The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

  :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.:

  :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 ha
ve 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.

  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.”