The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

  Harriet stopped in the doorway. “It’s so splendid.”

  Beatrice stuffed the paper into her pocket. “I can scarcely believe it.”

  “It’s real,” Harriet said. “They’re going to serve dinner soon.”

  Beatrice and her family followed the porter again, up polished flights of stairs—ladders, they were properly called, even though they weren’t, not remotely—and emerged in the fresh sea air of a deck far above the main one, where guests gathered at the railings to watch a pod of pale-bellied dolphins leaping out of the water and showing off for their audience. Ianthe broke off from the crowd to greet her, and she fluttered inside as he bowed low, one hand on his heart.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I’m grateful for your invitation.”

  “The evening is already sublime, now that you are here.”

  Ianthe took her around to meet the other young people who had been invited. “We’re having the dance up here, and you can see we’re setting up tables. Everyone’s seat is by random chance, except the family table, where you and Bard are invited. They’re nearly ready.”

  And so Ianthe led Beatrice down to a maritime feast—course after course of fish and seafood so fresh it astonished the palate, all prepared in the elaborate, delicately balanced sauce and spices favored by Llanandari. Wine flowed. Conversation sparkled like the dancing firefly lights overhead, brilliant against the ink blue of the darkening sky. Ianthe’s father told stories that had his guests hushed in anticipation and laughing uproariously at the end. And every time Beatrice looked at Ianthe, he smiled.

  This would be her life, this ease-filled, luxurious life, filled with the finest meals and the best of everything. Ianthe would cover her hand with his at the table while he listened to a guest, just as Mr. Lavan was doing with his wife, right now. He would find a name for her like “my starlight” and refer to her that way to others. Harriet would want for nothing when it came her turn to attend bargaining season. Her father would repay every cent he owed and rebuild the fortunes of the Clayborns.

  Mrs. Lavan didn’t like it. Beatrice would have to work very hard to meet the expectations Ianthe’s mother had for her, but she was a quick learner, and she would win her over eventually.

  It would be all right. And so when the music started, the flowery, inviting melody signaling that the meal was over and dancing had begun, Ianthe guided Beatrice up the stairs, enclosing her in the intimate, two-person dance called the damalsa in Llanandras, and taught her every step.

  “Come with me,” he said, after they had danced every set until the musicians took a break, and guided her to the highest deck of all, bringing her to the rail that faced the shore. Below them people scurried all over a smaller vessel, preparing fire-rockets.

  “Not at that,” he said. “Look up.”

  Beatrice gazed up at ten thousand points of light. The stars spread over the dusk-stained sky, twinkling and shining, every light a wish—or a world, if the stellarists were correct. Then a golden fire-flower bloomed in the sky, raising a gasp from the guests.

  The musicians began an orchestral movement, played in a key of delight. Ianthe’s arm settled around her shoulders as they watched blossoms of gold, green, orange, red, and even the rarest, most expensive violet-white light up the nighttime sky in a riot of booms and pops. Smoke tinged the sea air, and Beatrice watched, sometimes peering through the dazzle and smoke to the sky above.

  Ten thousand wishes. Ten thousand worlds—more, as the sky darkened and more lights appeared. Worlds like this one. Worlds unlike anything she’d ever dreamed.

  “I should have something clever to say to you,” Ianthe said. “But for all my love of beauty, I have no gift that transmutes the depth of my heart into perfect words.”

  “That protestation had beauty in it,” Beatrice said.

  “But not enough,” Ianthe said. “Not enough to explain what it feels like to be with you, or how deeply I long for a life with you in it. I wanted time to know, to understand, to be absolutely certain that this feeling was real. And then I nearly lost you—you came within a hair of death, and I knew I could trust it.”

  He moved, and Beatrice turned in time to see him slipping one hand inside his pocket. “I love you. I love you. I can’t help it.”

  He held up a ring—emerald, she knew, from the bright green spark in the depths of its facets, the stone as dark as the sea. An emerald so flawless it had to have a name, like the very best of jewels. He held it out where Beatrice could see it, and fire-flowers faded, starlight dimmed, her gaze held only by this impossible, unreal jewel.

  “I can’t reason when I’m near you. Time flies like a thief when you’re by my side, so much that I want a spell that slows the turning of the globe just for more time with you. Every time I see you, I am awed by you, delighted by you, comforted and moved by you. I am a greedy man, and I want every moment there is to have with you. I want to marry you, Beatrice Amara Clayborn. Please accept.”

  Beatrice Amara Clayborn. She hadn’t told him her middle name. He had to have learned it from Father. When he spoke to Father after the Blossom Ride, it wasn’t to report on what had happened to her.

  It was to ask permission to marry his daughter.

  It was done. She had secured the most eligible man in Bendleton for bargaining season, and more than that. He adored her. He loved her. He wanted her to be his wife, to live their lives together forever.

  The sight of that ring blurred with her tears. Her heart swelled. She gasped at the feeling inside her like the rushing of a thousand wings, at the euphoria that crawled up her spine and burst from the crown of her head like a fire-flower. She loved him. She loved him so much it hurt, but she cherished the ache. She would always love him. She would make sure of it.

  Slowly, she raised her hand. Gently, she curled his fingers around the ring, hiding it from her sight. She looked up into midnight-brown eyes so like his mother’s and smiled as her heart broke into a thousand pieces.

  “I love you, Ianthe Antonidas Lavan. But I cannot marry you. I am sorry.”

  The sky exploded with light. A dozen fire-flowers burst in the air and bloomed against the night, the sparks dying in Ianthe’s eyes.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  “But you love me,” Ianthe said. “Why would you refuse me?”

  Beatrice’s throat went tight. She fought for a calm breath; she blinked at the stars and made a wish. “Because I love you. You are so kind. You try so hard to understand. You love magic as much as I do, and that’s the problem.”

  Ianthe licked his lips. “Go on.”

  The ship rose and fell with the ocean’s breath, and Beatrice used it to breathe calm, to focus on getting the words out without breaking further. “I can’t let magic go and still be happy. Not even for you.”

  “You can still do magic,” Ianthe said. “If we know you’re not pregnant, then we can—”

  “You can take the collar off,” Beatrice said. “If I can only use my magic when you deem it safe, does that magic belong to me, or you?”

  “It would only be for safety,” Ianthe said. “I don’t presume to own your magic.”

  “But I would only be freed because you released me,” Beatrice said. “This isn’t a tightly laced set of stays or shoes that pinch my toes for the sake of turning up in fashion. It’s my freedom! And even if that thing was not around my neck one day, it would be—as soon as you decided you wanted another child, or thought there might be one, or my courses were late by a day. If you marry me, you will own my magic, no matter how hard we pretend. And I will hate you if you do that to me. I will hate you, and it will tear me apart.”

  “I—” Ianthe’s face crumpled. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face pulled into the taut lines of a man weeping without tears, without sobs. “I can’t do it.”

  He couldn’t. Beatrice knew that once he understood, he wouldn’t be able to bear it. “You need to let me go. You need to let some other man become my enemy. If it’s you, I’ll—I�
��ll want to die.”

  :It hurts,: Nadi said.

  :It hurts,: Beatrice replied.

  Nadi whimpered, but it remained in her skin.

  Ianthe let his head fall back. He looked at the stars as he spoke. “I want you to be happy. My dearest wish is to fill your days with joy. My nightmare is you turning your face away from me.”

  She wouldn’t make him live that nightmare any more than he would make her live hers. The knowledge slipped between her ribs and pushed deep. “Father gave me this chance to choose my husband, or else he would negotiate one for me. There is only one choice I can make. I am so sorry, Ianthe. But—”

  “No,” Ianthe said. “I understand.”

  “I have to marry someone else.”

  “You have to marry someone else,” Ianthe said. “Someone you can despise.”

  “And I will hate him.”

  “We shall both hate him.”

  :I will hate him the most.:

  Beatrice dropped her chin and blinked, but the tears still spilled. “I will teach Ysbeta how to read the grimoires. She still has a chance.”

  “Does any woman with the gift want marriage?”

  Beatrice had believed that all of them did, once. That she was the unnatural one, the selfish one. But then there was Ysbeta, and the other women on the hidden path. Even Harriet had whispered to her of how wonderful magic was, how she denied herself to keep her sights on marriage and family. “Ysbeta needs to escape. Will you help her?”

  “Both of you.” Ianthe cupped her face in his hands. “I’ll help you both.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “I can’t go. I’ll teach her how to read the grimoires. One of us has to be free.”

  “I will bring you to her. I will help as much as I can,” Ianthe said. “And I can take you away—”

  Beatrice closed her eyes. Her eyelids were raw from tears. “My family needs this. If I run away, they will lose everything. Harriet will never have her own bargaining season. I can’t do that to them,” Beatrice said. “You must let me go. I must marry for their sake. I must—”

  Ianthe nodded. Misery pushed his shoulders down. He lifted Beatrice’s hand. “I love you.”

  “I love you,” Beatrice said. “If this were a different world—”

  “Yes. But we only have this one,” Ianthe said.

  “I should go to my cabin.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “I need to be alone,” Beatrice said. “I need to—to—”

  “Wait,” Ianthe said. “One moment, please. Just—it’s goodbye, and—”

  “What?”

  Ianthe stroked one knuckle down her cheek. He brushed a stray curl out of her eyes, and she couldn’t look anywhere that wasn’t him, at the soft look in his eyes that was remembering every moment, wrapping it in ribbon to cherish forever. Beatrice raised her fingers to Ianthe’s cheek, skimming over his glass-smooth skin. His eyelids fluttered shut as she traced his lips, turning his head to chase the tips with a kiss.

  It was goodbye. Beatrice slipped her hand down his jaw, curling her fingers on the back of his neck. She rose on her toes and met his mouth with hers, pulling herself closer.

  They rocked with the waves under the Shining Hand, kissed to the distant melody of the musicians, clung to each other under the gaze of ten thousand stars. The hundred pieces of Beatrice’s heart swelled against each other, quivering as the last cobweb strands of hope broke and drifted slowly ever downward, falling to dust—

  This was goodbye, and when they stopped for breath, when they broke their hold, when they stepped away and drew in the parts of their souls that had touched and twined and tangled, it was over.

  They gazed at each other. One last look; one final memory. Her Ianthe. She would love him forever. She squeezed her eyes shut. She clenched her fists and swallowed back tears. “I love you,” she said. “Goodbye.”

  She turned away and hurried down the stairs. She didn’t look at any of the dancers. She landed on the main deck, where Mr. and Mrs. Lavan, and Harriet, and Mother, and Father all stood in an expectant clump.

  They stared at her, alone, her fingers bare and not an emerald in sight. Harriet looked like she would drag Beatrice back upstairs and make her change her mind. Mother touched her warding collar, her eyes full of sympathy, and Beatrice couldn’t stand it.

  Father, at last, was the one who spoke. “What have you done?”

  She looked at the deck under her feet, and then lifted her head to look Father in the face. “Upon discussion, Ianthe and I agreed that it was best that we do not marry.”

  Mrs. Lavan’s face shifted, the lines along her forehead smoothing out.

  “He must be disappointed,” Mr. Lavan said.

  “That boy never had quite enough sense,” Mrs. Lavan said.

  “You agreed that it was best that you do not marry,” Father echoed. He sealed his lips shut and stared at Beatrice as if he didn’t quite recognize her. Then his features folded into a decision. “Very well. I need a vessel back to the mainland. Immediately.”

  “Child,” Mr. Lavan said. “Is something wrong?”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Lavan,” Beatrice said. “It was such a nice party, and I—I’m sorry.”

  “There’s a ship waiting for you,” Mrs. Lavan said. “You may board when you wish.”

  Mother didn’t utter a word.

  “Our thanks for your hospitality,” Father said. He stepped forward and caught Beatrice’s arm in a squeezing, painful grip. “It’s time to go home. Now.”

  But she had to tell Ysbeta! This was her only chance to— “Father, I don’t feel well. I think I should rest before we go back in the morning.”

  “We will not spend another minute imposing on the Lavans,” Father said. “We leave. Now.”

  They sent her to the sloop on the first swing.

  She wrote a note to Ysbeta the next morning. She weighed every careful word, waited for the ink to dry, and carefully folded it into a small square, dripping wax on the corner to seal it with a simple monogram: BAC.

  She set it on the tray where the mail gathered, ready to be sent out. She was halfway up the stairs when the footman plucked it out of the pile and took it to Father’s office.

  “Wait—”

  “His orders, Miss Beatrice,” the footman said, and Beatrice clutched the banister as she bent over it. Father didn’t order the door closed. He broke the seal, read the contents—and took the letter to the hearth fire, watching the message curl up and burn.

  He didn’t look at her when he returned to his seat. She was no longer present in her father’s perception—he wouldn’t look at her, speak to her, or react directly to her in any way.

  She was the last caller to stop at her door. Beatrice roused every morning, allowed Clara to guide her to the bath and choose a day gown and dress her hair, but most days, Beatrice never even descended the stairs for supper. She drifted from her bedchamber to the retiring room, where she and her violon played the keys of sorrow, of anger, of bleak, empty futures. Days bled into the next; days when Beatrice huddled in her bed and looked at nothing.

  No gentleman wanted the Warrior Maid. No one wanted a rebellious bride, a difficult woman, a willful, fickle girl from a line that produced daughters. She would be a spinster forever attached to her family, but not as a help to their fortunes. Not as a mage; just as a burden.

  Father wouldn’t look at her.

  The scent of cherry blossoms faded from the air, the trees no longer cloudy with breath-pale petals but a haze of tender, spring green. Bargaining season was more than half over. Sanctum bells had begun ringing, announcing marriage after marriage as alliances were made and sealed.

  No one called on Beatrice Clayborn.

  Seven more days passed before hope kindled over a column in the copy of the Bendleton Tribune Father had left behind after breakfasting. She crept in a few minutes after he was gone to eat a cold slice of egg pie and tea gone bitter with tannins, picking up the paper to pass the time. The tip of h
er finger turned black as she ran it down the columns of advertisements offering everything from a charter sail to a subscription to a produce garden, when the tip of her finger sparked as it touched an advertisement.

  She almost popped the digit in her mouth. :Nadi?:

  :It’s lucky. It’s lucky,: Nadi said.

  She lifted her finger and read the advertisement of an investor selling a share of a cargo expedition on a three-masted Chasand cargo ship called the Cuttlefish. Cacao, tea, spices. The asking price was two hundred crowns for a quarter share of the ship.

  This was a low asking price for a quarter share. Beatrice flipped through the ink-scented pages to the shipping news. The Cuttlefish featured under a list of ships and their estimated due date. It was three weeks late—enough time for a nervous investor to presume the ship lost and want to recoup any amount from their investment, even at a deep loss.

  If Father bought those shares . . . if the Cuttlefish came in . . .

  :It will,: Nadi said. :It has strong luck.:

  Beatrice read every word of the shipping news and pored over the advertisements, but the paper trembled in her hands. She had to tell Father. This was the key. No one would marry Beatrice now—her original plan, to be Father’s secret partner in business, that was the only choice now. He had to see that. She had to show him.

  She took the paper with her as she rushed to the door of his office. She knocked, imitating her mother’s double rat-tat, and Father said, “What is it?”

  His gaze slid past her once she stepped inside. It was worse than a slap. Beatrice laid the paper on the desk and folded her hands. “Father. There is a ship that is three weeks late. An investor is selling a quarter share of the cargo for two hundred crowns.”

  Father said nothing. He opened a drawer, and Beatrice caught a glimpse of scarred leather pouches that were exactly the right size to hold a hundred crowns. Father had not deposited the winnings from Beatrice’s escapade with the card party. It made her mouth go dry.

  She licked her lips. “It’s lucky, Father. I know it is. It’s a wild gamble to invest in a ship that is almost a month late from an expedition, but I know it will come in.”