by Rachel Aaron
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Spiritualist Miranda Lyonette,” Miranda said, straightening up. “I—”
The maid’s eyes widened the moment Miranda spoke her name, and she stepped back immediately. “Forgive me, Lady Miranda, I didn’t recognize you.”
Miranda didn’t see how she could have, being as the girl was younger than she was and the last formal portrait of Miranda had been painted when she was three.
“Your mother is taking her breakfast in the corner parlor,” the maid continued, shutting the door behind Miranda the moment she was through. “This way, please.”
Miranda followed the girl with a growing sense of dread. The mansion’s interior was as opulent as its exterior, all lofty white ceilings and dark wooden floors covered with thick scrollwork carpets that muffled her boots to nothing. By the time they reached the corner parlor, which turned out to be on the second floor, Miranda was feeling decidedly small and shabby. Even so, she kept her head up and her fingers spread to show off her rings. She had only three—Durn’s large emerald, Alliana’s moss agate, and the heavy gold band of the Spirit Court itself—but she thrust them out like her hands were covered. Much as she would have loved to show off Eril’s pendant as well, she kept him hidden below her shirt. Even bound, wind spirits could be tricky, and nervous as she was right now, it was best if Eril stayed close to her core where she could keep a good feel on him.
The maid opened a white-painted door and stepped aside with a curtsy, letting Miranda walk into the small, sunny room painted a girlish shade of pale pink. Her mother was sitting on a white silk chair by the large glass window, sipping her tea and staring down at the street below. The pale pink color of the room set off her cheeks and the light blonde of her hair, creating the perfect picture of a lady taking her ease, which was undoubtedly the exact image she wanted to project. Almasetta Lyonette left nothing to chance.
“Miranda,” she said, turning to smile at her daughter, but the smile dropped the second she actually looked at her. “Powers, child, what did they do to you?”
Miranda sighed deeply. “Hello to you, too, Mother.”
Alma didn’t bother answering. She shot up from her chair and marched over, setting down her teacup on the carved mantel so she could grab Miranda’s chin and turn her face side to side. “Gracious, girl,” she muttered. “Did you take no care of your beauty at all? Your skin’s brown as the floor. What have you been doing, squatting in the sun?”
That was exactly what Miranda had been doing, actually, but it made no difference. No eyes except Alma’s could have picked out more than a shade of difference between mother and daughter, but Alma would never let a little thing like that keep her from finding fault.
“And your hair,” she continued, shoving her fingers past Miranda’s head to grab large, curly handfuls of her shoulder-length hair. “What did you do, chop it off with an ax?”
“It got caught when Master Banage and I were dealing with an Enslaver,” Miranda said, ducking out of her mother’s grasp. “Would you rather I’d lost my head instead?”
Her mother pressed a delicately manicured hand to her forehead and sank onto the divan in the corner. “You will be the death of me,” she sighed dramatically. “Why was I cursed with such a child? None of your sisters gave me these sorts of problems.”
“Well, maybe Father should have called one of them home, then, rather than dragging me,” Miranda snapped. It was petty, but she couldn’t help it. Being around her mother always made her feel like she was thirteen again.
“Mind your tone, dear,” Alma said, but the reprimand was more reflex than anger. “A lady’s voice is gentle. No one likes a shrew.”
“Why am I here?” Miranda demanded before she could give in to her old fallback of stomping off in a huff. “And don’t say you missed me.”
“Of course I missed you, dear,” her mother said. “The house has felt so empty since Tima got married last year. And when I saw Martin’s invitation, I just knew here was my chance to have all my girls together again.”
“Invitation?” Miranda said. “What invitation?”
Alma blinked in surprise. “Martin Hapter’s, darling. We’re going to his country home for a few days. Leaving this afternoon, actually. You mean your father didn’t tell you? Where are you going?”
Miranda was already at the door. “Back to where I belong,” she snapped, grabbing the knob. “I’m not going to a house party, and I’m not playing docile daughter for you or Father.”
The knob rattled under Miranda’s hand, and she realized with a flash of rage that the maid had locked it. She turned around slowly to see her mother was standing now, her pretty face, still girlish after almost fifty years and three children, was set in a scowl that still made Miranda cringe.
“Miranda Regina Felecia Lyonette,” she said sharply. “I understand that Banage has allowed you to run quite wild, but this isn’t your Court. This is my house, you are my daughter, and you will do as you are told. It is your duty to this family to at least pretend at a semblance of decorum. Now, you will go upstairs and change into something presentable, and then you will drive out to Mr. Hapter’s with us, and you will behave like a lady. Do I make myself clear?”
When she’d been a little girl, that speech would have sent her scurrying. But Miranda wasn’t a little girl anymore, and she wasn’t going to be pushed around. “I’m not going to a house party,” she said firmly.
“Is that so?” Alma said, crossing her arms. “And here I heard Spiritualists were supposed to be dutiful. I see that’s a lie, considering how quick you are to throw aside the duty you owe your family. The family who raised you, who supported your wish to go to the Spirit Court when no other family of breeding would dream of sending a daughter to such a place. “
“You sent me there to get rid of me!” Miranda shouted.
“How can you say that?” Alma replied, clutching her hands against her chest. “I’m your mother! I nearly died giving birth to you. You are my darling, my own beautiful jewel. Dress it up however you like, but the fact remains that you owe me your life, and your father as well. We have asked nothing of you, and spoiled creature that you are, you take that as your right. But it is a child’s duty to mind her parents, and you will abide by me on this.”
It was the duty comment that undid her, and Miranda clenched her fists. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “But as soon as this party is over, I’m going back to Court.”
“After this party, you won’t be my problem,” Alma said, ringing the little bell on the table beside her. “Now go upstairs and put on something that doesn’t look like you stole it off a farmhand. We leave after lunch.”
Miranda gaped at her mother, but before she could get a word in, the door clicked open and the maid entered.
“Take Lady Miranda to her room,” Alma said. “And watch to make sure she puts on the dress I bought her. Also, see if anything can be done to her hair.”
The maid curtsied and looked at Miranda. With a deep breath, Miranda got a firm handle on her anger and motioned for the maid to lead the way.
* * *
Six hours later, Miranda was dressed in the most uncomfortable, frilly contraption she’d ever worn in her life; her hair was pinned back so tightly her face felt stretched; and her feet had been squeezed into tiny shoes half an inch too small to fit her toes. But all of that would have been bearable had she not been in a carriage with her mother, father, and sixteen-year-old sister.
“Really, Miranda,” Alyssa said, twirling her own strawberry blond curls. “Your dress is yellow and still you’re wearing that ugly green rock on your thumb?”
“That is Durn,” Miranda said, staring pointedly out the window at the rolling farmland that surrounded Zarin. “And he’s a stone spirit large enough to crush this carriage without noticing, so mind your tongue.”
“Are all Spiritualist rings so mannish?” Alyssa continued, leaning across the carriage. “I heard you showed up at the door
wearing trousers. What kind of nonsense is going on at your Court anyway? Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re a Lyonette, they wouldn’t even let you in to a party like this.”
“Were you always this much of a snob?” Miranda snapped.
“Girls,” Alma said with a sweet, warning voice that hid murder. “That’s enough.”
Alyssa flopped back with a dramatic huff, but she kept her mouth shut. Miranda was glad. All this family time was wearing her thinner than any Enslaver. The only reason she was still in this carriage at all was because her mother had said she could leave after this party. It was her shining hope, and she clung to that promised escape with everything she had until the carriage finally turned through a pair of stone pillars onto a long drive that ended at the largest house Miranda had ever seen.
It was like someone had decided to build a city in the middle of nowhere. The main house was in the Zarin style, an enormous, soaring structure of white stone and tile roofs with white-painted timber supports, but unlike Zarin, which was ancient, this building was entirely new. Every inch of it shone like a snowflake against the green, green grass of the lawn surrounding it. The large windows were all glass, the front drive was paved with a mosaic of a seashell, and though it was barely five in the evening, all the torches were already lit.
They were hardly the first to arrive. There were five carriages already waiting on the drive and a dozen more pulled around by the stables. Miranda was the first one out when the footman opened their door, pulling her absurdly large skirts along with her and cursing her mother for every one of the frilly petticoats the woman had made her wear. The tiny pointed heels of her too-small shoes sank into the soft grass, making walking difficult. She was getting ready to kick them off altogether when a man’s voice cut through her black thoughts of shoe destruction.
“Lady Lyonette?”
Miranda looked up to see a man standing just a few feet away. He was dressed far too nicely to be a servant, but he didn’t have that effortless snobbery of a noble. He was tall but not handsome, though not ugly either. He mostly looked put-upon and bored, like he’d rather be doing anything else besides standing here, though he did manage a smile at her.
“Miranda!” Her mother cried as she came out next. “Where are your manners?”
“I have no idea,” Miranda muttered, looking back at the man. “Who are you, sir?”
Her mother gasped a little, but the man didn’t seem fazed at all. “Martin Hapter,” he said, putting out his hand.
Miranda shook it with wary curiosity. It was customary for a host to greet his guests, but they usually did it inside, not by coming out and stalking the carriages. Still, he’d done nothing to upset her yet, unlike her family, so there was no reason to be rude.
“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Hapter,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “I am Spiritualist Miranda Lyonette of the Spirit Court.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Spiritualist?”
Miranda smirked. Her parents must have neglected to mention that tidbit. Her mother was certainly turning a nice, splotchy shade of pink.
“Miranda is a wizard, sir,” she said at last, moving to stand beside her daughter. “Knowing nothing of wizardry, we thought it best to let the Spiritualists teach her.”
“Teaching doesn’t mean taking oaths,” Martin said, looking Miranda up and down. “You’re sworn, then?”
“I am,” Miranda said, holding out her gold ring so he could see.
Martin didn’t even look, but his polite smile fell to a distracted frown, like he was doing math in his head. “I suppose it makes no difference,” he said at last. “Why don’t you come inside?”
Their carriage was blocking the way, so the whole Lyonette family piled out and followed their host into his enormous house. A head of the family and the highest ranking noble, Lord Simon should have walked first, but Martin led the way, and Miranda walked beside him when her mother wouldn’t let her walk anywhere else. Miranda didn’t pay much attention to that after the initial shock, though. She was too busy gaping at the house.
It really was like a palace. Every inch of it was a work of art. Antiques and collectibles from all over the world were arranged to their best advantage throughout the rooms. The lamps hung from enormous rings of antlers cut from animals she’d never seen before. The paintings on the walls were from a broad variety of styles and schools, and the floor alternated between polished stone and some kind of yellow wood she didn’t recognize. Every room was painted a different color, and through the windows Miranda could see a garden filled with plants she couldn’t even name.
“Your house is very impressive,” she said after they’d walked through the third room that would have been at home in a king’s treasury.
“Thank you,” Martin said. “Our company deals mostly in metals and timber, both of which have been booming since the Council lifted the tariffs. We have offices all over, and most of my year is spent traveling among them. I try to bring things back from wherever I visit, but since I’m gone so often, this house is more of a museum than anything else.”
“You’re in trade?” Miranda regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth. She sounded as snobby as Alyssa, but she just couldn’t believe her parents would go to a party thrown by a tradesman. Her mother didn’t even answer letters from anyone who couldn’t prove at least three generations of noble blood.
“Yes,” Martin said, glancing at her. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” Miranda said. “I think it’s very impressive.” Always nice to find someone with money who’d actually earned it. Nice, and rare, though getting less rare as the Council’s influence grew.
Martin left them in the ballroom, which had more windows than walls and looked large enough to act as a formation field for an army. There were close to a hundred other guests there already, and Miranda was starting to worry where they would all sleep when she caught sight of a beloved figure in the crowd.
“Tima!” she cried, louder than she’d meant. Across the room, a beautiful blonde woman looked up and smiled indulgently as Miranda ran over and enveloped her in a huge hug. Trintima was her older sister and the only member of her family Miranda actually liked. Tima might look just like their mother, but her graceful-lady routine wasn’t an act.
“Miranda,” Tima said, looking her sister up and down when they finally broke apart. “You’re looking well.”
“Don’t let Mother hear you say that,” Miranda said. “How have you been? Mother said you got married.” Actually, Tima’s marriage had been the only thing Alma had talked about all the way through lunch and into the carriage. Tima, with her gentle manners and lovely looks, had married into the Whitefall family, a great triumph for minor nobility like the Lyonettes. Of course, Alma was distressed that Tima’s husband was only a second cousin to the Merchant Prince, but a Whitefall was a Whitefall. They had to be good for something eventually.
“Yes,” Tima said. “He couldn’t come, but he sends his love. He wanted to meet you.”
Miranda found that hard to believe, but she was willing to let it lie for Tima’s sake. “I’m sorry I missed the wedding.” No one had bothered to tell her about it, but Miranda wasn’t going to bring that up, either. “I’m so glad you’re here. If I had to live through four days of this with no one but Alyssa and our parents, I think I might actually go crazy.”
Tima glanced over her shoulder at their youngest sister, who was standing at the center of a growing circle of admirers. “Alyssa’s energy can be tiring,” Tima said in that gentle way of hers.
“Alyssa is tiring,” Miranda corrected. “She’s a spoiled flirt and a featherbrain.”
“Now, now,” Tima chided, but she was smiling. “Don’t you like the house?” she asked, deftly changing the subject.
“It’s certainly impressive,” Miranda answered. “Especially for being this close to Zarin.”
“Mr. Hapter’s family has been very fortunate,” Tima said. “He’s one of
the richest men in Council.”
“Which explains how a man in trade managed to get all these Zarin blue bloods to come visit his little museum,” Miranda said, snagging a cup of punch from one of the passing waiters. “Poor Hapter. He can dazzle this crowd with money all he likes, but unless he suddenly uncovers a noble relative, all he’ll ever be is an oddity so far as the Zarin nobility is concerned. They’re snobs to the bone.”
“Miranda!” Tima gasped, looking around to see if anyone had overheard.
Miranda just shrugged and drank her punch. It was the truth, and she wasn’t here to be polite. At least the punch was good.
Around this point, the servants brought in card tables, and the crowd began to break into teams. Since the Lyonette family was five, that left an odd player, but Miranda was more than happy to duck out. Card playing was one of those noble time wasters she’d never understood. Honestly, the whole concept of wasting time for pleasure struck her as stupid. Why would you ever want to waste something that you never had enough of? Of course, this whole trip was a waste of time, so far as she was concerned.
But the card game would keep her mother off her back for at least the next hour. That was a gift in itself, and one Miranda was determined not to waste. She was about to sneak off and find something constructive to do, like letting Eril out to work with him on control for a bit, when a voice spoke right beside her.
“Don’t care for cards?”
Miranda managed to keep from jumping at the last second. She turned to see Martin Hapter standing at her side, looking out over his guests like a foreman surveying his crew.
“I’ve never cared for them, either,” he said. “Dreadful waste of time.”
“If that’s how you feel, why did you set up a tournament?” Miranda said, edging down the wall to put a bit more distance between herself and her host.
Martin shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing they expect from a house party.” He glanced at her. “But since card games don’t appeal to you, Miss Lyonette, perhaps you’d like a tour of the rest of the house?”
