by Rebecca Ross
“What’s wrong, Brienna?” she whispered. “This is one of the most exciting nights of our lives, and you look like you are about to go to a funeral.”
That coaxed a little laugh from me. “I’m only anxious, Sibylle. You know that I am not as prepared as you and our sisters.”
Sibylle glanced to the sheen of the window, where we could hear yet another patron arrive to the courtyard, and then she returned her gaze to me. “Don’t you remember the first lesson Mistress Therese gave you when you were an arden of wit?”
“I try to block all such memories from my mind,” I said drily.
Sibylle squeezed my fingers with an exasperated smile. “Then let me refresh your memory. You and I were sitting on the divan, and it was storming outside, and Mistress Therese said ‘to become a mistress of wit, you must learn how to wear a mask. Inside your heart, you may rage as the storm beyond the walls, but no one must see such in your face. No one must hear such in your voice. . . .’”
Slowly, I began to remember.
To be a mistress of wit, one must have perfect command over their expressions, over their aura, over what they concealed and what they revealed. It truly was like donning a mask, to hide what actually lay beneath the surface.
“Perhaps that is why I did so poorly in wit,” I said, thinking of how Cartier could always read my face, as if I wrote my feelings on my skin.
Sibylle smiled, tugging on my fingers to regain my attention. “If you remember anything of wit, remember the mask. Wear confidence instead of worry tonight.”
Her suggestion was comforting, and she kissed my cheeks before letting me go.
I retreated to my room, pacing around Merei’s instruments and my piles of books, reciting over and over the three approaches I had diligently prepared. By the time the maids came to dress us, I was sweating.
I knew that every noble and passionate Valenian woman wore a corset.
Even so, I was not prepared to shed the comfortable innocence of my arden dress for a cage of whalebone and complicated laces.
Neither was Merei.
We stood facing each other as our corsets were laced, the maids tugging and pulling on us. I could see the pain on Merei’s face as she readjusted her breathing, her posture, trying to find symbiosis with it. I mirrored her—she knew better how to hold herself from all those years of playing instruments. My posture had always been poor, stooped by books and writing.
There is no passion without pain, Cartier had once told me when I had complained of a headache during lessons.
And so I embraced it that night, the agony that was married to the glory.
I was, not surprisingly, short of breath by the time my solstice dress emerged from its parcel in three elaborate pieces.
The first was the petticoats, layered in lace. Then came the kirtle, which was low-cut and spun from silver fabric, and last, the actual gown, a steel-blue silk that opened up to reveal coy glimpses of the kirtle.
Merei’s kirtle was a rosy shade of gold, overlaid by a mauve gown. I realized that she was wearing her color—the purple of musical passion—and I was wearing mine—the blue depths of knowledge. Obviously, this was arranged so the patrons would know who we were by the colors of our gowns.
I gazed at her, her brown skin glistening in the warmth of early evening, the maids brushing the last of the wrinkles from our skirts. My roommate, the friend of my heart, was stunning, her passion as light radiating from her.
She met my gaze, and it was in her eyes as well; she was looking at me, seeing me as if I had just taken my first breath. And when she smiled, I relaxed and settled into the dusk of summer, for I was about to passion with her, a moment that had taken seven years in the making.
While Merei’s hair was intricately braided with tendrils of gold ribbon, I was surprised when one of the maids brought me a laurel of wildflowers. It was a whimsical array of red and yellow blossoms, a few shy pink petals, and a brave ring of blue cornflowers.
“Your master had this made for you,” the chambermaid said, setting the flowers as a crown in my hair. “And he has requested your hair remain down.”
My hair remain down.
It was untraditional and a bit perplexing. I looked to my blue-and-silver dress, to the long brown waves of my hair, and wondered why he would make such a request.
I moved to stand before the window and waited for Merei, forcing myself not to think of Cartier but to mentally recite my chosen lineage again. I was whispering the ninth-born son when the maids departed from our room and I heard Merei sigh.
“I feel like I should be ten,” she said, and I turned to look at her. “Or eleven, or even twelve. Is this truly our seventeenth summer, Bri?”
It was strange to think of, how slowly time had moved until we had reached a certain point. And then the days had flowed as water, rushing us along to this night. I still didn’t feel wholly prepared. . . .
“Where did the time go?” she asked, glancing to where her lute sat on the bed. Her voice was sad, for come Tuesday, we would both leave this place. She might to be pulled to the west, me to the east, and we might not ever see each other again.
It bruised my heart, made a knot well in my throat. I could not think of such possibilities, of the good-byes that loomed on our horizon. So I walked to stand before her and took her hands in mine. I wanted to say something, but if I did, I might shatter.
And she understood. Gently, she squeezed my fingers, her dimples kissing her cheeks as she smiled at me.
“I think we are probably late,” she whispered, for the house around us was quiet.
We held our breath, listening. I could hear the faded sounds of the party melt through the windows, a party that was flourishing outside on the back lawn, beneath the stars. Punctures of laughter, the hum of conversations, the clink of glasses.
“We should go,” I said, clearing the aches from my throat.
Together, Merei and I left our room only to discover we were not the last ardens to the solstice. Abree stood at the top of the stairs, her dress as a cloud of midnight, her red hair piled up high on her head with curls and jeweled barrettes. She clutched the railing in a white-knuckled grip and looked at us in relief.
“Thank the saints,” she panted, her hand clawing at the corset. “I thought I was the last one. This dress is horrid. I can’t breathe.”
“Here, let me help you,” Merei offered, easing Abree’s hand from her waist.
I was just as inclined to fall down the stairs as Abree, so I took my time behind them, familiarizing myself with the wide arc of my petticoats as I descended. My sisters reached the foyer and turned into the corridor, their footsteps fading as they walked through the shadows to the back doors.
I would have caught up to them, but my hem snagged on the last iron rung of the balustrade and it took me a good minute to untether myself. By then, I was annoyed by the dress and shaky with hunger, a few stars dancing in the corners of my sight.
Slowly, I turned into the corridor, moving down its long passage to the back doors, when I heard Ciri’s voice. She sounded upset, her words muffled until I walked closer, realizing she was standing just inside the Dowager’s study, speaking to someone. . . .
“I don’t understand! I was your arden first.”
“What don’t you understand?” Cartier. His voice was low, a rumble of thunder in the shadows. I stopped walking, just before the study doors, which were cracked.
“Are you going to hold her hand all evening and forget about me?”
“Of course not, Ciri.”
“It’s not fair, Master.”
“Is anything in life fair? Look at me, Ciri.”
“I have mastered everything you have ever asked of me,” she hissed. “And you act as if . . . as if . . .”
“As if what?” He was becoming impatient. “As if you have not passioned?”
She fell quiet.
“I do not want us to quarrel,” Cartier said in a softer tone. “You have done exceedingly well,
Ciri. You are by far the most accomplished of all my ardens. Because of that, I will simply stand back and watch you passion tonight.”
“And what of Brienna?”
“And what of her?” he responded. “You should not worry about Brienna. If I see you compete with her, you will wish that I had never been your master.”
I heard her sharp intake of breath. Or perhaps it was my own. My fingers curled into the wall, into the carvings of the wainscoting; I felt my nails bend as I tried to hold on to something solid, something reassuring.
“You may be my master for one more night,” she said in a dark tone. “But if the patron I want is interested in her . . .”
His voice dropped so low it was nothing but a growl to me. I made my feet move forward, as silently as I could, praying they did not hear me pass the doors.
Through the glimmer of the bay windows, I could see the white tents of the solstice on the lawn. I watched the servants circulating with platters of drinks, heard the laughter floating amid the night. I caught a glimpse of Sibylle’s green dress as she meandered beside a patron, her beauty warbled by the mullioned windows when she moved. I was almost to the threshold, a threshold scattered with herbs to welcome the new season.
But I didn’t walk through the back doors.
I turned to the right, to the safe shadows of the library.
Gently, as if my bones might break, I sat in the chair in which I had withstood all of Cartier’s lessons. And I thought about what I had just overheard, wishing that I had not stopped to listen.
At Magnalia, there was never supposed to be two ardens of one passion. There was only supposed to be one of each, and now I understood why the Dowager had structured her house this way. We weren’t supposed to compete, but how could we not? The arials were not supposed to favor one over the other, but what if they did?
Should I say something to Ciri?
Should I leave Ciri be?
Should I avoid Cartier?
Should I confront Cartier?
I sat there, letting those four questions pick at my thoughts until I felt the urgency of the night. I could not continue to sit there as a coward.
Rising in a swell of silk, I left the library; I passed through the terrace doors, trembling until I glanced up. The night sky was ruled by a golden sickle moon, welcoming stars and dreams. One of those constellations would soon become mine.
I walked mindfully, my dress swallowing the last of my childhood as it whispered over the grass.
I had prepared years for this one night, I thought, and breathed in the fragrance of summer.
Where had time gone?
There was no answer as I welcomed the solstice.
EIGHT
THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
There were six tents in all—a large one billowed from the center, surrounded by five smaller tents that resembled the white petals on a rose. Every timber beam dripped with ivy; every passageway was crowned with boughs of blushing peonies, creamy hydrangeas, and wreaths of lavender. Silver lanterns bobbed on strings, hovering as fireflies, their candles filling the night with scents of honeysuckle and rosemary.
I came to a stop on the lawn, hesitant, the grass crinkling beneath my slippers until I heard the slow, seductive plucking of Merei’s lute. Her music drew me to the first tent, invited me to part and enter the fluttering white cambric as if I were slipping into a stranger’s bed.
Rugs had been laid down over the grass, divans and chairs arranged to facilitate conversations. But this was wholly for Merei, I soon realized, for her instruments were scattered about—her gleaming harpsichord, her violin, her reed flute all waited their turn to feel her touch. She sat on a cushioned bench, playing her lute for two women and one man. Her three patrons.
I kept to the mouth of the tent, where the night could trickle in and the shadows could hold me. But there, off to the right, was Merei’s mistress, Evelina. The arial of music stood where she could observe quietly, her eyes lined with the silver of tears as she listened to Merei play.
The song was rich and slow; it made me want to shed my heavy dress for a lighter one, to dance in the pastures, to swim in the river, to taste every piece of fruit, drink every stream of moonlight. It made me feel old and young, wise and naïve, curious and satisfied.
Her music had always been such to me, something that had filled me to overflowing. There had been countless evenings when she had played for me in our room, when I was weary and discouraged, when I felt as if I didn’t belong and would never belong.
Her music was like bread and wine . . . nourishing, emboldening.
I found that I too was wiping tears from my eyes.
My movement must have attracted her gaze. Merei looked up and saw me; her song never faltered, no, rather her song seemed to find a new chorus and she smiled. I hoped that I inspired her as much as she did me.
And so I slipped from her tent to the next, following the ivy and the flowers, feeling as if I were stepping into the honeycomb of a dream.
This tent was also laid with rugs and fitted with chairs and divans. But there were three easels, each displaying a magnificent oil painting. I walked about the edge of the tent, once more keeping to the shadows as I admired Oriana’s masterpieces.
She stood in a dark red dress, her black hair swept off her neck by a net of hammered gold, a patron on each side as she told them about her work. They were talking of oils. . . . What was her recipe for ultramarine, for umber? And I passed quietly into the next tent, smiling as I knew my prediction would come true: the patrons were bound to fight over Oriana.
This third tent was Sibylle’s. There was a table set in the center of the rugs, where Sibylle sat in her emerald taffeta gown, playing a game of cards with her three potential patrons. Her laughter was like the tinkling of a bell as she engaged her guests in nimble conversation.
Wit was the one passion I had, honestly, despised. I was poor at debate, intimidated by speeches, and a lousy conversationalist. Struggling through that year as an arden had made me realize that I preferred quiet spaces and books over a room full of people.
“What are you doing here?”
I turned to look at Mistress Therese, who had snuck up on me as a wraith. And that was the other reason why I had been so miserable as an arden of wit. Therese had never warmed to me as her student.
“You should be in your own tent,” she hissed, snapping out a delicate lace fan. Sweat was pouring down her face, making her muddy blond hair stick to her forehead as if she had been splattered with grease.
I didn’t waste words on her. I didn’t even waste a curtsy.
I moved into the next tent, which was Abree’s. There was a shallow, octagonal stage in the heart of the tent, low-lit lanterns and a ring of smoke that made it seem as if I were in the middle of a cloud. But there was my Abree, her hair red as flame, standing among her three patrons and Master Xavier. I was happy to see her laughing and carrying on, completely at ease, even in so uncomfortable a dress.
But the dramatics were always friendly; their company was lively and fun. If they caught sight of me lurking, they would undoubtedly call me over to their gathering, and I knew I was short on time.
I slipped out to the slender patch of grass between tents, grateful for the night breeze that lifted the hot curtain of my hair. I stood and breathed, my hands pressed to the bodice of my gown, watching the fabric door of the tent ripple with invitation, like foam on a current.
This was mine and Ciri’s tent; this was where I should have been an hour ago.
And if I bent just a little bit, defying my corset, I could see into the tent, see the rugs laid on the ground and the foot of one of the patrons . . . a spit-polished boot . . . and I could hear the low hum of conversation. Ciri was speaking, saying something about the weather. . . .
“You are late.”
Cartier’s voice made me startle. I straightened and whirled about to find him standing behind me on the grass, his arms crossed.
“The night is s
till young,” I responded, but a traitorous blush nipped my cheeks. “And you should know better than to startle me like that.”
I resumed my clandestine observation, hesitant to part the linen and enter. It was even worse now that he was here, witnessing my qualm.
“Where have you been?” Cartier stepped closer to me; I felt his leg brush my skirts. “I was beginning to think you had called a coach and fled.”
I gave him a wry smile, although the thought of fleeing was horribly tempting at that moment. “Honestly, Master . . .”
I was going to say more, but the words faded when my eyes caught on his clothes. I had never seen him dressed so elegantly. He wore knee-high boots, velvet breeches, a black doublet studded with fancy buckles and silver-stitched trim. His sleeves were long and loose and white, his hair slicked back in his usual queue, his face freshly shaven and golden in the lantern light. His passion cloak faithfully guarded his back, a captive piece of blue sky.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you have never seen me wear proper clothes.”
I snorted, like he was being ridiculous. But thankfully, a server passed by right at that moment, bearing a tray of cordial. I reached for one, a blessed distraction, holding the glass tumbler with a tremor in my fingers, and took a gulp, then another.
Maybe it was the cordial, or maybe it was the dress, or the fact that he was standing far too close to me. But I met his gaze, the glass rim brushing my lip, and murmured, “You don’t have to hold my hand all evening.”
His eyes darkened at my words. “I am not planning to hold your hand, Brienna,” he said tartly. “And you know what I think of eavesdropping.”
“Yes, I know very well,” I responded with a lilt of a smile. “What will it be tonight? The hangman’s noose, or the stocks for two days?”
“I will mercifully pardon you tonight,” Cartier said and took the tumbler from my fingers. “And let’s do away with cordial for now, until you have eaten.”