taste of human food was too strong for her. Out of her skin, she was too susceptible to what she encountered. If she wasn’t careful, she might implode from the crystalline wonder of sugar.
Gnomes, short and swarthy, entered the room, carrying platters of stuffed mushrooms and fish rolls. Arabella shrank into a corner, but even the gnomes’ sharp eyes couldn’t make her out. While they arranged food, she slipped from the chamber and into a narrow corridor.
Servants’ way, she thought as she glided through a spice-scented gloom. In the distance, strings wailed, footsteps pattered, voices bubbled. The noise was an ocean murmur in her ear, distant, removed.
The corridor stretched impossibly long ahead of her. Arabella frowned at the lack of light—the way from kitchen to supper rooms seemed like the worst place to economize.
The air took on a chilly bite, but glimmers of light, in tints of blue, illuminated the passageway. The floor underfoot changed from wooden boards to stone slabs; they struck Arabella’s feet in splinters of cold. She glanced down and gasped.
Faces twisted in agony and malice slid under the surface. Their mouths opened in soundless screams. Arabella sprang back and saw that the walls, too, were no longer paneled. Instead, they were formed of half-melted stone, solidified into ripples and drips and strange curves and protrusions.
An icy shiver ran through her. The odd shapes were people, half-melted into the wall, the ripples the folds of their clothing, the curves an arched back or a bent limb.