Tournament of Ruses

by Kate Stradling

  Georgiana’s sweet voice had gone quite sour on that last sentence. Flora thought it best to redirect the conversation. “How have the performances been? I’m sure your harp solo was beautiful.”

  A glint of false modesty entered Georgiana’s eyes. “I was pleased with it.”

  “It was enchanting,” Dorothea piped up from the wall. “Much better than my poetic reading—I was so nervous that I couldn’t stop my voice from trembling. Your hands were perfectly steady.”

  “Georgie loves an audience,” Priscilla said sardonically.

  Georgiana wasn’t in the mood for such provocation. “Well, I dare say my turn at the harp went slightly better than your song on the flute, Prissy, if only because it was more unique. I had no idea so many girls played the flute!”

  “Most of them don’t play it well,” said Priscilla with unwavering confidence.

  “Yes, some of the flute solos have been almost frightful! And these accompanists! Where on earth did they dig them up? That’s one of the reasons I was grateful to perform alone. Your accompanist made several unfortunate mistakes during your solo, Gussie, though I assure you that your voice was clear as a bell.”

  A brittle smile froze upon Augustina’s face. “Thank you. I had many compliments about it afterward.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard nothing but good things about any of our performances,” said Georgiana with a genial smile.

  “At least we did perform,” Dorothea spoke up haughtily. “Some girls only put up a display.” This was an obvious dig at Flora, but it fell flat.

  “In Flora’s case that turned out to be fortuitous,” said Georgiana. “If she’d been scheduled to perform and gotten ill, she wouldn’t have been able to participate in the exhibition at all. Of course, dear Flora,” she added with an unpleasant laugh, “the display you submitted has caught quite a lot of attention, but I’m not entirely sure it’s the sort of attention you wanted.”

  Along the wall, Dorothea and Augustina hid their sniggers behind gloved hands.

  “We were asked to exhibit a talent,” said Flora mildly.

  Georgiana smothered another laugh. “But, really, with a display like that, people are going to think you’re an aspiring scholar or something. In fact, I witnessed a whole cluster of academics—professors and adjuncts to the Academy—leafing through your display and commenting to one another. That’s really not the sort of attention you want.”

  “Why not?”

  The expression on Georgiana’s face could not have held more surprise if Flora had asked why homicide was so very bad. “B-because they’re all old! And common! Any commoner can rise to the ranks of a professor. Besides, no eligible young man wants a scholar for a wife—to think that she might actually be smarter than him! And that’s how your little paper came across, I’m afraid—that you were trying to make yourself look smart. I read two paragraphs and did not understand a word of it. I’m sure it’s damaged your chances, dear thing. You really should’ve consulted us if you had nothing better to present.”

  Flora had done a good job of maintaining her temper thus far, but that comment was simply the last straw. “Do you always insult sick people when you visit them?” she asked bluntly.

  Georgiana started. Then, she contrived an expression of wonderment. “Why, dear Flora, I did not mean any insult—!”

  “Of course you did,” Flora interrupted. “From the very moment you entered you’ve done nothing but criticize: how small the room is, how poor my timing in getting ill, how much of a spectacle I’ve made—as though I had any control over any of those things—and now how inappropriate my display was. I’m sorry, Georgiana, but I’m very proud of the work I submitted, and when you tell me that professors from the Royal Academy were actually looking it over, that only makes me more proud. I don’t get to study botany except by my own efforts, simply because I’m a woman, but I really do love it, and if I can contribute to the literature about our country’s plants and growth cycles, all the better! And this whole business of trying to ensnare a husband with whatever talent we choose to display, well, I find it repugnant. If a man looks at what I’ve written and decides that I’m too smart for him, he’s right. I’d be miserable in a marriage like that. I don’t want to be a decoration in someone’s house or on his arm. I’d rather die a spinster!”

  Georgiana listened to this speech with heightening color. The line of girls along the wall gaped in astonishment. As Flora fell silent, a palpable tension stretched across the room. It was not in the least uncomfortable for her, though, for she felt she’d spoken nothing but the justified truth. This was her sickroom, and she was the one in control, not Georgiana.

  That girl gathered her wits as best she could. “Well,” she said, and there was a catch in her voice that showed she had sense enough to rein in her temper, “I suppose you’re overtired and we’ve overstayed our welcome. We should let you recuperate a bit more from your exhaustion. We’d all hate for you to be too weak to attend the Prince’s ball.” The way she said it conveyed plainly that she, for one, wouldn’t hate that at all, and Flora became suddenly determined to get well enough in time.

  “Exhaustion’s a silly excuse for lolling about an infirmary, if you ask me,” Georgiana continued, “but at least you’re not claiming you were attacked by monsters. That rumor’s been making the rounds, and it’s utterly ridiculous. Come now, girls. Flora needs her rest.”

  After this pompous speech, she swept from the room like an offended duchess. Dorothea and Augustina filed out behind her, but Priscilla hung back a couple of paces. When she was the last one in the room, she suddenly darted to Flora’s bedside and planted an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

  “What a darling you are!” she declared. “I’ve wanted to tell her off like that for ages!”

  Flora had no chance to respond, nor could she have in her utter shock. Priscilla darted quickly back out the door to catch up with the others, leaving behind a quiet room and a disquieted patient.

  “I should probably apologize,” Flora mumbled, but she knew in her heart that she never would.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Mingled Black and Red

  Dr. Grayson has informed me that I am to return home just in time to prepare for the Prince’s ball. I’m not sure whether to be excited or petrified, given my last encounter with Georgiana Winthrop (to say nothing of my last encounter with Charles Moreland, who will certainly be there as well), but I’ve decided to see things through to their proper end.

  Everything is coming to an end, after all. Of that I am certain.

  Flora had not taken two steps into the entryway of her house when a shriek of excitement sounded from the stairway above her and her maid, Mary, came charging down.

  “Miss! You’re finally here! It arrived first thing this morning, Miss, and I’ve been on the edge of my seat waiting for you to come! It’s absolutely divine! I’ve never seen anything so beautiful!”

  She made a move to drag Flora bodily up the stairs, but Lord Dalton waylaid her. “Gently, Mary,” he chided. “Flora’s still not gotten back all her stamina.”

  A profusion of apologies tumbled from the girls lips, and she ducked her head several times in repentance.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Flora assured her. “We’ll just go slowly, all right?”

  “But Miss, are you well enough to go tonight? You must! You simply must!”

  “I always feel more energetic in the evenings,” Flora assured her. As Will had promised, thanks to her lingering bond with the shadow-shifters, the sun’s descent bolstered her. She had far more strength at night than during the days.

  Under her father’s watchful gaze, she ascended the stairs at a steady pace. Her father had been so good about everything. He had injuries of his own from the shadow-shifters—bruises and cuts from being flung away from her in the dark—but in the many hours he had spent with her at the infirmary, He had never complained on his own behalf. Instead, he had apologized profusely, even though he was not to blame. He had even
counseled her to relinquish her claim on the well of magic. Some extra clout in Parliament was not worth her life.

  This was the counsel that Flora most wanted to hear. With the Prime Minister’s exam scheduled for the following morning, her possible transition back to the countryside loomed not far behind, and she dearly hoped her father would send her gladly.

  In the meantime, she had to make it through tonight and tomorrow morning.

  Mary led her straight to her bedroom and proudly displayed the object of her adoration: Mrs. Moreland’s altered ball gown hung from a hook on the wardrobe.

  Flora could well understand Mary’s admiration. Her breath caught in her throat as she brushed her fingers against the fabric. It gleamed red where it caught the scattered sunlight from the window, but elsewhere it was wine-dark. Touches of black, in the small accents of lace and in a sheer, fluttery fabric that had been worked against the original design only enhanced the beauty. It wasn’t the same dress she had tried on weeks before. It was so much more than Flora had imagined.

  She felt like the colors mirrored her soul, tainted as it was with that toxic blackness of the shadow-shifters now. Perhaps there was hope for her after all. Perhaps she could yet make her life into something as beautiful as this.

  Mary cut short her admiration to whisk Flora away to a bath, the first of an overabundance of preparations. Mrs. Finch arrived to help with Flora’s hair and to lace her into her corset and petticoat before they pulled the beautiful dress over her head. Then, they both stepped back to admire their work. Flora caught a glimpse of herself in her vanity mirror and understood why they looked so awestruck. Another person stared back at her. Her pale skin and dark hair looked perfect against the dress. Her sloe-black eyes glittered and a delicate blush colored her cheeks.

  “Where did you put the new gloves I bought her, Mary?” asked Mrs. Finch.

  “I left them downstairs, along with her reticule and the ribbon for her hair. Oh, if only we had some fresh flowers, the look would be perfect!” With that declaration, Mary rushed from the room to retrieve the wanted items.

  “It’s near enough to perfect as it is,” Mrs. Finch told Flora with an affectionate smile. “Your mother would be proud. Have a seat, dear. I imagine I’ll be able to find the extras before Mary can.” She left the room then as well, and Flora obediently sank to the bench by her vanity, thankful for the opportunity to rest. Her eyes slid shut as she listened to the commotion of Mrs. Finch and Mary downstairs. The packet of accessories seemed to have been misplaced.

  A throat cleared next to her, and her eyes flew open. She did a very good job of holding in her instinctive shriek. Upon the table stood a tiny man all clad in brown clothes, with a brown beard and a brown face and a brown hat. His expression was almost sheepish as he said, “Hello.”

  Flora immediately averted her eyes, feeling as though she had seen something she was not supposed to. In response, he leaned over to catch her gaze again. “I’m Oggie,” he told her plainly. “We’ve sort of met before.”

  He could be no one else. The other brownies didn’t dare break their own rules of communication. “I thought brownies weren’t supposed to speak directly to humans,” she remarked to the ceiling.

  “Oh, we’re not! But then, you’re not quite entirely human anymore, are you?”

  She stared at him in surprise. “You can tell?”

  He nodded. “Yup. Just came up to welcome you back, from all of us. Some of them are a little skittish—shadow-shifters eat brownies, you know—but we all know you’re really human at your core. The little bit of extra just gives us leave to have a more direct communication. Did you get those up all right, Gammon, Kipper?” he asked over her shoulder.

  Flora turned to discover two more tiny, brown-clad men. Between them they carried a bouquet of gorgeous blood-red roses—taken from the bush next to the well, she realized.

  “For you, miss,” said Kipper as he hoisted the flowers. “Welcome back. We’ve nearly finished the well. Give us another day and we’ll have the roof shingled properly for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Flora, and she received the bouquet gratefully. Its heady fragrance filled her senses.

  “Welcome back,” said Oggie, and he nimbly hopped down from the table. “We’ve said our piece, so we’ll leave you here.”

  The three tiny men waved jovially. Flora blinked, and they vanished.

  Downstairs, Mrs. Finch crowed in delight as she discovered the packet of missing accessories.

  “I swear it appeared out of thin air,” Mrs. Finch declared as she and Mary returned. “I’d looked in that same spot twice before!”

  Flora suspected that brownies had something to do with both the disappearance and discovery.

  “Miss, where did you get those gorgeous flowers?” Mary cried upon seeing the bouquet in Flora’s hands.

  She started. “Oh! These. They—um, they gave them to me as a coming home gift. You said you wanted fresh flowers,” she added in a small voice.

  “I didn’t notice them among your things earlier,” the maid replied. She looked confused, but she decided to accept that Flora had returned from the infirmary with them. Immediately she worked some of the blooms into Flora’s hair. Flora pulled the black gloves up to her elbows as Mrs. Finch tied a black velvet ribbon around her neck. She had no jewelry suitable for such an occasion, but the Prince’s golden cat’s eye brooch added a small flair of color among the flowery ruffles at her cinched waist.

  “Perfect,” breathed Mary as she surveyed the finished look.

  “Just in time, too,” said Mrs. Finch. “There’s the carriage pulling up to the door. Let’s get her wrap on. Be careful of her hair.”

  “Don’t I know it?”

  Together they covered Flora in a dark wrap and pressed her reticule into her hands. Mrs. Finch chattered a number of instructions to her, about being careful with her hair, with the dress, with any food or drink that they served, and, most importantly, about not overexerting herself in the excitement of the evening. Her father was waiting downstairs. Flora descended between the pair of servants. Lord Dalton escorted her out to the carriage while they called fond farewells from the door.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked in concern as the vehicle began to move.

  Flora squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I’ll be all right. I’m sorry I’ve worried you so much.”

  “Oh, Flora,” he replied, and his voice broke with repressed emotions. “You’re everything to me, you know. Just say the word and we’ll abandon this whole business for our cozy little countryside. The rest of these lords can go to the very devil!”

  She squeezed his hand again. “You’re a better lord than half the lords of Parliament put together, Dad. They need you there to keep them all honest.”

  They arrived at the palace in a queue of carriages and had to wait their turn to exit. Through her window Flora could see many fine ladies and gentlemen ascend the grand steps. A strain of music drifted down from the banquet hall, where the orchestra had already begun to play. Excitement suffused the air as the noble and elite of Lenore gathered together.

  Flora’s stomach whirled with nervous butterflies. Charlie would be inside. She owed him a word of thanks at the very least, but she worried that things might be very awkward between them. He had avoided contact with her so far, after all.

  She could not postpone her thanks inevitably, though. Regardless of the method, he had saved her life.

  After what seemed an excruciating wait, their carriage reached the front of the line. She descended with her father and took his arm up the stairs. A coat check had been established at a branching corridor just within the main doors. Lord Dalton helped Flora remove her cape, which they gave to the waiting porter. She felt the hushed stares of people around her as she again looped her arm through her dad’s and proceeded to the banquet hall.

  Couples waltzed across the dance floor. Mrs. Olivette, Priscilla, and Augustina all gracefully spun with their partners. T
he Eternal Prince presided at a table at the head of the room, resplendent in a gold-bordered, black-velvet cape and a masked headdress to match. The Prime Minister and his wife sat beside him, both of them exquisitely attired. All this Flora saw in a glance, but her whole being froze when she locked eyes with Charlie Moreland.

  He was dancing with Georgiana but looking directly at her. Flora thought his expression was rather thunderstruck. Georgiana, curious to what had drawn his attention, turned her head to follow his gaze and instantly wore the same expression.

  The silent encounter lasted only a moment. Flora’s vision immediately swam with several eager young men who wanted to dance with her. She accepted the first offer, caught up her skirt, and was swiftly whisked out onto the dance floor.

  The evening passed like a dream. She discovered Viola among the dancers, beautiful in her gorgeous purple dress. She smiled joyfully when she caught sight of Flora, and then continued onward in her partner’s arms. Flora had no shortage of partners either. Several of them had visited her at the infirmary. They kindly allowed her to rest every few songs and even kept her company when she did. It was during one of these rests that, just as her enthusiastic companion left to fetch a drink for her, a handsome young man stepped into her sight. She lifted her eyes to discover Will’s grinning face.

  “Might I beg you for this dance, Flora, or is it already taken?” he asked.

  Flora gaped, first at him and then at the Eternal Prince sitting at the head table.

  His gaze followed hers, and amusement was thick on his voice as he remarked, “Charlie told you he could make half a dozen of them, didn’t he? I made that one myself. This sort of ruse is the only way I can dance with Viola, for the Prince never dances.”

  He beckoned her with his fingers, and Flora instinctively took his hand. Together they joined the throng of dancers. He informed her that he had worked a subtle spell so that no one would notice him. “I’m putting my anonymity on the line by dancing with you, though,” he added. “You’re the undisputed belle of the ball.”