“I barely recognize you,” he says. His hair is grayer than I remember it, though it has only been a few months since I last saw him.
“I barely recognize myself,” I reply.
“I was sorry to hear that you were coming.”
“He got me in a tight spot,” I admit, pulling my lacy sleeve back to show him the glint of silver. “See what we’ve got in common now?”
A flash of anger crosses his face and is smoothed away, replaced by a look of exhausted resignation.
“Good luck,” says Pia, slamming the door and banging on the side of the hackney. The driver pulls away.
“Disgusting creature,” mutters Sir Victor, and it takes me a moment to realize he is talking about Pia.
Sir Victor is one of Agoston Horthy’s top officials, routing out magic wherever he can find it. It is not by choice; his daughter, Elisha, is a witch, and he has served Horthy for years in exchange for her life. Now that he is bound to Casimir as well, Shey having cured him of a Parnese wolf bite, he is a sort of double agent, I suppose—still working for Horthy but also reporting on the prime minister to Casimir. The strain of it shows.
“So we’re off to the opera?” I say. “Could be worse. Bit early for an opera, though, isn’t it?”
“There is a party before the opera,” says Sir Victor. “And a party afterward, which will take up most of the night.”
“Hounds,” I mutter. I haven’t slept nearly enough.
“King Zey’s condition is declining rapidly,” continues Sir Victor. “I will introduce you to his heir—Duke Everard. He arrived in Spira City last week. He is the king’s second cousin, and will be crowned as soon as Zey dies, which his doctors believe will be a matter of days.”
“A second cousin? Is that the best they could find?”
“Zey had no children and only one brother—Roparzh—whom he hanged,” says Sir Victor. “His cousin, the former Duke Everard, was killed in a riding accident some years ago, making young Luca, the current duke, heir to the crown. He is barely twenty, but Zey’s father was crowned at about the same age and ruled for sixty years. Duke Everard’s castle is on the Isle of Corf, a rather remote northern island that Ingle and Frayne used to dispute. This is the first time he has come to Spira City since his father’s death. His mother is…a rather difficult personality, according to gossip.”
“I thought I was supposed to be spying on Agoston Horthy. What has this duke got to do with anything?”
“Your job will be twofold. You will indeed be reporting on Horthy’s movements, his correspondence and conversation, whom he sees, where he goes. But Casimir would also like to be sure of the new king. The Everards have always been loyal to the Crown, but the mother is problematic, and the duke himself has grown up far from court. He’s said to be a flighty fellow. The right wife would likely wield a good deal of influence, and Casimir has chosen one. Her name is Dafne Besnik. I know her father, Lord Besnik, quite well. He has raised his children to share his views and his intolerance. Casimir wants to know the character of the new king-to-be, and he would also like you to help bring Duke Everard and Dafne together. You are to befriend them both. You may spy on the duke, learn of his tastes, and help guide Dafne in topics of conversation that will interest him. She is a great beauty, which ought to make things easy.”
“Usually does,” I say. “Am I really meant to play matchmaker? That’s hardly where my talents lie.”
“You will be Dafne’s companion at a few events. Help her to shine, and tell us what you can of your impressions of the duke. He will be more open with young people like himself.”
“Is Agoston Horthy going to be at the opera too?”
“No,” says Sir Victor. “You’ll look in on him tomorrow. This evening, be one of the young people.”
“I don’t know how young aristocrats behave.”
“You are meant to be from the countryside, so you needn’t have city manners.”
For the rest of the ride, he tells me about my new identity, my family and home. I try to pay attention and not get distracted thinking about the nuyi creeping up the inside of my arm, the sac of poison deteriorating next to Dek’s heart, or how we will get out of this mess in less than a week.
The hackney glides to a halt. Sir Victor helps me out.
We are outside the opera hall. I’ve seen it before, and it has never failed to astound me, wide marble stairs leading to intricately carved doors, pillars soaring up to the roof. The roof is made up of several smaller domes around the vast main dome, all shining a brilliant turquoise in the sunlight. Ridiculous as it is, I feel a flutter of excitement that I will get to see inside this place, reserved for the top echelons of Fraynish society.
Sir Victor gives me his arm, and we start up the stairs. He bends his head toward me and says softly: “There are rumors flying that Zey’s niece has returned to Frayne to claim the throne.”
“Is that so?” I say.
“Horthy has asked me to investigate. He told me that Mrs. Och herself helped smuggle the girl out of Yongguo, but that the lady has passed on.”
I look into his questioning eyes, and I think I do owe him an answer to that.
“Mrs. Och is dead,” I say flatly.
“I am sorry to hear it,” he murmurs. “She was a great lady.”
I make no reply, and he takes me on his arm through the carved doorway into the opera hall itself.
The inside of the hall makes my jaw drop in spite of myself. Carpeted staircases swoop up in three different directions. Everything is gilded and seething with intricate decoration, the impossibly high ceilings depicting scenes from Scripture in brilliant color, and all of it glowing by the light of dozens of chandeliers. We are immediately caught up in a swirl of elegant, perfumed people—powdered wigs and gleaming watches, monocles and feathered hats, silk gowns, silk cravats, shining shoes and shining jewels, and wet, toothy smiles. I have never been in such a mass of well-fed, well-dressed people before.
“Yes, he’s here, I know! Very handsome!” a woman is hissing to her friend as we pass by.
“Ah, here are Lord and Lady Besnik,” says Sir Victor, in a voice I’ve never heard him use, rich and happy. “Good day, my friends! May I present my niece, Miss Ella Penn Witzel.”
I step forward and curtsy. Sir Besnik is, I decide from a glance, the kind of man I’d hate to be stuck near at a party. His face is like a pale stone slab—large and blank and hard-edged. There is no hint of humor or kindness in his expression or in his small blue eyes. He stands leaning forward slightly, as if he intends to loom over whomever he comes into contact with. His wife hangs on his arm, her hair swept up in an elegant flaxen whorl on top of her head, diamonds dripping from her ears and throat and wrists. She looks alarmingly bloodless, like a wax model of a woman.
“Miss Ell-a, we have heard waaanderful things about you,” says Lady Besnik tonelessly. I find myself searching for a pulse in her desiccated neck. “Dafne has been simply da-hyyying to meet you.”
“Indeed I have,” says Dafne warmly. I look her over—this girl Casimir has picked out to be queen. She is wearing white lace with hints of violet, her dress showing off a tiny waist and a full bust without being too daring. Her hair, like her mother’s, is so blond that it is nearly white, her eyes a stormy gray with dark lashes, her lips a sweet little bow, and her expression just lively enough to give her face character without tripping over into mischief. I can’t think she’ll need any help from me winning over the heir to the throne. Spending time with this perfect specimen of young womanhood is hardly my idea of an exciting job.
“The aaahpera is not really Dafne’s i-dee-yal,” says Lady Besnik in her nasal drone. “She is well trained in myuuu-sic, and yet she would prefer to be at temple in silent contemplation of the Naaameless One.”
“Oh, but even in a place like this, I find I can turn my mind toward
the Nameless One, and His great silence embraces me in the midst of all the noise and celebration,” says Dafne, slipping her arm through mine. “Don’t you find?”
“Ye-es,” I say, feeling a bit panicky. “What instrument do you play?”
“The harp,” she says, blinking her big gray eyes at me. I almost want to laugh. Of course she plays the bleeding harp.
“Have you been to the opera many times?” I ask, thinking I might play up the country bumpkin angle. Snobby girls love to brag about their worldliness and talk down to girls they think stupid or uncultured.
“My mother loves the opera” is all she says.
“We are haaanored to be sharing a box with Duke Everard,” says Lady Besnik, staring at nothing. “Have you met the duke, Sir Victor?”
“I have,” says Sir Victor. “There he is with his mother, the duchess. I will introduce you.”
I follow their eyes to a tall fellow with a head of unruly copper curls. He is chatting enthusiastically with a silver-haired, hawkish-looking lady.
“I have heard she is a very faaahn horsewoman,” says Lady Besnik with a sniff. “A bit eccentric, they say.”
“Eccentric how?” I can’t help asking.
“Haven’t you heard the story?” asks Dafne. “Why, it was a great scandal in her day. She ran away from home when she was just about our age, didn’t she, Mother? She dressed as a boy to enter a falconry contest, and she won! But then her identity was discovered, and she was sent home in disgrace, her reputation ruined. Somehow or other, though, she met Duke Everard—the elder one—when she was twenty-eight and considered an old maid, unmarriageable due to her wild ways. He was five years younger than she was at the time, but they fell in love and married, and she has been Duchess Everard ever since! They say she still has falcons, and that she nearly lost her mind when her husband died. Imagine!”
I quite like the sound of this duchess, and watch her with interest, chatting animatedly with her son. She looks an ordinary enough lady here, in spite of the fierce expression—well dressed, well laced.
Lady Besnik clucks her tongue. “Such taaahk, Dafne! One should not listen to gaaassip.”
“Oh, indeed not, Mother,” agrees Dafne. “I am not gossiping. This is all fact. I cannot imagine how the elder Duke Everard dared to marry such a woman. Look how devoted her son is to her, though!”
“She is reformed, I daresay, and the Nameless One is forgiving,” says Lord Besnik in a bored rumble.
“Yes indeed,” says Sir Victor. “Come—let’s say hello.”
The young duke and his mother look up as we approach. Her expression narrows, but the duke takes us all in with a lively interest. He is as tall as Sir Victor but wider, with broad shoulders, a block of a chest, and great thick legs—the kind of figure that looks very fine now but will likely go to fat as he gets older. His boyish good looks are a little incongruous with his bulk—a merry grin, cleft chin, tumbling curls in need of cutting, and something puppyish about the eyes, which are such a light brown they are almost amber. He certainly cuts a dashing figure to present to Frayne as the new king. Then again, we are all so used to thinking of the king as an ancient, holy, white-haired man that this merry-looking boy might not strike anybody as even remotely kingly.
“Duke Everard! Duchess! I am glad to see you again.” Sir Victor shakes the duke’s hand, bends to kiss the duchess’s gloved knuckles. “May I present Lord and Lady Besnik, their daughter, Miss Dafne Besnik, and my own niece, Miss Ella Penn Witzel.”
“Charmed,” says the duchess coolly, but the duke shakes Lord Besnik’s hand enthusiastically—so enthusiastically, in fact, that Lord Besnik looks a little rattled—and then swoops to kiss Lady Besnik’s hand with a great smacking sound. There is hand-kissing all around. Even through my glove I can feel the warmth of the duke’s mouth, which makes the genteel hand-kissing feel slightly inappropriate.
“I’ve heard talk about you,” he says to Dafne. “They say you are a fine harpist and a great beauty. I should love to hear your playing someday, as your beauty has clearly been undersold.”
She looks startled for a moment—this is rather bold—but then ducks her head and thanks him. Duchess Everard gives her son a stern look.
“Why don’t we leave the young people to talk,” says Sir Victor. “Duchess, I’ve been wanting to show you the portrait in the anteroom of your ancestor Lord Castilly.”
She looks irritated, but she says, “Thank you, Sir Victor,” and off they all go, she in her dark dress like a crow next to Lady Besnik’s white silk. We are left to ourselves—the duke, Dafne, and I—but I sense that everyone around us is watching us.
“How do you find the capital, my lord?” asks Dafne.
“I haven’t seen much of it yet,” he says. “I’ve seen the opera house and the palace and the parliament and some very fine houses. However, I believe there is, between each of these places I keep on being taken to, this thing called the city. I’ve only caught glimpses out of a carriage window thus far.” Then he leans toward us conspiratorially and says, “Don’t you get the feeling that you are being watched?”
“You are being watched,” says Dafne, smiling at him. “Everybody is wildly curious about you!”
“I suppose so.” He sighs. “I feel very silly dressed up like this. Do you feel like you’re in costume? You carry it very well.”
He directs this to Dafne, of course. I do not carry it particularly well. And neither does the duke, I have to admit. He looks as if he’s been stuffed into his gleaming waistcoat and cravat. His trousers are too tight on his muscular thighs, which is becoming but not very royal.
“Oh, I’m used to events like this,” she says. “It must feel odd to you, though. I hear Corf is very beautiful.”
“It is,” he says. “But we live simply. The castle is rather a shambles and the weather is fierce, so we dress for warmth. The town of Corf is charming, but there is no opera house. This will be my first opera, in fact. Do you like the opera?”
“Very much. I think you’ll enjoy it,” says Dafne, and makes some banal comments about the opera we are going to see. The duke looks immediately bored.
“What rhymes with bereaved?” he asks, à propos of nothing.
“Deceived,” I say, a bit too quickly.
He laughs—a lovely bright burst of laughter that makes the eavesdroppers around us jump, and warms me to him somewhat. It is difficult to dislike a person with a truly happy-sounding laugh.
“Well done. But I’m composing a sonnet about a nation bereaved, so that’s not the word I’m looking for.”
I think it’s a very apt word in that case, but don’t say so.
“What about achieved? Or conceived?”
“Conceived might be good,” he says, pulling a little notepad and cartridge pen from his pocket and scribbling something.
“You’re a poet!” exclaims Dafne. “How marvelous!”
“A very bad one,” he says. “Do you read poetry?”
“I admire Simon Gavell very much,” she says. He looks disappointed by this answer. I’ve no idea who Simon Gavell is.
He turns those gold-hued eyes on me. His gaze flicks to my scar and then back to my eyes. “What about you, Miss Penn Witzel?”
“I don’t read much poetry,” I say.
“And yet such a knack for rhyme!”
“Isn’t there more to poetry than rhyming? You just told me my first rhyme was no good.”
“It was unfair. You didn’t know the subject. What rhymes with wealth?”
“Filth,” I say, and then laugh. “Not a good rhyme. Perhaps stealth. Oh, stars—health, I should have thought of that first.”
He beams at me. “You see? You’re a natural!”
“I can’t make a poem out of that, though.”
Dafne is staring hard at me, and I think I ought to shut up and
go back to being quiet and unpretty.
“Perhaps the world needs more poetry about filth and stealth and deceit,” he says.
“I can’t think that’s what the world needs,” I say.
“Are you interested in philosophy?” he asks us.
“I am interested in everything,” says Dafne. “Only very ignorant.”
I am both ignorant of and uninterested in it, but I just say, “Likewise.”
“I’ve been reading a book of philosophy that suggests that the wealthy are less worthy than…well, the filthy, you might say…because they squander their wealth on selfish pleasures, while others suffer. Edwin Corr. He was trying to take Rainist principles to their logical conclusion, but he went to prison for writing it! The book is banned!”
“Oh!” Dafne raises a gloved hand to her lips, and I wonder why the heir to the throne is flaunting his reading of banned books to us at a first meeting.
“I’ve shocked you,” he says, a bit hopefully, I think.
You’ll have to work harder than that, friend. But I let Dafne answer.
“You are a freethinker,” she says, rallying. “I admire that.”
“Do you?” he asks, as if he’s genuinely curious.
“I do.” She sticks her chin out a little, and he smiles, tucking his notebook back into his waistcoat pocket.
“My mother thinks people in the city are narrow-minded,” he says. “I am conducting an investigation.”
“Your mother is unfair to us!” cries Dafne.
There is a shriek from across the hall.
“Is it normal to scream at the opera?” asks the duke, but then there is a chorus of screaming and shouting, and the people at the other end of the hall start running in all their finery, clinging to their hats and wigs. As they approach, the ground seems to be moving under them. A horrified yell leaps from my own lips.
Surging among the well-shod feet of the aristocracy are hundreds and hundreds of rats, long and black and swift, pouring across the carpeted floor. I look around and see an alcove with a glowering bust a foot or so above us. I grab Dafne by the hand and pull her over to it, then clamber up.
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