This was Nadi filling its end of the bargain. Beatrice dipped her knees. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“I’ve been looking for you. Ysbeta forgot to give you her card, and she regrets the oversight. She’s looking for you too.” Ianthe said in her tongue, his accent clearly taught by a native speaker. He moved closer. “Are you enjoying the dance?”
“You speak Chasand.”
“After a fashion.” Ianthe paused at the terrace railing. “I fear I’m rusted.”
“No, no. You’re good at it. To answer your question, I fetched my own cake.”
He smiled. “I saw that.”
Oh, now she wanted to die. “And I haven’t danced yet.”
:Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him!:
:No!:
:You want to,: Nadi said. :He’s beautiful. He’s handsome. Oh, and he smells so good.:
Beatrice’s weight shifted, and she leaned closer. Nadi sighed over the intriguing scent of cocoa, and roses, a layer of pepper and something warmer under it, warm and sweet and—
She stepped back and Nadi pouted.
“Would you like to? After you get some air. I only just stepped outside myself, to greet the stars.”
“I shouldn’t disturb you, then.”
“Oh no, please do disturb me. You’re supposed to share the sight of the stars when you greet them.”
Nadi stirred. :Look at the stars with him.:
“Do you suppose that they’re all worlds like ours, as the stellarists say?”
“That is the belief,” Ianthe said. “Will you watch them with me?”
Beatrice stopped beside him and looked at too many stars to count. A streak of light blazed across the sky, and Beatrice caught her breath.
:Beautiful,: Nadi said.
“A messenger star,” Ianthe said. “It’s good luck to see them, in Llanandras.”
“Here, too,” Beatrice said. “They’re said to bring good news. I could use some.”
“Have you come to misfortune?” Ianthe asked.
“It is nothing,” Beatrice said. “Idle words, spoken cruelly.”
“That can wound surely as an arrow. How can I help?”
Beatrice smiled at him. “Your kindness is help enough. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Then we must change the subject. I assume you enjoy books, by the location of our first meeting,” Ianthe said. “Do you have opinions on the latest novels?”
“I’m rather behind.”
“So far behind that you haven’t read Rodale Park?”
Beatrice smiled. “Not that far behind. One makes time for the novels published by the House of Verdeu, even if they shock society.”
“I’m still upset by Odele’s betrayal,” Ianthe said. “William loved her.”
“But Odele loved music more. She honored that love, I believe,” Beatrice said. “Her gift was too precious to waste, simply because she was born a woman.”
“That’s a daring opinion,” Ianthe said, but he smiled at her as if daring opinions were among his favorites. “Do you believe that ladies ought to be allowed to profit off their pursuits?”
“Poor women work all the time,” Beatrice said.
“But ladies do not,” Ianthe said.
She should demur. But Ianthe’s gaze held no superiority or amusement at her notions, and it made her bold. “I believe it is our right.”
Ianthe smiled back, and it wasn’t fair that he was so handsome. It wasn’t fair at all. “I’ve not been here very long, but I’ve never met a woman in Chasland who believes in her rights.”
“You probably have,” Beatrice said. “We just keep it quiet.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ianthe said, and that simple admission stunned Beatrice. “May I tell you a secret?”
“One tells friends secrets.”
“And I would like the privilege of your friendship.”
He meant that. It was plain in the seriousness of his expression, in the cloak of privacy that encircled them. They stood in plain sight of anyone in the ballroom who happened to look out to the terrace, but they were alone, with only the stars to peek at them.
“I shall protect the honor of your disclosure with my silence,” Beatrice said. “What is it?”
Ianthe moved in closer, and the intriguing scent of his expensive perfume tickled her nose again. “I fear for my sister’s happiness.”
“What do you fear?”
“I’m not here to seek a wife,” Ianthe said. “Our mother brought us to Chasland because she wants a connection to the family of a friend of mine here.”
“Ah,” Beatrice said. “What sort of friend?”
“His father came to Llanandras years ago to expand upon our trade agreements and he brought his son. Bard and I went to the chapterhouse together,” Ianthe confirmed. “Mother senses an opportunity to invest in Chasland’s new industrial efforts. But I wish Ysbeta would be allowed to choose someone else.”
“Someone she loves already?”
“As far as I know, my sister holds no such affection for anyone. I mean that she should be allowed to choose someone not from here.” He shrugged and gave an apology of a smile. “I am sorry, but there are customs among Chaslanders that I find unpleasant.”
He didn’t laugh at her as Chaslanders would for believing that women should be permitted to pursue profit—his own mother was a force in his family’s business, in fact. He agreed with her radical notions. What other beliefs did Ianthe hold?
“I don’t care for them all either,” Beatrice said. “What will you do about your sister?”
Ianthe shrugged. “What can I do? It’s a daughter’s duty to obey her mother’s wishes. I can’t really interfere, even if I hate seeing her handed over like a bauble in exchange for a trade agreement.”
Beatrice weighed Ianthe’s statement for half a moment before she answered. “Are you truly without recourse, Mr. Lavan?”
“What do you mean?”
“Consider this,” Beatrice said. “If your sister had to betray your family’s expectations, or else face the diminishing of her spirit the way Odele had to, would you support her in betrayal?”
His eyebrows rose, then settled as Ianthe mulled the question over. “You ask a precise question. One I can’t answer until after some thought.”
“Other people’s problems are easier to see than your own,” Beatrice laughed softly. “I have never enjoyed that particular irony.”
Ianthe’s gaze went sharp and grave. “Is there something that troubles you?”
There was, but Beatrice shook her head. “It is my trouble to bear.”
“I wish to be of use. If it’s within my power—”
“It is not something I could ask of you.”
:Ask him. Ask him!:
:No!:
“Then wish on a star,” Ianthe said. “Wish on Jiret, the heart-home. Don’t tell me what it is, but wish.”
He took her hand and held it, and a sensation like the prick of nettles without the sting slid up her arm and over her skin: hot, then cold, then soft as fur—