She held out a handful of strawberries, shiny and red, and put one in her mouth. She bit and reveled in the sweetness on her tongue.
“Nadi, spirit of chance,” she murmured, the taste of strawberry on her lips. “You are hungry, and I have sweets.”
A light flickered outside her circle. :Nadi wants that. Give it to me.:
It spoke in her tongue, and Beatrice melted with relief. It had worked, even without knowing Mizunh. “I need your luck, Nadi. I will give it in trade.”
Nadi grew and shrank, probing at the tiny dome that kept it out, lured by the only thing spirits delighted in—the allure of the corporeal.
Spirits wanted the world of the flesh. They wanted to eat. They wanted to drink wine. They wanted to run, and dance, and touch everything they could. They wanted the walls of a body, the taste of a berry. But before all, above all, they wanted those things forever, and so the art and science of the higher mysteries were closed to women, to guard against the danger of a spirit getting exactly the thing they craved the most—a home, dwelling within an unborn child.
“There is a book,” Beatrice began. “An exact book. I held it in my hands. Circumstance and a clever tongue stole the book from me. I want you to help me get it back.”
:Yes,: Nadi said. :I see it in your memories. I feel the leap of your heart as you read it. I know what you want from it. What will you give me, if I tread on Fate to return it to you?:
Beatrice held out the berries. “All of these are yours, and flesh besides—I have the smoked cheeks of a hog, glazed in honey. I have white cheese from the caves of Stillan. And I have Kandish wine.”
:But when you have the book, I know what you will do with it,: Nadi said. :You will call an ally spirit. You will make the great bargain. And then Nadi will have no one to bargain with, no nectar, no flesh. Nadi wants more.:
“Another magician will call you, Nadi. Another incanter will need you,” Beatrice soothed. “Nadi will always be needed.”
:Nadi wants more now.:
“I can’t break the circle to bring you more food,” Beatrice said. “All I have to offer you is already in its bounds.”
She heard what she’d said an instant after she’d said it, and clenched her jaw shut. The luck spirit brightened, lengthened.
:You have more to offer me,: it said. :You can give me a greater gift.:
Oh no, no, she couldn’t. This was her first lesser summoning! She had meant for the spirit to instruct her, not to let it ride in her body as she retrieved the grimoire. She had asked for the best offering the kitchen could provide, had barely picked at it, and hadn’t allowed Clara to take the tray away. This spirit of chance wasn’t a very strong spirit, but all her rich food and Kandish wine wasn’t enough.
Nadi wanted her to host it.
She had never hosted a spirit, not even any of the minor spirits she could call without the protection of a summoning circle. She had always asked for small bits of knowledge, paid for with offerings of food. What if she couldn’t control it? What if Nadi took command of her limbs, made her say something outrageous, or embarrassed her? What if she lost control to it completely, and the spirit, clad in her flesh, hurt people who crossed it? She could fail completely. She could be condemned to death. She could hurt someone she loved.
No. She knew who she was. She could do this. “An hour,” Beatrice said.
:A day,: Nadi said.
“Impossible. To sundown.”
:To dawn.:
“No. Midnight,” Beatrice said. “I’m going to an Assembly Dance. There will be music—”
:Music?: The spirit brightened, swaying. It let out a happy moan. :Dancing?:
“Yes.”
:Cake?:
“Yes.”
:Starlight?:
“If the night is clear.”
:It will be clear,: Nadi vowed. :And a kiss.:
Beatrice scoffed. “No.”
:I can make it happen,: Nadi said. :You can choose who. The book will be yours. But I want a kiss. Pick the handsomest man you desire.:
“That’s another bargain,” Beatrice objected.
:Not this time. Just a kiss, Beatrice Amara Clayborn. Your first kiss, by midnight. I want it.:
Beatrice bit her lip. If she danced twice with the same young man at an assembly, it was permission to court her interest. To kiss a gentleman meant rather more than permission to court her. She couldn’t do it. But then she would have the book. She would have the book and she would gain her greater spirit, and then she would have what she wanted. Wasn’t a simple kiss worth that?
“Nadi, you will wear a fine gown. You will dance. You will eat cake. You will see starlight. You will have a kiss by midnight, and then our bargain is done.”
:It is struck,: Nadi said. :Chance will favor you. Let me in.:
Beatrice stretched out her hand, touching the barrier that shielded her from the world of Spirit. It resisted her touch as if she were attempting to press two lodestones together.
Beatrice steeled herself for the sake of the book. She pushed through the border of her protection. The spirit seized her fingers. Its touch chilled as it seeped into her flesh. It slid inside her body, filling out the spaces under her skin.
:Yes,: Nadi said. :Carry me to midnight, magician.:
Her hands raised without her will. She touched her own face, her throat. Her lungs filled with a deep breath, and she lunged for the strawberries, popping one red fruit after another into her mouth. Nadi gobbled every last scrap on the tray, tipped the goblet straight up to catch the last droplets of wine, and she smacked her lips, hungry for more.
“Nadi!” she said. “You can’t indulge yourself like this. It’s unseemly.”
:It’s so good,: Nadi replied in her mind. :Delicious. Delicious. I want more.:
“We’ll get caught,” Beatrice said, “and if we get caught, there will be no music. And no cake. Or starlight. And you won’t know your kiss. You must behave.”
:Let’s go outside,: Nadi said. :I want to feel the sunlight. I want to feel the wind. I want to go outside.:
“There’s a terrace outside my room,” Beatrice said. “We can go out there, but you must be good.”
:Good,: Nadi said. :I can be good. Let’s go, let’s go.:
The spirit inside her fidgeted as she took the circle down, spinning the power back into herself. She cleaned the chalk marks off the floor, snuffed out every candle, and carefully picked her way down the ladder into her bedroom, where the clock had only a quarter hour left to tick before Clara would come to prepare her for the dance.
The opening dance of the assembly hall of Bendleton was as densely attended as Clara had predicted. Music barely made itself heard above the laughter and conversation of the dance’s attendees—so many young people, all squeezed into the gowns and dancing suits that showed off their best qualities. They leaned against the fashionable gilt and seafoam-painted walls, stood in clumps of elegantly gowned friends, glanced at her and let their eyes slide past her face, her hair and ensemble observed, judged, and dismissed.
Clara had chosen every detail of the ensemble Beatrice wore, had draped and laced and pinned Beatrice into a silk gown dyed to the exact shade of a springtime sky embroidered all over with pansies, had pinned every lock of her hair into the high, curled style that was all the fashion, laced her stays tightly enough to nip in her waist, and refused to attach a fichu to the gown’s alarmingly low neckline. Beatrice had given up trying to pull the stomacher a little higher. Now she was breathing against the boned restriction of her stays, trying not to let her chest swell.