A young man in ivory silk watched, half a smirk on his face. Beatrice snapped her fan open, shielding herself from his sight.
:Kiss him,: Nadi said. :He likes you.:
:He does not like me,: Beatrice thought back. :He’s unsuitable.:
:Hmph.: Nadi lifted her head and turned her gaze to the crowd. Danton Maisonette stood with other young men of fashion. He watched her as he tilted his head toward another gentleman, this one unadorned by the crown of sorcery. He glanced at Danton, surprised, and turned back to stare at her, his lips moving in a comment that made Danton and his company laugh.
Beatrice’s stomach clenched. They were laughing at her. Danton had probably twisted the whole story and made her out to be a shrew and a status climber, and the tale would spread all over the dance.
:Why do you think they’re talking about you?: Nadi asked, and the memories bloomed in her mind. :Oh. He’s mean.:
She had worked out the trick of speaking to Nadi in her mind, and so she thought her words so clearly she could hear her own voice inside her head. :Think nothing of it, Nadi. You said you wanted cake.:
:Cake, yes. I want cake. Give me some.:
:We have to wait in line,: Beatrice scolded. She maneuvered her way to the refreshment line and groaned at her mistake—young men waited for a chance at refreshment, on the errand of bringing some to a lady they favored.
:Men,: Nadi said. :Kiss that one, in the peach.:
:I will not.:
Beatrice took her place at the end of the line. Cake. Starlight. A dance, and then an impossible, brazen kiss. She could do everything but that one thing, not if she was to remain a lady—
“Excuse me, miss. Please go ahead.” The young man waiting at the end of the line bowed and invited her to stand ahead of him.
Beatrice shifted her mind, searching for the correct form for speaking politely to a stranger in Llanandari, though the gentleman was almost certainly local. “Thank you, but I am content.”
“I must insist, miss. Please take my place.”
“What’s that?” asked the man ahead of him. “Oh, miss. Please allow me to give way.”
“Thank you, but it’s really not needed,” Beatrice protested. “The line is already moving so fast—”
For it rippled as each gentleman, upon investigating the commotion behind him, stepped politely aside to allow Beatrice to move all the way to the front, much to the amusement of others standing nearby. Beatrice accepted a napkin with a square of cream-yellow cake and tried to escape, cheeks blazing.
:I want to eat it,: Nadi said. :It smells so good. So good.:
:In a minute,: Beatrice replied. :We’re going outside to look at the stars. You remember? Starlight.:
:Starlight,: Nadi said. :Yes. Hurry.:
But she could not. She maintained the graceful pace of a lady with nowhere in particular to be, aiming for the open doors leading to the gardens. She could find a place just a little separated from the rest, where she could look at the stars and let Nadi gobble cake like a child. Then she would find a patch of wall and wait out the evening. She would look for a girl who looked kind and understanding, strike up a conversation, and when the evening had passed, she would kiss her cheek.
:No,: said Nadi. :A real kiss. A real kiss. You won’t get your book without a real kiss.:
Drat the spirit squirming around inside her! Nadi would expect her to deliver exactly what it wanted. There would be no escape.
Nadi flinched, and the spirit attempted to hide itself behind her pounding heart.
:No, not the noise again.: Nadi shuddered just under her skin. :It’s awful. Awful. Make it stop.:
:Hold on, Nadi.: She turned in a circle, straining to hear whatever had Nadi shaking like the sound was horrible. As if it hurt just to listen to it.
A woman and a young girl rounded the corner of the assembly hall, the light from a torch lamp turning their carefully styled hair to blazing copper. Beatrice suppressed a groan as the girl’s hand shot up to wave excitedly.
“Beatrice!” Harriet exclaimed.
Beatrice closed her eyes and prayed for strength. “Hello, Harriet.”
Harriet Clayborn was the beauty of the family. She’d taken after Father’s looks, and at fifteen was blessed with a perfect heart-shaped face, Father’s delicate, precise nose, and an expression that always looked like she was about to share a joke. Her hair, bright as a fox’s coat, was piled magnificently atop her head, shining as brightly as the blue crystal beads pinned among her curls. Harriet wasn’t old enough to be in the ballroom, but she had convinced Mother to peek in so she could sigh at all the young ladies and young men dressed in their best. She dragged Mother along, her chin thrust out as she stared Beatrice down.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” she said.
It took a moment for Beatrice to catch up to the words. “Not you, too!”
“You need to practice Llanandari,” Harriet said. “You should be dancing. Mother, Beatrice looks like she’s about to cry. You can’t cry, Beatrice. You’ll ruin your maquillage.”
“I’m not crying,” Beatrice said, surrendering to her sister’s insistence. “I wanted some cake.”
“Who fetched it for you?” Harriet asked.
“No one,” Beatrice said. “I fetched it myself.”
Harriet gasped in horror. “You didn’t! Mother! She got her own cake!”
Mother patted Harriet’s shoulder, her features a mirror of her elder daughter, moved forward in time—the same round, high forehead, the same wide-set eyes, the same gentle dimple in the middle of her chin.
“Harriet, dear,” Mother said. “Stop squealing so. You are a young woman now.”
“But Mother, she’s doing it all wrong!”
“I just wanted some cake.”
Harriet threw her hands up with a huff of disbelief.
Beatrice couldn’t help smiling. “What should I do, then? I don’t know anyone, and everyone already seems acquainted. How do I get to know people?”
“Tell the matrons,” Harriet answered. “They’ll quiz you a little, and then they will arrange a dance for you, or introduce you to a daughter or a niece. From there, you should ask more questions than you answer, to keep your partner talking.”
The matrons were the women who organized the assembly dance society, who issued subscriptions and presided over each event. They had approved her family’s membership—of course they would be able to make the appropriate introductions. Harriet might be overly excited at being at the ball she had read about in dozens of novels, but she had learned so much from studying them. “I shall speak to the matrons, then. Thank you, Harriet.”
Mother lifted her head and smiled at Beatrice. The sigil-inscribed band of silver locked around her throat glittered in the light from the ballroom. Beatrice breathed through the terrified flutter that unsettled her insides whenever she saw it.
“Don’t frown so, my dear. You will be a success; I am certain of it.”
Mother had been locked into that collar at her wedding and wouldn’t be free of it until her courses had stopped for a full year. Could it be—
:Nadi, is it my mother? Is she making the noise?:
:Her, it’s her. What is that?: Nadi hissed in her mind. :I don’t like it. I don’t like it.:
:It’s a warding collar.: