by M. J. Scott
What would Honore think if she saw Imogene now?
Imogene had told the captain the previous day that yes, she would like to be recommended to bond a sanctii. Honore had seemed pleased, though she repeated her warnings about behaving.
Perhaps that was part of the reason she was so excited now. She hadn't told anyone—not even Chloe—she had a chance at a sanctii, and she had no intention of doing so until she'd been formally granted permission. And really, an invitation to a ball at the palace was respectable in all senses of the word. Her dress was tight, but it was not in any way scandalous. Her mother, annoying as she could be, had undeniable style—even if her choices might not always be Imogene's—and would never send her daughter out in a dress of questionable taste.
She made herself take a breath, then settle back against the seat and try to relax. Enjoy the moment. Choose a night of froth and bubble to let herself shine after months of being the sober, somber lieutenant. Indulge in being female and enjoy the ritual of Dina doing her hair and pulling out her makeup and choosing jewelry to sparkle and gleam at ear and wrist and throat. But there was a limit to how far one could relax in a corset laced for a ball gown. Froth and bubble were all very well, but why couldn't they be a little more comfortable?
"Ready, girls?" Henri Matin asked as the carriage inched forward. Imogene was used to seeing Chloe's father in his Academe robes. In his evening clothes—more formal even than what he wore to the occasional party in their circles—he looked debonair but still mysterious. His sanctii, Martius, was nowhere to be seen. Which didn't mean he wasn't nearby. Sanctii could be invisible and incorporeal when they chose.
Perhaps it was just as well he wasn't riding in the carriage. She might do something foolish and give her excitement away if she was too close to a sanctii just now. She knew Martius as well as a mage could know any sanctii not their own, and he sometimes chose to speak to her. It would be tempting to ask him more about his kind. But even if Henri had not been present, there was the risk that Martius would report any conversation he had back to Henri. For now, Imogene needed to stay silent and rely on the knowledge from her studies. She'd managed to find several of her old textbooks buried in a storage box under her bed and refreshed herself on the lore of sanctii. But none of them contained the actual details of a bonding. Such things were deemed too risky for students. There were books that did contain the information, of course, but she’d had no chance to find a bookstore that might sell them and no excuse to return to the Academe and dig through its library. Besides, she suspected the army would have its own preferences for how the rituals should be performed.
"Of course we're ready," Chloe said, dragging Imogene's attention back to the here and now.
Henri grinned fondly at her. "The more pertinent question may be whether the palace is ready for the two of you, I suspect. Promise me you will behave. Mostly."
Chloe glanced at her father and raised her eyebrows. "Of course, Papa. When have you known us to get into trouble?"
"Only most days of your lives," Henri said. "But this is the palace. There are rules here. You can have fun, dance, flirt with the men who want to flirt with you, but don't forget who you're dealing with. The emperor keeps a tight rein on his court, but most people inside these walls are playing games of power. Don't become pawns."
"No one will be very interested in us," Imogene said. At least, not for the kinds of games Henri was thinking of. She had a different kind in mind.
"Two young, beautiful, strong witches? There may be more interest than you think. Perhaps not from the aristos, but there will be parliamentarians and courtiers and all sorts of men looking to rise high. Don't underestimate them or what they might do." His brows, starting to show threads of gray amongst the black, drew together. "You are here with me, and that will offer a degree of protection, but keep your wits about you."
He was, Imogene thought, being dramatic. Her time with the mages had left her well-trained in how to deal with unwanted advances, and she intended to be less than interesting to any men who showed even the slightest tendency toward matrimony.
"We'll stick together," Imogene said, exchanging a look with Chloe. She hadn't asked Chloe if there was anyone in particular she was hoping to meet at the ball. Hopefully she wasn't about to ruin any...fun Chloe had arranged for herself.
Her friend had maintained her determinedly cheerful face every time they'd seen each other in the three days since Chloe had issued her invitation, but Imogene saw the tension beneath it all. Though so far, Chloe had resisted Imogene's attempts to give her an opening to talk about how she felt. Imogene had to respect that choice.
And she would do so. Along with doing her best to aid Chloe in anything she might choose to do to indulge herself for a night. If anyone deserved fun, it was Chloe. So if that meant distracting Henri from his daughter's choices, or putting her own plans on hold, she would.
Chloe's dress was the shade of ripe seila berries. The deep red set off her pale skin and dark eyes beautifully. She was taller than Imogene, and her figure ran more to curves. She'd be beating off the young aristos with a stick if she chose.
Imogene's own dress was her favorite shade of sapphire blue. Her mother had gotten that much right. And Imogene was hoping it might, when the carriage finally reached the front entrance to the palace, help her do some aristo fishing of her own.
Chapter 4
Jean-Paul du Laq watched the whirling throng of dancers decorating the emperor's ballroom and wished there was something stronger than campenois on offer to drink. An imperial ball was never his first choice of entertainment—too many damned people and too much politicking for it to be actual fun—but as the heir of a duq, sometimes duty took precedence over his own wishes. His father was not yet old and, goddess willing, there would be years before Jean-Paul had to assume the title, but lately, duty was encroaching more and more often.
From his father came more demands to show his face at the palace and take his place in the court, when in reality, Jean-Paul was far happier serving in the army or spending his spare time at the family's estate, Sanct de Sangre. That side of being a duq—the running of the estate, seeing the land and the people flourish under his family's care—he would enjoy when it became his turn. This part—the social whirl and posturing and scrambling for power—he was yet to develop much of a liking for.
He appreciated the view, to a degree. Watching beautiful women in beautiful gowns was never a hardship. He would have enjoyed it more if his father's speeches about carrying on the family line weren't growing more frequent. He was only twenty-eight. Plenty of time before marriage grew pressing. But he knew that some of the women here tonight—and their parents—would be watching him. Trying to determine how to win his favor. The son of a duq, heir to one of the oldest titles in Illvya, was a prize.
But he was in no mood to be hunted. So lurking on the outskirts of the room where Aristides’s servants had placed thick rows of anden trees in golden and silver inlaid pots was the wiser course of action. The trees helped him blend in. He was taller than most of the men here, and the black and silver of his evening jacket only made his height more apparent. But sons of duqs weren't allowed to slouch or dress to blend in, so he had no choice but to stand out in most crowds.
"Hiding in the bushes again, du Laq?" Theodor du Plesias asked, gliding up from behind him.
"Not well enough if you found me," Jean-Paul retorted.
Teddy grinned and held up a slender glass bottle filled with pale green liquid. "Thought you might need a drop of something stronger than campenois."
"I knew there was a reason I tolerated you," Jean-Paul said. He held out his empty glass. Teddy poured in a careful measure. Absintia was potent. It could cause actual harm if brewed incorrectly, or if you drank it like wine. But he trusted Teddy to have the good stuff. And Jean-Paul would avoid a second glass. He couldn't afford for his wits to be addled. Not when the room was full of husband-hunters and their mamas.
The absintia was
herbal fire as it coated his throat and stomach but soon resolved into a pleasant warmth that melted away some of his boredom.
"So, can I coax you out of the bushes?" Teddy asked. "It's a dull way to spend an evening in a room full of pretty girls."
"Easy for you to say. No one is forcing you to marry and carry on the dynasty." Teddy was a third son. His father, the Marq of Elimen, already had five grandchildren and counting from Teddy's elder brothers. Which left Teddy largely free of the kinds of parental pressures Jean-Paul was becoming uncomfortably familiar with.
"Marriage is not on my mind," Teddy agreed amiably. "But that doesn't mean female company isn't. There are some interesting girls here tonight. Aristides invited some of the senior mages and their families, and some of the parliamentarians, too." He waved his glass of absintia out toward the dancers. "Some of them must be looking for some fun."
He had a point. Jean-Paul had no intention of going after a politician's daughter. Too close to a courtier. But the mages were safer. And young witches from outside the nobility were raised with rather a more liberal mindset in relation to male companionship than the girls he'd known since infancy. But, with the absintia lifting his mood, dancing sounded more pleasant. And if dancing led to more, should the lady be willing, even better.
"Do you know where these paragons of, er, congeniality might be found?" he inquired, placing his glass in the pot of the nearest tree.
Teddy laughed and beckoned him forward, closer to the dancers. Jean-Paul had chosen the rear of the ballroom, far away from the area kept cordoned off for the imperial family and their chosen guests. The perfect vantage point from which to survey the entire ballroom. Helped by the fact that his height allowed him to see over the crowd with ease.
Teddy, only an inch or two shorter than Jean-Paul, gestured across the room. "There, the girl in the deep red dress. That's Chloe Matin, Henri's daughter."
Jean-Paul found the girl—young woman—Teddy meant. Her gown, the pinkish-red of good wine, wrapped around a very nice set of curves, highlighting creamy skin and blending with the touches of red and black in her hair. But then she stepped to one side, and he saw the woman standing next to her. She wore blue that gleamed like the finest sapphire and, as she turned to laugh up at something Chloe had said, the angles of her face caught his eye and held it. Her hair was darker than Chloe's, the original deep brown of it still twined with the red and black streaks that proclaimed her to be an earth witch and a water mage, like her friend. Her skin was paler than Chloe's, too, cool pearl against the blue. And her eyes, well, those were as bright as her gown. She looked across the room toward him, but her gaze flicked past him with no sign of recognition. But the brief touch of that look sizzled through him like lightning.
"Who," he breathed, "is the one in blue?"
Teddy's brows drew down as he contemplated the question. "Imogene...something. She's in the mages, apparently. Friend of the Matin lass."
"Which part of the mages?" Jean-Paul asked. He wasn't sure what he'd thought someone so...vivid might do for a living, but the army wouldn't have been his first choice.
Teddy shrugged. "I don't know." He nudged Jean-Paul's ribs with his elbow. "Perhaps that's a question for the lady herself. If she's caught your eye."
Jean-Paul was still watching Imogene, too riveted by her still to react to Teddy's jab—either the physical or verbal one.
"She has, hasn't she?" Teddy said with another nudge. "Good choice. A career girl, if she's in the mages. She won't give you any grief."
Jean-Paul didn't really register the words, but he knew what Teddy meant. A mage—a career soldier—would know how things worked. She wouldn't be after marriage. Might be amenable to a dalliance to burn out this fire leaping in his gut and speeding his heart.
He ignored the part of him that had a vague notion that a heat like this might not be so easy to douse and stepped out onto the dance floor.
Chapter 5
Imogene accepted a glass of campenois from a circulating servant, waving her fan idly in her other hand. The ballroom was becoming, as ballrooms always did, overly warm now that the dancing was underway. She was glad to sit out the current round of dances. The emperor's ballroom was large, but so was the number of people filling it. She'd wanted another drink more than she wanted to dance her way through the crush with the last nervous young aristo who'd approached her, so she'd declined him with a smile designed to be both firm and politely demure, pleading a need to retire temporarily. He'd shrugged and moved on to another group of young ladies, not seeming fazed by the refusal.
The pale blonde in bright yellow he'd asked next had accepted, and Imogene had watched them join the dancers before she'd made her way back toward Chloe. She had no idea how many people were in attendance, but it would be easy enough to lose someone in the crush. She and Chloe had agreed to stay close while they got the lay of the land, so to speak. Imogene had spotted a few faces she recognized from the Imperial mages and the Academe, as well as the odd aristocrat or politician, but those had been few and far between so far. She needed to take some time, gather some information, before she made any choices that might lead to something more than being steered around the dance floor.
She'd so far danced with four of the men who'd asked. Two had been pleasant, but nothing more than that, and the third dull. The fourth had earned himself a well-stomped set of toes when he'd attempted to let his hand drift farther down her back than was acceptable, given she'd offered no encouragement for him to take liberties and that they were in a very public place. That would be another benefit if she bonded with a sanctii—handy for dealing with wayward suitors.
Illvyans, on the whole, didn't have the ill-informed superstitions and fear of sanctii that some of the other countries in the empire—and beyond—did, but they still viewed them with a healthy degree of respect. Or the ones who had any brains did. Of course, she couldn't say for sure that the young man in question met that criterion.
That was the problem with balls. There was no time to converse with a man before having to accept or decline an invitation to dance. No time to judge his intelligence or personality before being stuck with him for the duration of a set.
She needed a different strategy. Retreat from the dancing and try to find men who were keeping farther afield of the festivities to talk to. Of course, that would mean abandoning Chloe, who loved to dance.
She glanced over at her friend, who was happily talking with several other men and women their age and didn't look as though she needed any assistance.
Good. With Chloe occupied, Imogene was free to explore for a while and see what she might find in the quieter parts of this ball. If such places existed.
But before she could decide which direction she might try first, there was a minor commotion to her right, and she looked up to see a man—or perhaps a small mountain—striding through one of the sets of dancers, moving in her direction.
A sensible person would have backed away. He really was unreasonably tall and wide and looked capable of flattening anyone in his path. The dancers dispersing to either side of him seemed to have formed the same conclusion. But Imogene, instead of being sensible, found herself unable to look away. He wasn't just tall. There was strength to go with the height—not even the excellent work of his tailor could hide the powerful lines of his body completely and make him look like a tame courtier. But he was more than any other well-built man. No, he was more...arresting than that.
His face was carved from planes and angles that shouldn't have added up to pleasing but somehow did. His hair was black—curly, possibly, if it hadn't been tied back. His eyes, well, she couldn't tell yet if they were blue or gray or something in between from where she stood. And the only thing about his eyes—whatever color they were—that seemed important was how firmly they were fixed on hers with the kind of intent determination that, again, would have made a sensible person retreat.
She couldn't look away. And had to fight a startling desire to walk to meet
him.
It would have been easy to do. A path was rapidly clearing in front of him, as though a blood mage had cast a spear of power straight across the room to push people out of his way. But she saw no sign of magic. It was just self-preservation on the part of those moving. And, she realized, as heads began to turn in her direction to see where this mountain of a man was headed, self-preservation was fast being replaced by curiosity for those who had made it safely out of his way.
She lifted her chin. Most of the people at the ball had no idea who she was. Which was fine by her. The life of a courtier had never been her goal.
The mystery man was getting closer. And his gaze didn't break from hers. Her dress felt too tight, as though Dina had just freshly tugged on her corset strings. Her breath didn't want to come easily, and she was suddenly far too aware of how overheated the room was.
Ten feet away. Five. A step more. He stopped there. She just had time to register that his eyes were indeed a thunderous shade of gray before he swept into a flawless bow.
So flawless he had to be nobility. Only one raised to court from birth would have that degree of effortless perfection in his gestures.
As he straightened, she dipped into her best curtsy. It might not have been as perfect as his, but she fancied she managed it gracefully enough. Diplomats were also schooled in manners, after all. Reyshaka utilized a complicated system of bows with matching hand positions depending on gender, rank, and age for both sexes, so it was something of a relief to return to the simplicity of a curtsy, even though executing it did nothing to ease her breathlessness.
When she rose, he was smiling at her as though she were his favorite dessert. Behind him, interested faces were peering in their direction.