by M. J. Scott
The lights of the city blurred beneath her as tears stung her eyes. She swiped at them furiously.
No tears.
Tears wouldn't help. She just had to find her feet. Like after a sea voyage. Anglion was the ship she had ridden for close to ten years, and now she just had to learn to walk on Illvya's solid ground. She would do it.
No one was going to take her choices from her again.
"Hello!" A grumbling voice came from behind her, and she swung around. A raven perched on the top of the window frame, gazing down at her through curious eyes. A female, she thought, though, in truth, she was out of practice with judging the sex of a raven. Or the age. Though this one was sleek and shiny, and its eyes were dark. Young but not a juvenile.
"Hello, yourself," she said softly.
The raven bobbed its head, stretching its wings. A pale flash caught Chloe's eyes. One of the pinion feathers was white, a flare of light amongst the shimmering black. Unusual, but it happened from time to time. According to the records, there'd even been a pure white raven or two amongst the tower's residents over the centuries. They were supposed to be a good omen. But there'd been none in Chloe's lifetime. Maybe that explained why her life had gone so wrong. Or maybe the one white feather was a sign of hope that now it could go right again.
"Food," the bird said.
Chloe spread her hands wide to show they were empty. "If you go on inside, Mestier Allyn will have your dinner, same as always."
That earned her a disgruntled squawk, as though the raven wanted to her to know that humans who couldn't produce tasty tidbits on demand were disappointing. Chloe laughed.
The bird tilted its head again. "Who?"
Chloe blinked. She'd forgotten how clever the birds were. Crows that bonded as petty fams could develop quite extensive vocabularies over their magically extended lifespans, but even those who didn't serve a mage could learn to speak. Not all did, but this one clearly had.
"Chloe," she said, touching her chest.
The black beak clacked once, and the crow cawed again. Then it launched into flight, swooping down over Chloe's head before executing a tight turn and flying past her again and straight in through the window, calling, "Food."
Amused, Chloe followed. The light was dying and the air turning cold. Birds were not the only ones who needed their dinners. She had choices to make, yes, but freezing to death on the tower's walkway wouldn’t make them any easier. Nor did she want her father to come looking for her.
By the time she had drawn the windowpanes closed behind her and locked them into place, the raven was sitting on Mestier Allyn’s shoulder, grumbling in his ear as he loaded a plate with strips of meat.
"She's a feisty one," Chloe said.
"Yes. But, so far, fussy about the company she keeps. Perhaps she will become one of my breeding girls. She's from Issey's line."
"Like Tok,” Chloe said. "Who is doing very well in Anglion. Sophie asked me to let you know."
"Your father mentioned it. Well, he knew what he wanted, that one. Now he's petty fam to a queen. Hopefully he'll live a good long life." Mestier Allyn's expression turned speculative. "Perhaps Queen Sophia would like some breeding stock eventually. If she changes the minds of those stubborn Anglions about magic, they may start to want petty fams."
"They have ravens in Anglion," she offered.
"Not as smart as ours."
"No," she agreed. “They haven't had the chance to be." She watched as the crow sidled to the left and snatched a piece of meat off the plate before retreating to the top of one of the night cages. She giggled. The ravens were usually fed in their cages to make it easier to keep them safely in at night. "What's her name?"
The master rolled his eyes at the bird, his expression fond exasperation. "Mai. It should be Trouble."
Chloe laughed. "If we named all the ones who deserved to be called Trouble, Trouble, it would get very confusing."
Mestier Allyn smiled. "I cannot argue with that." He crossed to a cage and opened the door, sliding the plate into the slots built to hold it. The bird peered at him. "That's where you get the rest, young lady," he said. "Stop misbehaving or Chloe won't come to visit us again."
That turned the crow's eye in her direction. "Clo."
"Clo-ee," Chloe corrected. "She's quick. Tok is learning to speak fast, but he has the benefit of his bond. It’s entertaining to see the faces of the Anglion courtiers when he talks to them." She smiled at the memory, then shook off the sense of disorientation that came in its wake. Just then the memory of Anglion felt like a memory of home. The place where all was familiar. But Lumia was home.
She could only hope that it would stop feeling so strange sooner rather than later.
"I hope you will be visiting us more often," Mestier Allyn said. "The Academe has missed you."
"Thank you. I missed you all, too. I'm sure I will be here. My father is keen for me to refresh my skills. As am I," she added hastily, not wanting it to seem that, were she to return, it would be under sufferance.
Mestier Allyn grinned. "Heard you already started on that. Cost us some earth lamps already. Some things don't change."
Chloe rolled her eyes. Gossip traveled around the Academe faster than a raven pouncing on a worm. "I didn't blow anything up today."
"I'm sure Madame Simsa will be glad of that. Just as well it's not both of you back again. Not sure the Academe could take it."
He meant her and Imogene. They'd had some escapades in their time. She smiled. "The duquesse has other things to occupy her now. But I'll tell her you remember her. I'll be seeing her tomorrow."
He nodded approval, then clicked his tongue at Mai, pointing at the cage door. The raven decided that dinner won over rebellion, hopped neatly onto his hand, and then made another short leap into her cage.
"Good night, Mai," Chloe said as Mestier Allyn closed the cage door. He turned back to her, and she curtsied. "Thank you for loaning me your window."
"They are always there, Chloe. Should you feel the need to find your bearings."
Chloe couldn't fault Imogene's clothier. She couldn't remember the last time she'd worn a dress as beautiful as the one Helene had produced at such short notice.
Possibly her own wedding.
Though her dress for that particular day, while lovely, had been the result of compromises between her taste and that of her mother. And Charl’s mama. Who had had very particular ideas about what was appropriate for a woman marrying into the de Montesse family to wear.
Chloe had watched Imogene go through a quick-fire course in how to be a duquesse-in-waiting, fulfilling her duty as best friend to hold Imogene's hand and let her vent when the rules and protocol surrounding her future had become overwhelming. Charl, however, was not an immediate heir. Chloe hadn’t anticipated the same level of oversight of her own nuptials. But Babette de Montesse had been determined that a commoner shouldn't disgrace the family, and she had a bossy streak a mile wide.
It had been entertaining, once she was no longer the focus of Babette's attention. Charl didn't really care for all the pomp that went with court life. True, he enjoyed the benefits of his family's money and privilege, but she had always liked the fact that he had shown little desire for snobbery and formality in their day-to-day lives. He’d certainly been keen enough to prove his love to her, to convince her that he did indeed want to marry the daughter of the Maistre of the Academe and not one of the many girls from families far grander who would have been happy to snap up even a younger son.
He had only a small amount of blood magic. Just enough to warrant him toying with the idea of joining the Imperial army but never quite follow through. He'd had an equally small talent for illusion. Mostly good for conjuring sparks of light to amuse or to summon the pretense of her favorite flowers when he'd been trying to win her favor. Nothing like the startling strength of magic his best friend commanded.
And there was Lucien, in her thoughts again.
She scowled into the mirror. She was
about to walk into an Illyvan ballroom and face an Illvyan crowd of what had once been her peers for the first time in ten years. She needed to keep her wits about her, not get lost in the memories and regrets.
Imogene had promised a small, relaxed affair. But 'small' and 'relaxed' were relative. And no ball thrown by a duq and his wife could ever be entirely free of court games.
Games she had no desire to play.
She intended to enjoy the music and the spectacle, drink some campenois, avoid dancing as much as she could, and lurk around the outskirts of the party before leaving at the earliest possible hour she could achieve without being rude. It was a waste of a magnificent frock, perhaps, but it was all she felt she could manage.
She took a breath and smoothed her face into something calm, contemplating her dress rather than the event it was for. Imogene had tried to talk her into bright red, but she'd chosen something more subtle, having no desire to stand out any more than she had to.
The dark green silk was sumptuous and the cut magnificent. Helene de Signey hadn't been in business when Chloe married, but, gazing at her reflection, Chloe understood exactly why Imogene paid her so well. The woman was a genius with fabric. But still, the dress was cut lower across her chest than anything she'd worn in Anglion in years, and she had to resist the urge to try and tug it higher.
Imogene had lent her a necklace of amber and peridots that would at least draw the eye up to her neck. And there was a fan in matching silk that would also provide distraction. Not that she should. She had no need to try to avoid the temple's attention here. There would be no disapproving dominas at Imogene’s ball. Not that an Illvyan domina would be disapproving.
No, the problem would be the attention of all those people who'd known her before—and those who'd known Charl and what he’d done. She wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't prefer the scowls of even Domina Skey rather than subjecting herself to the scrutiny of the Illvyan court. But Imogene had promised her it would be smooth sailing, and she had to trust that.
Besides, Imogene was right. Hiding away wouldn’t convince people that she was innocent. She'd watched Imogene learn to stare down gossip and petty politicking when she'd first become engaged to Jean-Paul. No one had expected the heir to one of the most powerful duqdoms in the empire to marry a commoner.
A water mage at that. One who had a sanctii.
There had been plenty of upper-class noses put out of joint and plenty of gossip and spite because of it. She'd had her own turn at that when Charl chose her. Which, come to think of it, had put her in good stead when she'd endured a different kind of suspicion and rumor and scrutiny when she'd arrived in Anglion.
She could do it a third time. After all, with the emperor's declaration of her innocence behind her, there was not much that any of them could throw in her face that would do her any real harm. And once they realized she wasn't hunting for a second husband amongst the courtiers, that she was happy to fade into the background and just be the formerly scandalous friend of the Duquesse of Saint Pierre who appeared in their midst now and then, they would leave her alone.
She lifted her chin. Let them stare a night or two. She had nothing to fear from their judgment of her clothes, at least. And she wasn't going to fear whatever else they might judge her for either.
Chapter 6
"It's a Kharenian Rill," Imogene said. "You know the steps. They haven't changed. Jean-Paul will partner you to begin."
Chloe stared out at the small dance floor, working hard not to bite her lip. She used to love to dance, and the music had been tugging at her all night. But so far she had refused every man who had approached, out of nerves. After the first four were turned away, no one else had tried.
Imogene was looking faintly exasperated. Chloe couldn't blame her. She needed to appear normal. Unconcerned. Hiding in the corner with a few familiar faces was cowardice.
She'd faced her fear with Madame Simsa. Reached for her power. It had felt shocking in both its strength and the excitement that had turned her veins to pure bubbling joy in its wake. The kind of joy she hadn't felt for years. Possibly not since Charl died.
Maybe more of it waited for her if she could face this fear, too.
She could manage ten minutes on a dance floor following patterns that had been ingrained in her muscles since she was a young girl.
"Go on," Imogene said. "You know you want to. I know what you look like when you want to dance, Chloe. It's all right. You are allowed to be happy. And it's perfectly safe here."
A servant appeared at Imogene's side. She leaned away, listening to whatever message he was conveying. Nothing good, judging by the frown that flashed briefly over her face as she turned back. "I have to attend to something." She waved a hand at Jean-Paul, who was talking to some friends a few feet away. He excused himself and came to join them.
"Chloe needs to dance," Imogene declared. "Take her onto the floor, my love. Make sure her toes don't get trodden on for the first few minutes of the set." She smiled up at Jean-Paul. "Apparently there's some crisis in the kitchen and Albeir needs to speak with me. I won't be long."
"We have our orders, it seems," Jean-Paul said, smiling down at Chloe. "Shall we?" He offered his arm and she took it, smiling back.
No one would be rude to her while she was dancing with him, at least. She knew how to read a crowd of courtiers, even if her skills were rusty, and she’d been watching the flow of the ball since she arrived. The du Laqs were respected. She'd known on an intellectual level what it meant that Jean-Paul held the title now, but that was different to seeing it. He'd always been imposing, not only due to his sheer size but his military bearing and being the heir. But now he wielded an invisible level of command. People melted out of their way as they walked to take their place on the dance floor, clearing the center of the space as though it was his rightful place. Once he reached it, there was a small rush as people moved to be in the first set with the duq.
"Does that get tiring?" Chloe asked as they took their positions, joined hands crossed, and waited for the musicians to begin.
"Mostly I don't notice," Jean-Paul said with a half shrug. "This isn't court proper, so there's little point to currying my favor." He gazed over the line of men and women forming beyond them. "Just ignore them. This is supposed to be fun, remember?" He grinned, the expression teasing. He was a mountain of a man, tall and dark-haired, with shoulders that strained the seams of his beautifully tailored jacket. When he smiled, he was also startlingly handsome. And he'd always been her friend. "Now, do I need to remind you of the opening measure?"
“I remember.”
Fun. A simple dance with a friend. Nothing to worry about.
The musicians began to play, the strings moving through a series of notes that she knew by heart.
"Good. Imogene will be displeased if you don't. So, Madame, let us dance."
She smiled and let him swing them into motion. Jean-Paul was a surprisingly good dancer for a man of his size and height, and she'd danced with him often enough that they moved easily together.
As she gave herself up to the dance, her smile turned to a grin. Her feet and hands remembered what to do, and she didn't have to think. When the time came to change partners, she reached out her hand automatically. To her relief, the man who took it was one of the Imperial mages, someone she'd known from the Academe.
A friendly face. She relaxed and let herself just dance. Through her second partner and a third and a fourth until she spun around, hand outstretched to reach for the hand of the fifth, only to realize it belonged to Lucien.
She almost stumbled to a halt, but his hand closed over hers as his other went to her waist and guided her back into motion before she knew what was happening.
"Madame de Montesse," he said. His face was fixed in a pleasant court smile, but from the tension in the shoulder under her hand, he was as startled as she.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed, making sure her own smile didn't slip. This was exactly the kind
of encounter she'd wanted to avoid. A feast for the gossips if she had a fight with the Marq of Castaigne in the middle of a du Laq ball. "Imogene didn't mention you were invited." And it would hardly have slipped her mind. Imogene had sat by Chloe's side when Charl was arrested. When he'd been condemned. She knew how Chloe felt about Lucien.
"I wasn't," he admitted. "I tagged along with some friends." He stared down at her. "I didn't expect you to be here."
Damn aristos. She'd forgotten that for the smaller balls and parties, groups of them would just show up, drifting from entertainment to entertainment as the night took them.
"Imogene is my best friend," she said. "Did you think she would shun me, my lord?"
A wince flickered over his face. "No. I can't see any of your true friends wanting to give that up," he said. "But you've only just returned. I thought you would be spending time with your family still."
"I'm a grown woman. I am hardly going to sit at home with my parents every night." Was it her imagination, or did his eyes flicker down over her dress and the neckline she suddenly regretted?
Regardless, his hand tightened over hers. "I should have known. I apologize."
It was the third time they'd met since her return, and his third apology.
She should tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was inevitable they would encounter each other, but she didn't want that to be true. And she couldn't bring herself to do the thing she should do and offer him forgiveness.
If a true friend would not give up her friendship so easily, then there was no way he could have considered himself a true friend. Not and do what he had done. And that was a wound far from healed despite all the time that had passed.
Even if theirs had been a light and airy friendship—or as light and airy as Lucien, who was always minded toward seriousness, could be. She'd often wondered if he'd been drawn to Charl, who was the very definition of light and charm, to balance his own darker calling. To cling to the part of light that she had thought must become very distant when one dealt too frequently with the darkest sides of people's hearts and minds and deeds.