The room she was allotted as a lieutenant didn't fit much more than a bed, an armoire, a tiny worn armchair, and a small table with two chairs. Officers were allowed to make the accommodations more comfortable, but she wanted to do it her way. Her taste was not her mother's. If this was another parcel from her mother, she hoped it would contain food rather than furnishings.
But when she opened the door, it was no courier waiting with package in hand. Instead, the hallway was very full of Jean-Paul.
So much so she made a stupid noise of surprise, prompting Ikarus to say [Come?] in her head.
[No,] she replied silently. She'd grown used to the form of wordless communication the sanctii could use over distances all too quickly. It was comforting to know that Ikarus was there if she needed him, could hear her, wherever he may be. [I'm fine.]
But she should talk to the man standing before her rather than the sanctii. "Major du Laq," she said cautiously. "What can I do for you?"
"You didn't tell me you were back." He smiled, and her heart kicked.
She had to fight the urge to smile back. What was he doing here? She had made herself clear. She'd told him they had no future. Then she'd left him while he was sleeping. Not to mention left the city altogether.
She shouldn't want to smile at him. Perhaps she needed to be clearer with herself, too.
"I only just arrived," she said. Then realized he might take that to mean she’d had every intention of contacting him. "And I wasn't aware that you expected to be informed of my whereabouts, Major." She glanced past him into the hallway. So far they were alone, but there were six other lieutenants living on this floor. One of them could arrive at any moment. She needed Jean-Paul to leave.
His smile didn't falter. "Ah, yes, about that. I've decided that your idea was a bad one." He stepped fractionally closer. She held her ground, though his scent made her head spin, the memory of his touch flooding her senses.
"My idea?"
"That we should end things. That was a terrible idea, Imogene. I have missed you these last two weeks. More than I care to admit, frankly. Your commanding officer wouldn't tell me where you had gone. I did, however, hear that the latest cohort from Cylienne would be returning today. I took a chance that perhaps that was where you were and, therefore, that you might have returned."
There was no point lying about it. And certainly the news that she was now bonded might work to change his mind about their future. "It was."
"And am I to offer congratulations on a successful venture?" He looked as though he actually meant the words.
"If you are asking if I bonded a sanctii, then yes, I did. His name is Ikarus. Would you like to meet him?" She lifted her chin. Jean-Paul merely shook his head, expression unchanged.
"Not just yet, perhaps," he said. "But congratulations, Lieutenant. You are a woman of more talents than I knew, it seems." He smiled, head tilting. "You didn't tell me you had won the chance to do this."
"It didn't seem relevant," she said. "I didn't think I would see you again, other than in a professional capacity should our paths cross, perhaps." There. Blunt enough.
"It seems, Lieutenant, that you have found it easy to put me from your mind."
No I haven't. She bit back the words. Swallowed. "There seems little point in yearning for something beyond my reach."
"Such a logical answer. Are you sure you are not, at heart, an ingenier like your father after all, Lieutenant? Does logic rule all?"
His eyes were locked on hers, the gray depths of them a color she could get swept away in. If she was so foolish as to let herself fall.
"Did you not think of me while you were away? Were your thoughts only for the sanctii and what came after him? Tell me that is true, Lieutenant, and I shall walk away."
I didn't miss you. Four short words. She could speak them and it would be over. A simple lie. Best for both of them. But somehow, she couldn't lie to him. She wanted to give him the truth. She could offer that much. But not here in the hallway where anyone could come across them, having what could only look like a lovers' quarrel.
Chapter 20
Imogene stepped back from the door, waved him inside. Closed the door again after he crossed the threshold with three determined strides and pressed her palm to it to set her wards to work so they wouldn't be interrupted. Or overheard. Then she turned to face Jean-Paul, who stood, muscles tense, eyes intent, filling the small room with his presence without even speaking.
"I can't tell you that's true," she said. "I did think of you. There is something between us. Something that could have been. But nothing has changed. You are a noble. You'll be a duq. I'm a lieutenant. With a sanctii. I am not the woman you will marry. And I will not be anything less. I won't be a temporary thing, a pause while your family wears you down to choosing one of the oh-so-suitable noble daughters of the court. It hurt to leave your bed, and that it hurt was terrifying. I do not do this, Jean-Paul. I do not let myself—" She hesitated.
The words that sprang to mind were “fall in love,” but that was too big a truth to let slip. Too big to acknowledge, even. Love at first sight was a concept she had thought only true of the romantic tales in novels. She was, indeed, too much her father's daughter to believe in it, let alone do it. She had told herself that she would be sensible when it came to her heart. That she wanted a career. To travel the empire. So she could give up a more normal life of marriage and children. Or find a man who would support her choices should she want to. Choose with care based on friendship and chemistry.
Not in the blink of an eye and a chance encounter in a ballroom. No one did that.
"Grow attached so fast," she continued. "But it would hurt more to have you again, knowing there can only be another ending."
He watched her as she spoke, gray gaze locked on hers. She had the curious feeling that she might as well have been landing a blow with each word, though he didn't flinch or interrupt or look away. Instead he just watched, as though he was committing her to memory.
One to be treasured when he left her behind, perhaps.
She let the silence hang, not knowing what else to say. No words that would come easily over the burn of denial in her throat and the regret chilling her gut. The last few days, caught up in Ikarus, in the rush of power and delight that came with the sanctii, she had convinced herself that she was forgetting this man. That had been untrue. But she would forget him with time. She had to.
"Ah, but Imogene, what if there didn't have to be an ending?" he said.
She felt her mouth drop open. For someone like him, those words meant only one thing. Marriage. "You're going to be a duq."
One corner of his mouth lifted. "I know. It is a nuisance. But it is not the only thing I am. I am a man, too. A man who knows what he wants."
"Your family would never agree." She still couldn't get her mind around the idea. Let alone say the word "marriage" out loud.
"They may take some persuading, true." He shrugged. "But my father raised me to know what I want and to do what I think is right. He may not like learning that his lessons have stuck well when it comes to this, but he will not stand in my way. I want you, Imogene. My life is not full of many things I can truly choose for myself. I think my wife should be one of them."
Had it grown hot in the room? "Even if your family agreed, the court...I was not raised to be a duquesse, to run a grand estate." She waved a helpless hand at him. "I like my job. I'm not ready to give it up."
"I would not ask you to. Not entirely. We have time. My father is not yet old, and he is healthy." There was that certainty again. That tone of believing he could will whatever he wanted into being. It was seductive.
"I have a sanctii," she said. "Has there even been a duquesse with a sanctii?"
"If I have no problem with it, it should not bother anyone else. As I see it, it is an asset to the family, not a liability." He grinned at her then. "And a reminder that I would be a foolish man to mistreat a wife who holds such an asset."
"We
re you intending to mistreat your wife?" she asked, breathless. Trying for a joke to lighten the sense that her world was once more spinning around her, perchance to settle in an entirely new order.
He shook his head. "Never," he said fiercely. "What is mine, I protect. I am enough of a du Laq to know that is true. I would keep you safe, Imogene. You can go, be a diplomat, wield that mind and magic of yours in service to the emperor. You can have your sanctii. And I will stand ready for you when you return."
Oh, she wanted to believe him. What would her life be like if she could believe him? But it seemed impossible. "This is fast, Jean-Paul," she said. "I need time. You need time. We've barely met."
"As I said, we have time. There doesn't have to be a grand announcement yet. No betrothal ball with half the city in attendance. But I would like to try, Imogene. I think that together, we would be a force to be reckoned with. And that apart neither of us will be truly happy."
"How would we do that?" she asked, knowing she—despite all the protests of logic and reason—wanted to say yes. To throw her life onto a completely new path so she could walk with him.
His smile was pure joy. "As to that, Lieutenant. I came to invite you to a ball."
Chapter 21
Imogene still wasn't convinced she wasn't dreaming when she found herself once more waltzing with Jean-Paul in the emperor's ballroom four nights after her return from Cylienne. It had been a dizzying week, between continuing her work with Ikarus and Jean-Paul discreetly putting himself in her path at every opportunity. She hadn't yet returned to his bed. She was trying to be smart. To wait a little and see what happened when they got to know each other better.
But with his hand holding hers and his body close enough for her to feel the heat of him, she wasn't sure how long she could resist.
She tried to distract herself with the other dancers, to enjoy the whirl and spectacle of them. Her third imperial ball in a month. Hardly what she had expected when she had returned from Reyshaka. The Imogene then would have laughed at the thought of taking so much as a step in the direction of a duq-to-be, let alone agreeing to contemplate marrying one.
But she couldn't regret choosing Jean-Paul, even if she was baffled as to how exactly he had come to lodge himself so deeply into her affections in so little time. The simple truth was that her heart lifted with joy every time she saw him, and she liked him more with every moment they stole together. Those might become harder to steal. He had said he would introduce her to his parents tonight.
The thought of that was enough to make her palms clammy, and she was grateful when the music came to an end, giving her a chance to catch her breath.
"You're thinking too loudly again, Lieutenant," Jean-Paul said as he escorted her off the floor. "And though I find your face deep in thought enchanting, I would like to see your smile. It's a ball. You're wearing a gown that I find deeply fascinating." He cast a quick glance toward the swooping neckline of the emerald brocade dress she was practically stitched into. "Let us enjoy the night."
"That's easy for you to say. You're not meeting my father tonight," Imogene said. And even if he had been, her father was unlikely to express the same concerns as to his suitability that she knew, despite Jean-Paul's assurances, his father would have about hers.
Just thinking about it made her stomach flip.
[Patterns.] Ikarus's voice was a rumble in her head.
[What patterns?] she replied, attention still half in the ballroom.
[Humans. Music.]
[Dancing?] Then she halted. [Wait. You’re here? We discussed that.]
[You said not be seen. Not to stay away.]
She flushed. That was true. She should have been more careful with her words. She wasn't part of the Imperial Guard, and they were the only people who could call a sanctii in the emperor's ballroom without causing an uproar. Of course, if a situation arose where the Imperial Guard needed to summon a sanctii, there would be an uproar regardless.
[You must not be seen,] she reiterated in her head.
A snort of agreement, as though telling her he knew very well how to behave, was all the reply she got. It wasn't entirely what she had expected, this sanctii business. There was more give-and-take. More...friendship.
Friends with a sanctii and engaged to a duq. Strange days.
Her attention came back to the ballroom, and she realized Jean-Paul was leading her toward the imperial party. The duq was not the only important man she would meet tonight. She was to be formerly introduced to the emperor—she couldn't quite bring herself to think of him as just Aristides, as Jean-Paul seemed to—as well. But that didn't feel quite so intimidating.
And sure enough, when she curtsied for the emperor and empress and rose again, she felt far calmer than she had been expecting to.
"Lieutenant Carvelle," Aristides said, his voice smooth. "We are pleased to meet you." His gaze flicked to Jean-Paul, who stood behind her. "The major speaks highly of you."
He looked somewhat entertained. Was he pleased that Jean-Paul was...involved? Would he remain pleased if he knew one of his future duqs wanted to marry someone like her? And what in the name of the goddess had Jean-Paul been saying to the emperor? It would be a horrendous breach of protocol to turn her back on the emperor and roll her eyes at Jean-Paul, but she was tempted. But she resisted the urge and offered a murmured "Thank you, Your Imperial Highness."
She caught the gaze of the empress seated beside her husband. She also looked amused, a dimple flickering in her cheek. Her dress was the shade of a new anden leaf, a color that flattered the bright green of her eyes. It was draped to hide her stomach, and the gold leaves rioting over the bodice were placed to draw the eye away, too, but there was no mistaking that there would be another imperial prince or princess sometime in the fall. The crown prince was not yet eighteen. His youngest sister only six. Five children. Imogene couldn't imagine it. And yet Liane looked younger than Aristides, though they were close in age. Perhaps she had a touch of the illusioner's art.
"Your dress is lovely," the empress said.
Kind of her, Imogene thought. Her dress was beautiful, but simple, relying on line and drape and the beauty of the floral brocade to overcome the lack of expensive lace and embroidery and jewels that decorated the gown of the nobles. Imogene's mother's clothier was very good, but there was still a limit to what any dressmaker could do without the unlimited funds required to produce gowns like the empress wore.
"Thank you, Your Imperial Highness." She curtsied again and back up a few steps, hoping Jean-Paul might join in the conversation. She could think of nothing just then that seemed like suitable conversation for an empress.
He seemed to take the cue and moved to stand beside her. But before he could add anything to the conversation, there was a slight commotion from behind the emperor. A door opened in the wall behind them, and three black-clad Imperial Guards walked through ahead of a group of four Andalyssians. Including, Imogene saw, her stomach sinking, the Ashmeiser.
Chapter 22
"Damn," she muttered under her breath. Part of her wanted to turn, and leave. But she stood her ground. The emperor knew who she was. She'd been approved to attend the ball. And she knew she had done nothing wrong.
Still, she hoped the Ashmeiser might fail to recognize her.
No such luck. The man had no sooner straightened from his bow to the emperor and empress, his robes still settling back into their elaborate folds, when he caught sight of Imogene and raised a blond brow. He looked from her to Jean-Paul and then moved to join them.
"Lieutenant...Caravalle?" he said, pausing before them.
She curtsied. "My lord Ashmeiser. It's Lieutenant Carvelle."
"Close," he replied. He had unusual eyes for an Andalyssian—the color of frosted water. A light blue gray that held no hint of human warmth. "Illvyan names sound similar to my ears. You will forgive my poor grasp of your language."
His grasp of Illvyan was excellent. She knew that from experience. Still, she mana
ged to drag the Andalyssian equivalent of "No need to apologize" from the depths of her memory.
The words only gained her another assessing look. "You are keeping exalted company, Lieutenant. You are not on duty, I think?" He turned to Jean-Paul. "Are you and the lieutenant friends, my lord?"
"We are," Jean-Paul said firmly. "I thought your delegation had decided to rest tonight rather than attend the ball, my lord."
He sounded somewhat exasperated to Imogene’s ear. And not bothering to take much care to hide it. She tried to gather her thoughts, to pivot from meeting the empress to being the diplomat she was learning to be. But the Ashmeiser's robes carried that faint mossy salt-smoke aroma she associated with their court. Here in Illvya it seemed even earthier. Almost...unpleasant. The storm of memories it conjured threw her off her stride.
"We changed our minds," the Ashmeiser said. "We have been finding your balls so entertaining, after all, my lord. It is helpful to learn of the traditions of Illvya more thoroughly so we can use that knowledge to build a bridge more strongly between our two countries.”
Imogene doubted the Ashmeiser had ever found a ball entertaining in his life. No, he seemed more like the type who might take pleasure in dissecting some small helpless furry animal. Or an enemy. The back of her neck crawled as the smoke filled her nostrils. If they hadn't been invited to join the ball, why had they? It was somewhat rude. For one thing, the servants would be scrambling now behind the scenes to make sure the arrangements for the supper that would be served later included options for the Andalyssians. Not to mention redoing most of the seating order.
She could only hope she was seated away from the Andalyssians. Because the smoke smell of the Ashmeiser was making her stomach roll.
Thankfully the Ashmeiser turned back to join the rest of his countrymen. Imogene caught the empress's eyes, and Liane grimaced behind the Ashmeiser's back, the expression so fleeting, Imogene thought she might have imagined it. Apparently she wasn't the only one who disliked Andalyssians. A comforting thought.
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