The Underwater Ballroom Society

by Y. S. Lee

  By every right, Cassandra Harwood should have loathed Amy on first sight. Not only had Amy been an interloper upon Cassandra’s family home, but Miranda Harwood had made her own delighted approval of her new assistant abundantly clear from Amy’s first month onward.

  It was a gift she’d never dared to expect from the woman she’d idolized all her life—but that didn’t stop Amy from wincing with discomfort whenever she heard Miranda slip into outright comparisons during the epic battles that raged between mother and daughter.

  “For goodness’ sake, why can’t you simply model yourself on Amy?”

  She wouldn’t have blamed Cassandra for turning against her completely. Instead, the younger girl had welcomed Amy from the first, drawing her unquestioningly into the family’s private entertainments, teasing her with exuberant warmth, inviting herself into Amy’s room for tea and confidences, and treating Amy in every way like her own triumphantly-acquired and inherently lovable older sister.

  It was entirely unexpected; it was unbearably sweet; and much as she’d discovered with Cassandra’s older brother, Amy found that she had no natural defense against such open and genuine affection. Unlike anyone else she’d ever met, neither of the Harwood siblings ever expected her to prove herself to them in any way. In return, she found she couldn’t bear to witness either of them suffer, no matter what the cause.

  She bit back a sigh now as her loyalties pulled hard against each other, straining her resolution to breaking-point.

  Of course she’d always known that Cassandra chafed at her mother’s ambitions for her—their battles were legendary, loud and inescapable, pitting their twin wills against each other—but it was the one subject that Amy and Cassandra had never discussed in all their afternoons and evenings of cake and gossip. Amy would never betray her mentor, and Cassandra knew it.

  Now, though, Amy gave in at long last to inevitability. “Cassandra,” she said quietly, leaning closer, “I’ll speak to your mother for you if you’d like. You know she can’t truly force you to become a politician. If you dig in your heels and simply refuse to take that path, then nothing she does can compel the Boudiccate to accept you. If you only wait until you’re a grown adult and can choose another vocation for yourself—”

  “I’ve chosen,” Cassandra said with bitter emphasis. “That’s the problem. Hadn’t you worked it out yet?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Amy blinked, looking to Jonathan for answers.

  His brows knitted together; he shook his head slightly in return. Clearly, it was Cassandra’s truth to share.

  “Haven’t you heard me going on and on about magic?” The younger girl’s smile was wobbly. “Obsessions run in our family, you know. Mother’s politics, Jonathan’s history, and my...”

  “Magic?” Amy repeated, baffled. Of course she had heard Cassandra give loud opinions on the matter—she was surprisingly well-informed on that masculine topic, considering that her only brother had turned so famously against it—but Amy had always assumed that Cassandra’s own professed interest was just another way to needle her overbearing mother. It was certainly an effective strategy, since Miranda lost her temper every time Cassandra brought up the subject in conversation.

  “You...want to study the history of magic, you mean? As your profession?” Amy took a deep breath, absorbing the startling news. “Well, I know that isn’t what Miranda’s planned for you”—and it would certainly raise eyebrows in society for a lady to take so much interest in that subject, even if it was all safely couched in history—“but perhaps, if we angle it just the right way—”

  “No!” The word burst out of Cassandra like an explosion, loud enough to draw attention from the groups nearby.

  “Careful,” Jonathan warned in a soft whisper. “If someone hears you—”

  “I don’t care!” She wrapped her arms around her chest, misery seeping out of every pore. “Oh, I know it’s supposed to be a shameful secret, but if I have to hold it in much longer—”

  “Look out of the window, quickly.” Gently, Amy nudged Cassandra’s shoulder, turning her to hide her face from the assembly. “Now explain it all to me. Carefully, please, since I’m so slow tonight.”

  “I...” Cassandra hiccupped on a sob. Her lips twisted, and with a sudden, jerky move she thrust her right hand forward, palm upwards. “Just look!”

  She whispered something under her breath too quietly for Amy to catch the words...and a bright spark of fire suddenly appeared in her palm, hidden from the rest of the ballroom between her body and the glass.

  Shock stopped Amy’s breath. She almost staggered.

  Cassandra was casting magic.

  Amy’s gaze flew instinctively to Jonathan’s face, expecting her own stunned disbelief to be reflected there. This couldn’t really be happening, could it?

  But astonishingly, he wasn’t even looking at the incredible—unheard of! unimaginable!—event taking place only inches away from them. Instead, his blue eyes were fixed steadily on her face, faint lines of worry creasing his expression.

  He was waiting, she realized, to see how she would react—and whether she was, after all, a safe person to trust with such an explosive secret.

  Good God. She swallowed convulsively, her breath returning in a rush. If anyone else found out...

  How long had the Harwood family been keeping this secret? If the news ever reached the rest of the Boudiccate—much less the newspapers!—that Miranda Harwood’s own daughter was flouting every law of nature by daring to cast magic of her own...

  “Miss Standish!” Lord Llewellyn’s voice rang out behind her, and Amy spun around with a gasp of horror.

  To her deep relief, she felt Jonathan step quickly behind her, providing an extra shield between Llewellyn and his sister.

  Amy pinned a bright, dazzling smile on her face and snapped out her fan with one hand, creating even more of a visual barrier, while she extended her other hand in greeting. “Is it time for our first dance, my lord?”

  “At last.” Smiling with proprietary satisfaction, he took her proffered hand—then cast a brief, dismissive nod in Jonathan’s direction. “Harwood.” His eyes widened as Cassandra stepped out from behind her older brother, her chin held high and her hands—thank goodness—safely empty. “And Miss Harwood! An honor to see you, always.”

  This time, his nod was closer to a bow. Of course. An entirely inappropriate, semi-hysterical giggle fought its way up Amy’s throat as she watched the rapid calculations unfurling in Llewellyn’s clever gaze.

  Jonathan, in his eyes, was unimportant—no rival in magery or romance and thus entirely beneath consideration. Cassandra, on the other hand, was publicly understood to be her mother’s intended successor within the Boudiccate and one of the future rulers of the nation, so he didn’t dare offend her.

  If he’d had even the slightest idea...

  “Miss Standish?” Llewellyn raised his eyebrows at her. “Are you quite well?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Amy gave her fan a brisk wave to cool her face, then let it fall back on the knotted golden cord that she wore about her wrist, matching the golden silk of her skirts. “I’m only looking forward to our dance.”

  “As am I.” Bowing to Cassandra—and ignoring Jonathan completely—Llewellyn drew her forward to join the other couples on the tiled floor.

  Over his shoulder, Amy watched Jonathan loop a protective arm around his sister, whispering something that made her nod and close her eyes, resting her head against his jacketed chest. When he glanced back up, his gaze caught Amy’s through the crowd.

  Her feet stumbled in their moves.

  Curse it. She lowered her eyes quickly, wrenching herself back into the moment and to her dance partner.

  Lord Llewellyn was her future partner in every way, and she could never let herself forget that salient fact. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to take careful note of his hand at her waist—pleasantly firm, not over-tight—and the long fingers that he’d tangled possessively with h
ers. It all felt perfectly agreeable. He danced with skill.

  He did everything with skill, in fact. According to Miranda, he was widely considered to be one of the most promising mages of his generation, predicted to rise high among their ranks. All that he truly required now was a wife like Amy with a prominent family name and the political acumen to become a star in her own right. Together, they had the potential to rise into Angland’s ruling echelon.

  “And he’s even rather handsome,” Miranda had finished, when she’d given Amy her private summation the day before introducing the pair. “Which one can’t always count upon, you know. Not everyone is so fortunate.”

  Her smile had turned unwontedly wistful at that statement—and Amy had glanced beyond her at the portrait of the late Mr. Harwood that hung in Miranda’s study, an unusually sentimental ornament for that practical place of business.

  Miranda had been fortunate in her own husband’s appearance, judging by both that portrait and the two children who had been born to their match—but she, too, had married for strategy, not for love. It was the only sensible way to choose a partner for any woman with intelligence and ambition—and of course, if one chose wisely, respect and mutual assistance would eventually turn into real affection. It was everything that Amy had ever hoped for in a match.

  So she forced the Harwoods and their revelations from her mind to smile up at Lord Llewellyn now and give him the disciplined focus that he would deserve throughout their lives together. “Are you enjoying the evening, my lord?”

  “Very much.” He gave an assessing glance around the room and nodded approvingly. “You really haven’t missed anyone, have you? If you wouldn’t mind aiming this way for a bit...” He maneuvered her adroitly to one side, moving smoothly across the room.

  Amy slid a discreet glance of her own in that direction, keeping the warm, open smile on her face. “Are we intercepting Mr. Westgate?” she murmured.

  His own smile unflinching, Llewellyn twirled her adeptly around the next couple in their path. “I want to make certain he’ll be watching the demonstrations later on.”

  “Aha.” Amy slipped back into place in his arms, her mind humming back into motion as she returned to her usual, non-Harwood-distracted work.

  Llewellyn was speaking, of course, about the magical demonstrations, when the younger mages would take turns displaying their talents for the delight of the assembly. A traditional moment at the end of any ball, it was the perfect opportunity for young, ambitious gentlemen to show off their strengths—both to the older men who might advance their magical careers and to the eligible young women who might be persuaded to consider them as marital partners. At a ball like this, it also served a vital function for the nation: to impress diplomats from other realms with the ongoing power of Angland’s magecraft, which had turned back so many attempted invasions in the past.

  Westgate was one of the Boudiccate’s own officers of magic, and among the highest-ranking of that elite force. Amy might not know a great deal about magic herself, but she knew all about power and influence, so she was fully prepared by the time they met a moment later.

  “Mr. Westgate!” Beaming, she tugged Lord Llewellyn to a halt before a tall, lean man with dark brown skin and graying, close-cut hair, who stood by the sidelines sipping a glass of elven wine without any noticeable enjoyment. “I am delighted to see you here, sir. Is everything to your satisfaction?”

  Westgate’s eyebrows rose as he lowered his wine. “Miss...Standish, was it not?”

  Amy nodded, intensifying the warmth of her smile. “Mrs. Harwood was so pleased when you accepted her invitation. She thinks very highly of your work, you know.”

  “Indeed.” His eyebrows, if anything, notched a little higher. “Perhaps she ought to listen to a bit more of my advice, then.”

  Luckily, Amy had been quite prepared for that crotchety response, because whenever Miranda spoke of Lionel Westgate, her words of reluctant praise had invariably been followed by the conclusion: “...even if he is the crankiest mage in all Angland.”

  So unlike Llewellyn, she didn’t twitch at Westgate’s words. Instead, she tipped her head to one side with a look of warm conspiracy. “Now, Mr. Westgate. You know you can’t expect the members of the Boudiccate to respond to instruction as if they were students at the Great Library. They have to discuss important matters and make decisions amongst themselves—but they always take your advice into account.”

  “Ha.” He gestured with his nearly-full wine glass at the arched ceiling high above them, beyond all of the dazzling fey-lights. “Then why are we still holding events here, do you think? When I’ve warned her time and time again...”

  At that, Amy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He shook his head. “No one denies old Harwood’s genius. But the spell must need reinforcement eventually—it’s a miracle it’s lasted this long without him here to keep an eye on it!—and yet she won’t let any other mages inspect it for safety. Calls the idea an insult to her husband’s memory, if you can believe it!”

  The water outside the thin panes of glass suddenly seemed even darker, as if it were squeezing tighter around the ballroom as discomfort tightened Amy’s chest.

  How many years had it been since Mr. Harwood’s death, now? Five? If his spell collapsed now...

  She took a deep, sustaining breath, carefully maintaining the easy good humor of her expression. “Aren’t we fortunate, then, to have so many brilliant mages here with us tonight for our protection?” As if only just then reminded of him, she gave a small start and turned back to her dance partner. “Oh! You are acquainted with Lord Llewellyn, are you not, Mr. Westgate?”

  “Llewellyn.” Westgate nodded briefly, his expression unreadable.

  “Sir.” Llewellyn’s smile was broad and confident. “A pleasure to meet you again. Good work with that band of kelpies last month.”

  “Them?” The older man shrugged irritably. “Those were hardly a challenge for a whole team of us together.”

  “Well, I’ve been working on a spell that might help in cases like those, actually.” Llewellyn took a step closer. “It might even turn that into a one-man operation.”

  “Oh really?” Westgate’s eyes narrowed as he raised his wineglass, preparing for another sip. “Planning to present it tonight at the demonstrations?”

  Llewellyn nodded with exactly the right look of deferential respect. “I’d be grateful for your thoughts on it, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Hmm.” Westgate took a long sip of elven wine. “Well, don’t ask me now, boy. We’ll see what I think after I watch it in action.”

  Llewellyn opened his mouth; Amy squeezed his arm warningly. With a sigh, he relaxed and stepped back, taking her cue. “Thank you, sir. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Just don’t collapse this place around us when you do it!” Westgate called after them as they swept back onto the crowded dance floor.

  Lowering her voice as they joined the other dancers, Amy asked, “Is that a real possibility, do you think?”

  “Nonsense.” Llewellyn’s lips twisted with amusement. “You needn’t worry about any of Westgate’s mutterings, Miss Standish. ‘The Raven of Doom’, you know—that’s what all of the Great Library students call him, because he’s always harping on about the worst that might happen.”

  He shook his head, leading her gracefully across the floor. “It’s as you told him yourself: before the Boudiccate decides on anything, they’ll always discuss it amongst themselves and take various mages’ opinions into account. I’ll wager they’ve had plenty of private inspections of this place in the last few years. They simply didn’t want to tell old Westgate they’d chosen someone else for the job, to keep themselves safe from all his cawing about it.”

  “Mm.” Amy kept her tone perfectly neutral, but her eyebrows wanted to knit into a frown. She kept her expression clear with an effort, conscious of every potential watching eye.

  Of course Llewellyn knew far more about magic th
an she did—but Amy knew a good deal about people. Lionel Westgate’s hair might be graying with age, but he was full of energy and sharp intelligence. He hadn’t struck her as a man prone to unfounded worries.

  Still, her future husband was right: the Boudiccate always took important magical questions to their council.

  Except when it comes to Miranda’s family. The thought shivered through her with a whisper of unease as she suddenly remembered that impossible, dancing flame cupped in Cassandra’s hand. Miranda certainly hadn’t discussed that with her fellow members of the Boudiccate, had she? Amy had lived for ten months with the Harwood family without even guessing at the secret—and if Cassandra hadn’t lost her temper, it might never have come out at all.

  Miranda might battle fiercely with her equally strong-minded children, but she would never betray either of them to outsiders. That had been proven to the world when she’d neither disowned Jonathan as expected, nor even banished him from the family home when he’d refused his place at the Great Library and struck out on his own, unsanctioned career path.

  “You hit the right notes with him, though,” Llewellyn said, “as usual.” He pulled her a fraction closer with unmistakable possessiveness. “Just think how well we’ll do together,” he murmured into her ear. “With your political skills and my magic...what can’t we hope for?”

  The answer died, unspoken, in Amy’s mouth as another couple circled past.

  Jonathan Harwood was dancing with Lady Cosgrave this time, with the ease of long acquaintance. Lady Cosgrave—by far the most approachable member of the Boudiccate—was clearly trying to lecture him with the tone of an older sister, while he smiled and parried all of her points and made her laugh despite herself.

  Following Amy’s gaze, Llewellyn let out an aggravated huff of breath. “Incredible, how he’s wormed his way into everyone’s good graces.”