Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note on Pronunciation
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Bella Books
Copyright © 2014 by Heather Rose Jones
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First Bella Books Edition 2014
Bella Books eBook released 2014
Editor: Katherine V. Forrest
Cover Designed by: KIARO Creative Ltd.
ISBN: 978-1-59493-380-6
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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About the Author
Heather Rose Jones is a manufacturing discrepancy investigator for a major San Francisco Bay Area pharmaceutical company and has a PhD from U.C. Berkeley in Linguistics, specializing in the semantics of Medieval Welsh prepositions. She has previously published a number of short stories, including the “Skin Singer” series in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Sword and Sorceress anthologies, as well as non-fiction publications on topics ranging from biotech to historic costume to naming practices.
Dedicated in loving memory to Phyllis G. Jones
and Judy Gerjuoy
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my test-readers and subject matter experts, whose advice and feedback were endlessly helpful: Adrien S., Allison T., Chris L., Connie S., Cordelia S., Cyn M., Judy G., Laurel L., Lauri W., Mary Anne S., Sara U., Sharon K., and Ursula W.
Author’s Note on Pronunciation
For interested readers, there are three basic rules for Alpennian pronunciation. Names are stressed on the first syllable. The letter “z” is pronounced “ts” as in German. The combination “ch” is pronounced as “k.” Non-Alpennian names follow the rules for their language of origin.
Chapter One
Prelude
Baron Saveze nodded almost imperceptibly to the waiting footman who removed a silver cover from the dish of chapon à la Provençale and slipped it deftly onto the table before him. He prodded the capon delicately with his fork, sliced off a morsel then paused with the fork halfway to his mouth to announce, “We shall be going out this evening.”
If the baron were less rich or less powerful, he would have been called an Eccentric, but Alpennian society didn’t use that word of a man like the baron. As he was the only person sitting to dinner, and as it was neither one of his eccentricities to explain his plans to the lower servants nor to presume such exalted rank as to speak in the royal plural, the target of this remark appeared to be the motionless figure standing precisely one step behind and to the right of his chair.
The baron turned his head the smallest fraction that would enable him to catch any reaction as he continued, “We shall be going to a ball.”
His auditor gratified him with a startled shift in stance.
Another dinner guest—had there been another dinner guest—would have been able to place that figure’s position in the household with some certainty, up to a point. That the coat and breeches were in the archaic mode indicated a position in the household staff. That they were of costly fabric spoke of valued talents. That a narrow-bladed sword hung at the waist—even here at a simple homely dinner—gave the profession as armin, a formal bodyguard, indeed as a duelist. That the body wearing those clothes and that sword was slim and muscular argued a seriousness to the position that went beyond the longstanding fashion in Rotenek for armed shadows. And that this slim, muscular body was also curved was…unexpected. But that was one of the baron’s eccentricities.
Chapter Two
Barbara
Barbara knew the game they played and maintained her stance of attentive but disinterested readiness as the baron turned more substantially toward her and said, “I should like you to wear the bottle-green satin tonight. My goddaughter is being introduced to society and I must make an appearance. I should like to make a good show.”
“As you wish,” she responded, in a tone that acknowledged that no reply had been needed.
He finally completed the path of the capon to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. “I do hope she’s grown more personable since I spoke with her last. She insisted on conversing with me in Latin! Said she needed the practice. But what does a fashionable young lady need with Latin conversation, I ask you?”
When his grumbling had died into silence, Barbara murmured, “May I speak?” in a tone slightly less formal than before. It had the light fluidity of a polite formula and she didn’t continue until a raised hand gestured his assent.
“What need, after all, has an armin for Latin conversation? Or for Italian? Or—”
“But that was different. Back when I set you to studying, I had no notion what use I might want to make of you. Margerit’s path has been fixed since the day she first set foot on it. A pleasant face, the usual social graces, a brilliant season and the best marriage her dowry can buy. A pity her father had the poor taste to follow his wife to the grave or she might have a bit more to bargain with.”
Again, the pause. Again, “May I speak?” Again, the nod. “You are a wealthy man and her godfather. Might you not—”
“Oh, certainly, certainly. Why else did they offer me that honor except in the hope of some return on the investment? And every penny I spend on her escapes the grasp of that nephew of mine. At least he hasn’t followed us out to this godforsaken town yet or he’d be tying bells on my purse strings to know every coin that slips out of his expectations.”
Barbara watched in concern as he took a second bite of the capon then sighed and pushed the plate away. The nearest footman whisked it back to the kitchen, following the path previously traveled by the trout and the galantine de veau. “Nothing tastes right any more.” He sighed again. “What’s the point of hiring a cook all the way from Paris if everything I put in my mouth tastes like pap?” From the aroma as each cover was lifted, Barbara knew the dinner had been among Guillaumin’s best. He shifted in his seat to rise and a second footman appeared to draw back the chair—pausing just in time when he sat back heavily with a hand pressed to his chest.
Barbara took a quick step forward in alarm. “Mesner, you’re ill. Don’t go to this ball; you should rest.”
The baron’s head snapped up. “You forget your place!”
She dropped to one knee beside him as if felled by an ax. There were no murmured politenesses this time.
He patted her gently on the shoulder, then gripped it firmly, using the action to mask how heavily he leaned on her as she helped him rise to his feet. “Your job is to protect me against the rest of the world, not against myself. That would be a task beyond even your skills.” He moved now with no sign of weakness. “Be ready in an hour,” he added from the doorway.
An hour might have been just barely sufficient for the baron’s meticulous preparations. In a quarter of that time, Barbara had changed clothes and was cooling her heels in the library with a copy of Fortunatus’s De Mysteriis et Misteriis. But translating Fortunatus failed to distract her this time. The green satin. That meant tonight was just for show and she hated being used for show. In the city, even a friendly ball might lead to— Her mind shied away from the events of the last month. That was real. That was sure. But this…this was an incongruous mix of frivolity and intrigue, of curious stares and blind obliviousness. The only thing that could redeem such an evening was the certainty of her duty and the satisfaction of performing it. But tonight she would be no more than a mark of the baron’s status, no different from the crest on his coach door or the number of footmen that waited to usher him to it for the brief trip through darkening streets.
* * *
There had been no chance to examine the venue in advance. The family of Margerit Sovitre, the baron’s goddaughter, was evidently of sufficient birth that the guest list was extensive but not of sufficient wealth that their own house could contain it. In Rotenek, it was the other way round: the oldest and wealthiest families hired the public salle for the entertainments their narrow mansions couldn’t contain while the new money, on the outskirts, had room for private ballrooms. But here in the country the titled kept expansive properties and those of lesser means hired public rooms in the civic hall. It occurred to her, seeing the rows of carriages lining the neighboring streets, that the most practical gift the baron might have given his goddaughter for her coming out would have been the loan of his house to host it. The ballroom would have been more than sufficient and currently it saw no greater use than her morning fencing practices. But no, this event would have been in train since long before the baron had abruptly moved his household from the city. And even simply housing the event would have been more strain than she’d wish on him at the moment.
There was no trace of his earlier weakness now as they entered into the noise and bustle of the foyer on the heels of a family dressed in the height of provincial fashion. A tall man in an elegantly sober suit hurriedly broke away from the preceding party and approached. He didn’t aspire to the heights of fashion that she was accustomed to in Rotenek but he would have done well enough if his sweeping side-whiskers weren’t so badly swallowed by the high stiff collar of his shirt. It gave the impression of a tortoise. He had the look of a man accustomed to the respect and obedience of those around him, but he bowed to the baron in a manner that stopped just short of obsequious.
“Mesner, you do my niece great honor by your presence. Would you care to—”
The baron interrupted him. “I would care to find some quiet place to sit down, Fulpi. And then you may bring my goddaughter to me.”
“Of course, Mesner.” He bowed once more and looked around searchingly. “There is a small sitting room behind the stairs and to the right.” He gestured in the general direction. “Your, ah…” Barbara felt his eyes fall on her disapprovingly. “Your attendant may wait downstairs, if you please.” He gave a nervous laugh. “After all, this is hardly Rotenek, where one might expect assassins behind every curtain.”
The baron waved his hand dismissively, but not in her direction so she remained fixed in place behind him. “I do not please. Indulge an old man’s affectations,” he said. “I never go out in public without my duelist, even in such quiet places as this.” He made the word “quiet” convey the sense that little of any interest—either good or bad—could be expected to happen in a town like Chalanz. Barbara prayed that it would prove true.
By habit and reflex she looked around as they were led to the small blue-upholstered room. A grand arching staircase led up to the main ballroom. She was grateful that the baron wouldn’t be asked to climb it. Music and laughter and the sounds of dancing drifted down from the upper rooms.
The tall man disappeared as the baron settled himself carefully at one end of a damask-covered settee and Barbara took her post one step and to the side of the curving armrest. “Niece,” the host had said. She recalled the baron mentioning something about dead parents. And yet the girl’s presentation didn’t seem to lack for much. Still, no doubt there were cousins to be brought out as well. A brief splash, a push to accept the first decent offer and an uncle satisfied to have completed his duty and have her off his hands. She might have been stirred to sympathy, but they were like figures in one of the tapestries on the wall, living out their lives in sight but in no way touching her own.
Chapter Three
Margerit
As Margerit moved through the figures of the minuet, Laurint leaned in closely to ask, “Is your coming-out ball everything you ever dreamed it would be?”
Aunt Honurat, during that afternoon’s instructions, had strongly emphasized the value of dissembling, so she smiled and nodded. Was there anyone here tonight who would believe that she’d never spent a single moment dreaming about her coming-out ball? Sister Petrunel would have understood. Her governess was the only person with whom she’d shared her closest secrets. The Sisters of Saint Orisul were among the few who thought that, for a girl, devotion to learning could be only slightly less important than devotion to God. She’d certainly learned the value of dissembling on that topic very young. The only time she could recall her uncle beating her was the year Sister Petrunel had first joined them and she’d excitedly proclaimed that when she grew up she and Petra were going to run away to the university in Rotenek together. No, she’d learned to keep those dreams secret.
Laurint smiled encouragingly at her as their hands met in the next figure. The hall buzzed with conversation over the thin sound of the musicians. He’d said something she couldn’t hear, so she merely smiled back. One season, Uncle Mauriz had said. One season done right and properly. Two, only if absolutely necessary. He’d set it out for her as if it had been one of his business contracts. If she would undertake to do her part, he would see that she wore the right clothes and went to the right parties and met the right young men. Of course, in the end it was Aunt Honurat who saw to the clothes and Aunt Bertrut who knew which were the right parties. And all of them together couldn’t quite agree on just who were the right young men, so they invited everyone of sufficient birth, along with their sisters and mothers. Laurint was a “right young man” by anyone’s standards, with a
pleasing face and manner and expectations of a very comfortable income. He was also as good as engaged to Mari Faikrimek with the announcement delayed only due to her grandmother’s recent death. In her opinion, this made him an ideal dance partner, for he was charming and entertaining—and a fair enough dancer—but there was no worry that he’d mistake her enjoyment for encouragement. The truth was that while the making of a good match was the acknowledged purpose of her season, it was a goal hard to envision.
One season as part of society’s parade of eligible young women. Not as young as most—that had been part of the bargain as well. Her cousin Sofi would come out in a few years at seventeen and have her dancing seasons before being expected to settle down to the serious business of match-making. But she herself only had that narrow span between too young to marry and on the shelf. One season done right and properly. A second, if needed, with fewer new gowns and no grand ball. After that—after she had come of age and her bloom was considered to be fading—a last chance at the balls and parties, escorting Sofi on her own rounds. Uncle Mauriz might then look for some minor business alliance he could use her to cement. And if no match were forthcoming still, she could look forward to taking her own turn as governess to little cousin Iulien and companion to Aunt Bertrut and so on, stretching out down the years.
Aunt Bertrut had argued for a dancing season. Her two guardians had butted heads over that as over so many things. Bertrut Sovitre might be her father’s sister, but Mauriz Fulpi claimed authority as her closest male relative, her mother’s brother. Bertrut had taken her part countless times, often it seemed as much out of contrariness as sympathy. But Uncle Mauriz held the purse strings. The gowns and parties were at his expense. Her own resources were to be hoarded for her dowry. And Margerit knew, though she had never been told in as many words, that Bertrut lived as comfortably as she did because the shared guardianship gave her an excuse to live in the Fulpi household. Her own funds would never have stretched to bringing out a debutante.
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