But I did look closely, and I could make out the faint suggestion of bruises still yellowing my throat, and yet again, I was wearing something that wasn't mine. This time it was a sleeveless burgundy taffeta dress with black gossamer overlay that shimmered and winked with jet beadwork. The diamond and ruby jewelry sparkling at my ears and throat and the set of beautiful ruby butterfly wing hairpins in my hair could have paid the wages of seven men. The ensemble was gorgeous, but it was only a tool in Braeton's arsenal.
So was the girl wearing it. I had no illusions about that. Braeton was as ruthless in his lessons on poise and etiquette as Arramy was in weapons training.
Ina handed me a pair of black full-length gloves and I pulled them on. Then I gave myself a last, grim once-over in the mirror, took a deep breath, and steeled my spine. Right. You can do this. It's only dinner.
~~~
It was never 'only dinner'. Not anymore. 'Dinner' had become another word for 'test.'
I walked into the dining room to find the table shining with high-polished silver and overflowing with food. Braeton had ordered a full formal meal laid out, with service for five courses, including gelle dishes.
Arramy arrived a moment after I sat down. He took one look at all of the forks lined up beside his plate and snorted. Then he sat down across from me, pulled the chair next to him around, angled his own chair to face it, and rested his left leg on the empty seat cushion. Frowning, he leaned over to peer at his plate, studying his napkin as if he weren't sure whether to pick it up or dissect it.
Braeton shook out the ornate dove-fold in his napkin with a practiced flourish and draped it over his lap while giving Arramy a cool lift of an eyebrow.
Arramy ignored him and began building an elaborate fortress out of his silverware. He topped it all off with a flower from the centerpiece, and glanced at me from beneath his lashes, dry amusement glittering in his eyes, the hint of a devilish grin tugging at his lips. He was playing the barbarian on purpose, rubbing in the fact that I had to be prim and proper and he didn't. I couldn't even give in and make a face at him. Insufferable man.
Dinner began with a small parade of dipping breads and sauces to whet the appetite.
"So," Braeton said when we were halfway through the first course. "Where are you from, Miss Tarastrian?"
"Odynne, in the Drydalle precinct. Do you know it?" I asked, automatically adopting the slight twang of East Tetton.
Arramy's gaze flicked toward me. He had already finished off the broiled fish and was pushing a lemon rind around his plate with his knife, drawing designs in the champagne sauce.
"Unfortunately, no," Braeton said smoothly. "Do you know the Kleyn-Tarastrians of Airdunne?"
I looked down at my food, feigning shyness to hide the lie. "I have not had the pleasure, sir," I murmured. "I am not often in Airdunne." Better to deny any acquaintance than claim it and then have to keep track of falsehoods – or worse, find out the people in question were at the party. That had been yesterday's lesson.
Braeton's smile appeared, white and sharp. "That is unfortunate. The weather is quite charming this time of year. Might I bother you for your salt cellar? Mine seems to be empty."
He was starting with something simple today, which made me suspicious. There was an array of identical porcelain condimentaries in front of me, but I knew what they all were. I didn't even have to think about it. I picked up the second cellar from the right and offered it to him.
"Thank you," he said, smiling faintly.
Arramy eyed the two of us, disgust and boredom plain on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, and I gave his foot a warning nudge under the table. I did not feel like starting the whole meal over. He sat back with a heavy sigh and began fiddling with his paring knife.
I stifled a breath of relief.
Three courses, a mint gelle, and two glasses of after-dinner wine later, and Braeton finally decided I had practiced table conversation enough, placed his napkin on his plate, and got to his feet. Then, just like every other evening since we had left Nimkoruguithu, he held out his hand.
It wasn't a request. It wouldn't be a request when we reached the continent, and it wouldn't be a request at the party. We had to seem natural together, accustomed to each other. Overly familiar. And, just like every other evening when I touched my fingers to Braeton's, I had to resist the urge to look at Arramy.
Gritting my teeth behind a smile, I allowed Braeton to draw me to my feet and lead me through the doorway to the ballroom.
26. A Dangerous Sort of Dance
6th of Dema, Continued
Braeton swept me out to the middle of the dance floor and brought me around to face him. "Shall we warm up with a pacharal?"
I nodded. I didn't particularly care.
Arramy was still sitting in the dining room, watching us through the open doorway, a glass of wine in front of him.
Braeton frowned slightly, studying me as the musicians began playing in their corner, but he took a step back and assumed the opening stance, right hand lifted.
I dipped into a half-sweet curtsy and placed my right hand in his, absently surveying his shirt collar as he pulled me into the first figure.
"You're distracted."
I tipped my head back. "Am I? I apologize."
He was staring at me. It was unnerving. He even looked out of his eyes differently when he was Braeton, cold and still, ice in dark-green cut-crystal. He made Arramy seem warm and welcoming, sometimes. I told myself it was just another mask, but he was doing a marvelous job of acting like it wasn't, and I actually found that I missed the incorrigible, ever-smirking NaVarre.
Braeton shot a glance over my head as we passed the dining room doorway. "You can't let him back in. You know that. It's too dangerous."
"I haven't," I said. Firmly. Laughing with the captain didn't mean I had let my guard down.
The music swelled around us, sweet and elegant, as we moved through the final figure, revolving in a graceful cloverleaf that brought us back to face each other in the middle of the floor. I sank into the ending curtsy, Braeton bowed.
There was a pause, then the lead string player traded his formal Altyran instrument for a larger six-stringed Ronyran hasolle. His fingers flew, plucking out a complicated, rhythmic Ronyran melody.
It was the new dance we had been working on.
Arramy hadn't seen it yet, and a hot blush worked its way up my throat. I straightened, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on Braeton's face.
He raised a rakish brow and lifted his left hand.
I placed my left hand in his, then let out a quick breath when he tugged me close. Too close. His right hand slid over the small of my back, bringing me up tight against him. The top tog of his shirt was directly in front of my nose, and I could smell the subtle, exotic scent he favored.
"Right hand on my shoulder," he murmured. "Relax."
I took a breath and let the tension leave my spine. If I could learn to break a choke hold and fire a rifle, I could get used to this year's new mode of dancing. Why did it matter if Arramy was watching?
Braeton smiled. "Good." He caught the beat and swept me into an effortless turn, his hand at my back keeping me with him as he began dancing us in a tight, revolving passavada box.
A grin lifted my lips. Dancing with Braeton was ridiculously easy, mostly because he was so good at it. The music became heavier, the drums joining in, the rhythm rolling and more pronounced. Braeton cued a spin, and I twirled away from him, only to be pulled right back in. I squared up, and then we were flying through a rapid exchange of steps, our feet scissoring together as he trotted us sideways across the floor.
Braeton released me, and we circled each other, right shoulders nearly touching, his arm curved as though to catch me. Eight counts later, I was ducking beneath his arm, first one way, then the other, never touching, as if he were some sort of puppet-master controlling my strings.
A long, complicated bunch of in-tandem footwork followed that had me breathle
ss, and then I was spinning back into his arms as he hauled me close, his touch demanding, his eyes never leaving mine. Braeton moved us through the closing steps and brought his leading hand up to frame my jaw. The music finished with a flourish as I arched backward over Braeton's right arm, my ankles crossed, my right hand trailing toward the floor.
The ending was so dramatic I always started giggling during practice, unable to keep from imagining what a ballroom full of people would look like from that angle, but tonight I managed to keep a straight face. Nearly.
Braeton's voice was husky. "Well done." He brought me up to stand on my own two feet, a tiny smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners.
I raised a brow and dipped into a curtsy – very polite – then turned to accept the tumbler of ice-water offered by the tray boy. As I did, my gaze strayed to the dining room.
Arramy wasn't sitting at the table anymore, and he had taken the wine bottle with him.
I should have been relieved. He was gone. That was what I wanted. Instead, all the color and warmth seemed to have leached out of the room.
The musicians struck up the familiar opening bars of a galavant, then, and I tossed back the rest of my drink. The night was far from over.
"Ready?" Braeton asked.
With a nod, I took the required eight steps away and struck the first pose.
"Who is Lady Clarestine Monfyrre?"
"Second daughter of Lord Delmyrre. Set to inherit a large estate. She'll probably be with Lord Steighan," I provided, my feet going through the first figure of the dance.
"And her father?"
"If I see Delmyrre, I am to let you know immediately."
Braeton's smile grew as the steps brought him closer. "What does he look like?"
"Tall, hair like a bristle-brush, walks with a cane."
"Good," Braeton said, offering his arm. "Is he dangerous?"
"Yes. Very. Rule Six: don't let him get me alone, not even in an alcove, and don't accept food or drinks from him either."
As usual, the rest of the evening passed like that, with Braeton quizzing me on an ever-growing list of high-society names and details while we went through our dance repertoire.
And as usual, I fell into my bunk so tired I was asleep before I could pull the covers to my chin.
22nd of Thira
My body was already sitting up and moving before I became aware of what I was doing, and there was a moment of sleepy confusion when my fingers started pulling on my thick-soled boots without my conscious permission to do so. I blinked. Were they even the right shoes? I wracked my brain, then groggily remembered that I had endurance training with Arramy and pulled on the other boot while wondering if I was going crazy.
There was another quick, firm knock at my door – the first one had been what woke me – and Arramy's gruff, "Come on, kid."
"M'coming," I slurred, getting to my feet. Then I looked down and realized I was still wearing my nightdress. Splendid. With a sigh, I bent and started taking off my boots.
~~~
Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thighs burning, I topped the observation deck stairs.
Ahead of me, Arramy jogged along, his stride a little uneven but steady. For the first few weeks, he had whipped me on from the sidelines, leaning on his cane as he called me names and told me I couldn't eat until I finished another lap. The last few days, though, he had joined me, and any progress I thought I had made suddenly got a dose of reality. I was fairly sure he could outrun me walking backwards.
Still, I never would have thought I would be able to run the entire length of a ship and climb two flights of stairs more than once. After training for three weeks with Arramy, I could do a whole lap sixteen times. My legs were stronger, my body leaner, and lately I hadn't gotten that awful ache in my side.
Arramy finished his last lap and began cooling down, turning at the far end of the deck and coming back toward me at a walk. He didn't look at me as I reached the railing after him. He only limped past and went thumping back down the stairs to the main deck.
There was no, "come on, kid," no "get your butt down here," just the sound of him getting the sparring mat ready.
I stumped down after him and gave him a long look, tempted to ask what had gotten up his nose. Something clearly had. He still wouldn't look at me for more than a hair of a second, and when he did, his eyes skated over mine.
I didn't say anything. I just wrapped my hands with linen and faced off with him.
He was as thorough a teacher as ever, putting me through my paces, but there was no easy banter that morning. Not even a "get up," or a "try again."
It hurt. I hadn't realized how much warmth there had been between us until it was gone, and its absence sat uneasy in my chest. I didn't fight it, though. I ignored his silence and that wooden expression on his face and kept going through the drills he was teaching me. It would be easier that way. It would be safer.
27. Making Faces
10th of Dema
I was in my cabin, reading, when Captain Deironos announced that land had been sighted, and that we would be anchoring offshore for the night and sailing into the bay in the morning.
Two days ahead of schedule, by my count.
Which left only a day before we would leave the security of the Coralynne and I would have to start parading around on Braeton's arm. In public. Where anyone could see.
My stomach tightened into a queasy knot. Braeton insisted he had a plan. He hadn't told me what that plan was, yet, though, only that he had a secret weapon. That had been followed by a secretive smile, and nothing else on the subject.
I let out my breath, rolled my shoulders and tried to go back to reading.
A few minutes later, Braeton tapped at my open cabin door. He jerked his head toward the deck when I looked at him. "Come on out. I want you to meet someone."
Surprised, I put down my book and got up, wondering how there could possibly be anyone I didn't know yet on the ship.
Braeton smiled even more and led the way to the port side rail.
A small one-masted fishing goonter was approaching the Coralynne, its lone occupant manning both the tiller and the guideline for the sail.
I glanced at Braeton, but he just smirked mysterious and kept watching the goonter as the fisherman drew alongside the Coralynne's hull with an impressive show of skill.
Whoever it was, he knew his way around personal sailing. I squinted against the late afternoon sun, but all I could make out was a tall, lean figure wearing a hooded, sleeveless jacket and a pair of ragged denims.
There was some back and forth between the fisherman and the crew as they tied the smaller vessel on, and the deckhands dropped a boarding ladder over the side. Then the fisherman hoisted a large knapsack, scaled the rungs, climbed over the rail near where Braeton and I were standing, and landed on the deck with a graceful bounce.
With a sudden, raucous crow of delight, Braeton stepped forward, arms wide, a big grin on his face that instantly transformed him from lordling to pirate.
The fisherman let out a low, husky laugh, and returned Braeton's fierce hug with the arm not holding the knapsack, slapping his back open-handed.
Chuckling, Braeton broke away and turned to face me, his arm draped across the fisherman's shoulders in a brotherly manner. "Pendar Tarastrian, allow me to introduce Marin Ryker."
The fisherman wasn't a man. A woman of about thirty looked down at me from under the knitted hood of her jacket, her smile flashing white in a strong Ronyran face. She stood every bit as tall as Braeton, and wore her hair cropped as close as a soldier. Her laughter quieted as she got a look at me, and she tilted her head, her amber eyes narrowing to a squint. "This is her?"
I glanced at Braeton. "Her who?"
Marin ignored me, tugged free of Braeton's arm, and proceeded to prowl around me, looking me up and down. When she came back to stand next to Braeton, she crossed her arms over her spare chest and lifted one hand to her mouth, worrying her lower lip with her thumbna
il, clearly doing calculations in her head.
Braeton was watching her as though waiting for some sort of verdict.
"It'll be tough, getting her to pass up close, but... I love a challenge," she said, finally. "You don't get sick on eggs, do you?"
That last was aimed at me. Thoroughly stumped, but not surprised at all by the way this was going, I shook my head.
Marin bent and hauled her knapsack up off the deck. "Well then let's get started."
~~~
Water sluiced over my scalp, finally running clear as Marin rinsed the last of the coloring treatment out of my hair. With a grunt, she put down the rinse bucket and began wrapping a clean towel around my head, twisting and wringing my hair dry, her touch efficient to the point of being rough. After a fourth eye-watering yank, I growled "ouch," and snatched the towel from her.
Across the ship's kitchen, Braeton drummed his fingers on the prep table and glanced pointedly at the timekeep for the fourth time in the last half hour.
Marin caught him. "Don't worry, they'll be here."
Straightening, I eased the ache in my back from bending over the scullery sink, then began blotting my hair dry while trying not to look at it too closely. There was no avoiding it, though. Even from the corner of my eye, I could tell it wasn't dark brown anymore. It was a great deal lighter, and there was a definite coppery tint to it, even wet. The knot in my stomach winched up a little more.
Braeton raised an eyebrow. "I hate to ask, but are you absolutely sure about them?"
Marin gave him a long look over her shoulder, calmly washing the bowl she had used to mix the hair treatment. "You haven't been here in the last six months. A lot has happened. Yes, I'm sure. I wouldn't have recommended them if I wasn't."
After a moment, Braeton heaved a sigh and nodded.
"You can take a break, filla," Marin said, offering me a small smile as she moved back to her work bench. "I won't need you again until I've got the rough done."
I sat down in the chair beneath the washroom's porthole window and watched her potter about with the things that had been in her knapsack: jars of liquids and powders, various brushes and rags, boxes of cosmetics and swatches of human hair. There was even a portfolio of features and skin colors arranged by region, all tools of the peculiar trade of Facemaker. According to Braeton, Marin was the best Facemaker in the Coalition. She waved away his words when he said that, but there was no doubt she knew what she was doing. Everything she brought out of that knapsack was well-used, and she set it all up with an economy that spoke of practice.
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