Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

Miraude waved. Yvelliane nodded in reply and waited as her sister-in-law towed her escorts through the crowd. Thiercelin looked bored and sensible in the same burgundy doublet he had worn to the last five royal soirées. He clashed with Miraude, rather. He would not meet Yvelliane’s eyes. Gracielis, surprisingly, wore black. He looked directly at her and smiled outrageously.

  “Such a crush,” said Miraude, arriving at Yvelliane’s elbow. “I shall lose my breath completely.” She sounded rather pleased by the prospect. “Goodness, Yviane. You’re looking very . . . practical.”

  “I’m going hunting right after the party.” Yvelliane wrinkled her nose. “You look splendid.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As usual. And you’re late.”

  “As usual.” Miraude looked deliciously guilty. “I couldn’t find my earrings. Blame Thierry, he rushed me.”

  “Hmm. Always fatal.” Yvelliane looked at her husband. He returned the gaze and kissed her hand. To her companion she said, “You know my family, of course, Lord Yvaux?”

  “Indeed.” Yvaux had made his bow. Now he kissed Miraude’s hand and nodded at Thiercelin, who had gone back to looking bored. “A pleasure, as always.”

  “And Monsieur de Varnaq?” Yvelliane completed the introductions, faintly distracted. Something in Gracielis’ demeanor was bizarrely familiar. Some echo, in stark black, half recollected. She did not recall having formerly seen him dress his hair away from his face.

  Miraude said, “Did I thank you, Yviane?”

  “I don’t think so. What for?”

  “My escort.” Miraude looked from one to the other. “Even if Thierry doesn’t go with my dress.”

  “You’re welcome,” Yvelliane said. And then, “Such vanity, Mimi!” Miraude blushed. Across the room, the Lunedithin party was announced. Yvelliane looked up to see Kenan, scowling and pale, accompanied by Tafarin Morwenedd and Iareth Yscoithi in green and cream. Beside her, Yvaux said something, but she barely heard it as memory fell into place. Iareth in green, and Valdarrien sulky at her side in black, hair drawn back, ear pierced by a single diamond. Six years ago and more. It could be coincidence only. Light caught on the stud in Gracielis’ left ear and fractured. The bow at his nape was velvet.

  It made no sense. Gracielis did not even look at Iareth. Yvelliane was imagining things. She smiled at Yvaux and said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was merely commenting on the heat,” he said.

  “Appalling, isn’t it?” Yvelliane fanned herself, still only half-listening. Thiercelin would not look at her. Kenan was moving toward them. The Tarnaroqui party had dispersed about the room. Miraude touched her sleeve, murmured “I need to talk to you later.” Yvelliane nodded. Gracielis looked at her, and smiled. There were hollows beneath his eyes and he was perhaps a shade too pale. Yvelliane said, “I didn’t know you liked black.”

  “I don’t.” Gracielis looked down at his gloves, one dark, one light. His scent covered him like a cloud. “It was an impulse only.” He looked at Miraude. “And a most fortunate one.”

  “Evidently,” Yvelliane said. “Thierry was less lucky.” Miraude raised a brow. Gracielis favored Yvelliane with a speculative look, then his long lashes swept down.

  Thiercelin said, “Someone has to be the loser. Come and clash with me on the dance floor, Mimi, since Graelis seems to have forgotten to ask you.” He still did not look at Yvelliane, holding out a hand to Miraude, and leading her out. Gracielis kept his eyes downcast.

  Graelis . . . It was of no import, whatever there might be between Gracielis and her husband. Only Firomelle mattered. Yvelliane looked up to see Kenan only feet away, and suppressed a sigh.

  Gracielis said, “Monseigneur de Sannazar has stolen my partner.” And then, “I shall have to steal his.” The hazel eyes were wicked. To Yvaux, he added, “If monseigneur has no objection?”

  “Go ahead.” Yvaux was amused by his dramatics.

  Gracielis bowed flamboyantly then offered a scented hand to Yvelliane. “Dance with me, madame, or my heart will break.”

  “That,” said Yvelliane, “I should like to see.” Gracielis clutched at his chest. Kenan had almost reached them. Shaking her head, she said, “Oh, very well. If it’ll stop you playacting.”

  He led her onto the floor. She said, “I’m not dressed for this.”

  “Perhaps not. But it makes no difference. You’d be beautiful in sackcloth.”

  “Oh, naturally!” The figure separated them, and she took a promenade on the arm of a senior nobleman. Returning to Gracielis, she looked into his pretty eyes and said, “I’ve something to ask you. You haven’t forgotten your promise, I hope?”

  “Your every word is engraved upon my heart.” Gracielis paused to complete a turn, then continued, “Shall I recite them back to you?”

  “It hardly seems worth it. Tell me, is there any special significance attached to clan halls in your beliefs?”

  “There could be. It would depend on the circumstances.”

  “I see.” They changed places. “I’ll present you to the Tarnaroqui party after this dance.”

  “As you wish.” The dance again parted them. Returning, Gracielis said, “The redheaded gentleman in gray is the Lunedithin prince, isn’t he?”

  “Kenan Orcandros, yes. What of him?”

  “Nothing I may tell you on the dance floor.” The words were serious, but the accompanying glance most certainly was not. “Perhaps I might reveal myself to you in the long gallery? Or some other private place?”

  “I’m sure you might.” The figure called for her to place her right hand in his. “But I’ve other concerns at present.”

  Gracielis looked at her sidelong. “Will I survive your indifference?”

  She turned in a swirl of satin skirts. “Probably.” His eyes played tragedy. She said, “Do you know any of the Tarnaroqui delegation already?”

  “It depends.” Gracielis took two paces back, executed a series of complex steps, and offered her his light-clad hand.

  “On what?”

  “The circumstances in which we find ourselves.”

  “I see.” The dance again separated them. Yvelliane danced a measure with a fellow councillor, then returned to Gracielis for the promenade.

  He said, “You should dance more often. It suits you.” “I’ve better uses for my time.”

  “Forgive me,” Gracielis said. “You were smiling until I reminded you of your duties.” She looked away, counting steps. He said, “Lord Thiercelin misses you.”

  “That’s nice. Are you a go-between, or are you just being tactful?” She could see Thiercelin dancing in the next set. He appeared utterly oblivious to her, laughing at something Miraude had said. He had no need of a harassed and scratchy wife. No more than she had need of him. He had brought Gracielis to live with him at the Phoenix. She courted censure, dancing with her husband’s lover. She snapped her gaze away from Thiercelin.

  Gracielis said, “He misses you and you are missing him. Be kind: it becomes you.”

  She could not be distracted by this, not here. She said, “Not now. Don’t meddle.”

  “As you wish.” But Gracielis was disapproving. As the dance ended he bowed over her fingers. “You needn’t introduce me to your Tarnaroqui. I can tell you all you want to know without that.”

  “I daresay, but I rather wanted to see how they react to you.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “You’ll cut yourself. Let me do this my own way. Prince Kenan is looking at you.”

  “How nice for him.” Yvelliane did not trouble to return Kenan’s gaze, searching the crowd for the Tarnaroqui group. “I have considerable diplomatic experience of my own, you know.”

  “I know.” Unexpectedly Gracielis kissed her hand. Then, holding on to it, he said, “The one you want is Quenfrida. I’ll tell you anything you want to know about her, if you’ll present me to the Lunedithin heir.”

  Yvelliane looked at him, surprised. He returned the gaze levelly. She asked, “Does she know you?
Quenfrida, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes.” Something, some emotion, gilded his voice. “Intimately.”

  “And Thierry?” It was not the question she had intended to ask.

  He said, “Come into the gallery,” and slipped her hand through his arm. Even in high shoes, he was fractionally shorter than she was. She let him lead her, aware that this was not the result she had intended. Across the room, Thiercelin had passed Miraude to another courtier and was heading for the gaming room. Yvelliane wondered if he had yet outrun his quarter’s allowance. The room was far too warm.

  The gallery was cooler. Gracielis, who had the trick of appearing familiar with his surroundings wherever he found himself, drew her into a convenient curtained embrasure, and handed her on to the window seat. He said, “You can do nothing to Quenfrida. It’s too late for that.”

  “What do you mean?” Yvelliane fixed him with a firm eye and tried not to glare. He twisted his rose-colored lovelock about a finger. She said, “She knows you intimately?”

  Gracielis took her hand in his and looked down at it. “My whole life. But you must trust me all the same, for I’ve made a promise and I’ll keep it.”

  She took her hand away. “You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical?” He spread his hands before him, graceful, diffident. “I don’t have the time right now to play games.”

  “So.” Sitting down beside her, he hesitated, rubbing his shoulder. “I’ll honor our agreement. But it does no good. You recall what you said, when I asked you what would happen if the river ever turned against Merafi?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned to face her. “It’s happening.”

  Such things did not happen, save in stories. Such things did not happen in Merafi. She said, “Tell me.”

  He told her in level, measured words, and she listened without interruption. She knew enough of him to recognize his sincerity. He was more than half undarios. If she had not believed in the rumored powers of the undarii , she would not have been troubled by the presence of Quenfrida. Flood, rain, murder, plague; all out of season. She said, briskly, “Then we’ll have to turn the river back to us, won’t we?”

  Gracielis shook his head. Then he pulled a face, and said, “Merafiens!”

  “What did you expect me to say?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m not going to give up.” Yvelliane rose.

  “And I intend to start by doing something about your Quenfrida.”

  “She isn’t my Quenfrida.”

  “If you say so,” Yvelliane said. “Did she send you to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s go and start the relevant proceedings.” Gracielis looked uncomfortable. She said, “Come on.”

  He was looking at his feet. “About Kenan Orcandros . . .”

  “He doesn’t like non-Lunedithin. However beautiful they might be.” Gracielis looked suitably desolated. “And I doubt he likes men either.”

  “I’d very much like to meet him anyway.”

  Yvelliane said, “I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll introduce you to him, if you’ll let me watch Quenfrida’s reaction to meeting you in my company.”

  He frowned. “She already knows there’s a connection between us.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Humor me anyway.” Still he hesitated. “I don’t imagine she can do you any real harm in so public a place.” He looked down, hiding his expression behind his lashes. “Come on.”

  He took her hand with good grace and let her draw him back into the Chamber. Quenfrida sat amidst an attentive circle near one of the long windows. Reflected candlelight burnished her hair and struck lights from her jewels. She glanced up as they approached, and her face showed nothing beyond the most perfect politeness. She said, “Good evening, Lady Yvelliane.”

  “Good evening,” Yvelliane said. Quenfrida made room beside her on the chaise longue. Her perfume was stifling. Yvelliane prevented herself, with a slight effort, from pulling her skirts against her, and said, “I’ve brought one of your countrymen to meet you.”

  “Really?” Quenfrida did not trouble to look at Gracielis. “How thoughtful.”

  “I do my best. We must look after our guests, after all.” Yvelliane gestured to Gracielis. “May I present Monsieur de Varnaq?”

  Gracielis was pale beneath his paint, and his practiced smile was a little forced. He bowed elaborately, trailing lace and perfume.

  Quenfrida looked at his two-colored gloves, and her smile widened. “I’m always delighted to meet a friend of the councillor.”

  Gracielis said, “I also. Especially one who is both so fair and a compatriot.”

  “I might say the same.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “But no. I’m never too kind. Only kind enough.” Quenfrida’s smile this time was cruel. Yvelliane felt rather than saw Gracielis flinch before it.

  His voice was steady. He said, “Then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to dance with me?” He held out to her his left hand, the light one. Quenfrida glanced once at Yvelliane, and her eyes were amused. Then she took the hand and followed Gracielis into the dance.

  He danced beautifully. But beside Quenfrida, he was unexpectedly angular. Yvelliane watched them for a few moments, then rose, intending to seek out Firomelle.

  Instead she found herself looking round for Thiercelin. He was nowhere in sight. Gracielis had not answered her question on that subject. She had to stop herself from thinking about it. The survival of a marriage could never be more important than the safety of a state. She would need a full and detailed report from Gracielis; and she would have to have Quenfrida’s expulsion papers drawn up. Plenty of time, later, to find Thiercelin. Miraude swept up to her in a flurry of silk and said, laughing, “I’m all out of breath. I must be getting old.”

  “Oh, indubitably.” Yvelliane could not help smiling. “I can see the gray hairs.”

  “Charming.” Miraude smiled back, fanning herself. “You stole my partner, Yviane. I shall sulk!”

  “I’m sorry, Mimi. I needed to talk to him. Didn’t Thierry look after you?”

  “Not him. One dance, then he fled into the gaming room.” Miraude pulled a face. “I’m quite abandoned.” Her face grew serious. “I have something for you. It may be nothing, but . . . The university scholar who showed Prince Kenan and me round the Old Temple remains has vanished.”

  “There have been a number of odd deaths in the city recently.”

  “Yes. But he seems to have been one of the first to go missing.” Miraude looked across at Kenan. “I saw Prince Kenan a day or two ago, and he pretended he’d found the archaeological site dull. But I’m not sure. He’s done something, I’m sure of it. If I could get closer to him, I might be able to find out more . . .”

  “If he’s behind that man disappearing, maybe you should back off for now.” Yvelliane took Miraude’s hand. “Be careful, Mimi. I can’t spare you.”

  “I’m always careful.” Miraude squeezed her fingers and looked at the dance floor.

  Yvelliane followed her gaze. She could still see Gracielis amidst the dancers. There was a curious hesitance to his movements, as if he sought too hard for some form of control. Yvelliane looked away again and found Firomelle’s eyes on her. The queen raised an inquiring brow. Yvelliane gave her a small nod and turned back to the dancers in time to see Gracielis come to a complete halt, displacing the measure. Quenfrida said something, and Gracielis replied, before pulling away from her with a violence that ripped all grace from him.

  The disruption rippled out over the dancers. Quenfrida smiled and shrugged, returning to her seat. Miraude said, “And there’s another mystery.”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Catching Firomelle’s eyes, she held up three fingers and saw the queen nod in reply. “I have to go.”

  “I’ll try to talk to Thierry. He should come home.” It could do no good. But Miraude was gone before Yvelliane could say anything. She possessed herself of a bottle of wine f
rom a buffet and let herself out through a side door. She found Gracielis standing in a window embrasure in the corridor. His forehead was pressed to the glass. His arms were wrapped about himself. He did not look around.

  She said, “Well?”

  He was silent so long that she began to think he would not answer. Eventually he drew in a long breath and said, “Does it matter?” His accent was pronounced.

  “You tell me.” She kept her voice light. “There’s a private room just over here.”

  He looked around. He said, “Very well,” and accompanied her into the chamber.

  She poured wine for both of them and sat. He stood staring into the empty fireplace. She said, “Will you tell me?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. And then, “I wish it would stop raining.”

  “What?” Yvelliane said.

  “Nothing. I rather wish you hadn’t done what you just did.”

  “You know the reasons.”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Forgive me. I made a scene.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  He hesitated, then tugged off one of his gloves and began to rub at a wrist. It was bandaged. She looked inquiring, and he shook his head. Then he said, “Quenfrida . . . The worst thing is that she makes humiliation almost into a pleasure. She’ll kill me for this.”

  “We can give you protection.”

  “Not against Quenfrida.” He smiled a little. “You should look to yourselves, in that department.”

  “We will.”

  He studied her in silence. Then he said, “In the long term, you know, it doesn’t matter which of you wins. You can’t undo what she has done.”

  “I’m concerned with the short term. And I don’t like absolutes.” She hesitated. “What did she say to you?”

  “Nothing of significance . . .” He sighed and picked up his wine. “She told me what it’s like to bed with her newest disciple.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Yes.” He sat, and looked at his hands.

  Yvelliane said, “Do you want to go? I can excuse you to Miraude.”

  He shook his head. “No, that would be a discourtesy. She—Quena—is finished with me, I think.” He lifted his wine and studied it. Rather abruptly, he drank it off. “And I have yet to be presented to Kenan Orcandros.”