:It stings,: Nadi said. :I hate it. It’s too loud. I hate it.:
:I hate it too, Nadi.:
That was the success her family wanted for Beatrice. What did it feel like, to have magic taken away from you? How did Mother bear it? She couldn’t ask. She didn’t dare ask. If her family suspected her rebellion, it would break their hearts. And then they’d make her marry anyway. They couldn’t know until she had triumphed.
So Beatrice smiled back. “Thank you, Mother. I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t be,” Mother said. “You look beautiful. There are all kinds of young men looking for someone like you.”
What could she say to that? “I should eat my cake.”
“We should return to the ladies’ lounge,” Mother said.
“But I want to see the dancers,” Harriet objected. “We’ve only just arrived.”
“Come along, Harriet.” Mother took Harriet’s hand and drew her away. Beatrice waited until they were out of sight.
:Nadi wants cake now.:
:Very well.: Beatrice tucked herself into a shadow, where she would be hard to see. :Small bites. Take your time—:
But her hand lifted again, and her jaw stretched wide, and Nadi stuffed half the square in Beatrice’s mouth, sighing in bliss at the taste. :Delicious. Delicious.:
:Nadi! Look what you’ve done. I said small bites!:
:It’s so good,: Nadi said. :Get another piece.:
:No.: Beatrice chewed. Did she have icing on her nose? She tried to swallow and glance about. She groaned as she saw Danton Maisonette and a young woman glide effortlessly out of the ballroom, dressed in the color-matched attire that was the fashion for siblings. They were elegant, dressed in a style that Chaslanders would rush to imitate the moment the latest foreign fashion magazines reached their tailors and dressmakers. Beatrice stepped backward and let the shadows fold around her.
“He was particularly solicitous, was he not?” The young woman snapped open a fan and made it tremble, wafting ocean-tinted air at her face. Beatrice listened, straining to understand the woman’s rapid Valserran. “He danced so beautifully and when it was over, he bowed so low. I think I have his interest.”
“I trust your judgment in these matters,” Danton said. He produced an enameled box and popped the lid open. He set a scented cheroot burning in a blur of motion, and he exhaled a cloud of illusion, shaping an intricately detailed archer with his bow drawn at the moon.
Beatrice watched the smoke archer until the breeze tore it apart. It was a beautiful bit of magic, and illusion mages were more than just entertainers. They could be dangerous. Everyone knew how adroit they were in battle, conjuring the illusion of soldiers so accurate that no commander could gamble that a force charging them was a mere phantasm, or that the empty path off the battlefield wasn’t full of invisible cannoneers, ready to ambush.
Danton made another smoke illusion of a man in court dress, but instead of the usual fore-curls and queued hair, this man wore a glorious globe of hair like Ianthe Lavan’s. “He asked for your card, unless my eyes deceived me.”
“He did!” She clasped her hands together, her ruffled sleeves blocking the view of her stomacher. Everything about the girl’s primrose gown was overmuch—ruffles, bows, rosettes, lace, and embroidery? Clara would have tactful things to say if Beatrice ever tried cramming that much ornament on a single gown. “Danton, I cannot contain myself! Ianthe Lavan could call on me tomorrow!”
The Lavans were here! Beatrice’s head came up, and she coughed delicately before stepping out of the shadows. Danton glowered, and the young woman eyed her with the bland stare of superiority Beatrice knew from those who lived abroad and would only come to Chasland to seek brides.
“It’s a pretty evening, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s so warm in the ballroom, but the spring air is so clean. I’m Beatrice Clayborn.”
“That accent. Llanandari, spoken through mud.” The young woman looked at Beatrice’s outstretched hand, and then back at her face. “Is this the country girl you met at tea today?”
“Yes,” Danton replied.
The young woman lifted her hand, dabbing at the air just above her mouth. “She has cake frosting on her lip.”
Heat climbed up Beatrice’s neck and cheeks. Frosting on her mouth, as if she were a small child. She wished she could disappear, her tongue stilled by embarrassment.
The girl laughed. “I thought you had been exaggerating, Danton. My apologies.”
The heat coursing through Beatrice made her clench her fists. Ladies did not strike people in anger, but she made a tight stone of her right hand, as if she were to throw a punch and demand satisfaction.
Nadi coiled up inside her. :I’ll show you.:
A gust of wind blew a stately-looking urn from its place on the terrace, spilling cut flowers and water all over the woman’s gown before landing on the gentleman’s toe. They shrieked and collided with each other, their outfits ruined.
“Oh! Are you all right?” Beatrice covered her mouth in feigned shock. :Tell me you didn’t. Oh, you did!: She mustn’t smile. She mustn’t laugh.
But Nadi did. :Serves them right. I want more cake.:
Beatrice stepped back from the wreck of cut flowers and water spreading across the floor. Her anger had fled, and now anxious flutterings filled her stomach. She had repressed her own hand and let Nadi lash out for her. :Should you have done that? You ruined her dress.:
:She laughed at us. I don’t care.:
She had to keep Nadi from these outbursts. Spirits were like small children, and Nadi would settle down if she pleased it. She needed time alone, to calm it down and explain that they couldn’t run around like wild things, gobbling cake and kissing strangers. Beatrice slipped the cake-napkin into her pocket and walked past the soaked couple without looking back.
The south terrace had the benefit of being deserted, thanks to a chilly breeze that raised the gooseflesh on her skin. Beatrice strolled along the terrace, looking up at the sky.
:So many,: Nadi said, :so far away. How far are the stars, Beatrice?:
:Many millions of miles, the stellarists say.: Beatrice craned her neck, seeking out the star that never shifted, the heart-home. :There you are. You have had starlight, and music, and cake—:
:Now a kiss,: Nadi said. :Your first kiss by midnight.:
How much time did she have? How was she going to please Nadi, fulfill the bargain, and get her book? :What if I can’t do it, Nadi? What if I can’t?:
:You have to,: Nadi said. :Just kiss one. Kiss that one.:
:Who?:
Beatrice turned away from the stars and spied a figure crossing from ballroom to terrace—tall, in shining cloud-gray silk and fountaining cascades of lace. Crushed pearl powder highlighted his elegant cheeks. Ianthe Lavan from the bookstore stood peering into the night.
:Ohh. Yes. Him. Kiss him,: Nadi said. :How your heart pounds to see him, Beatrice. Kiss him.:
:No.: She shook her head just as Ianthe turned to regard the shadow she stood in.
“Miss Clayborn?” He took a step closer.
“Mr. Lavan,” Beatrice said. “What a surprise.”
Ianthe smiled, and it wasn’t fair that a man could have a smile like that. It wasn’t fair that he made her tremble. He stole her book! Helped steal it—oh.