by M. J. Scott
Had he been so serious before he manifested his powers? She hadn't known him then. He was three years older than Charl, four years older than her. He'd been in his final year at the Academe the year she'd manifested, and she hadn't known him by more than sight and reputation. She had no real skill for illusion and therefore not a candidate for the advanced training that might have led to their paths crossing. Her few memories of him from the Academe were of a serious face above the black robes, illusioner silver at his collar.
"It's only another measure or two and the dance will be done," he said. "It would be better for you to stay with me until then. Anything else will only draw attention."
"I'm well aware how to behave, my lord," she said, resisting the urge to tread on his feet. He was nimble enough to dodge anyway.
"That's not what I meant," he said, mouth flattening briefly as he guided her through the next turn.
How were her feet still moving? She'd danced with Lucien plenty in the past, and he'd been a perfect partner, as graceful as Jean-Paul. She couldn't remember a single time when Lucien had stumbled or put a foot wrong during any of the many dances they'd shared. It had always been fun to dance with him, her teasing him gently and he offering back his own wit and smiles.
But now he felt foreign, and every word he spoke hit her exactly the wrong way, scraping at raw nerves. Only a minute more, she told herself. Her heart was pounding, and her face felt hot. Every muscle screamed to leave, but he was right. A scene would be worse.
The last notes sounded and she made herself leave her hand in his, waiting for him to release it, rather than rudely tugging it away.
When he did, she muttered, "Good night, my lord," as she curtsied faster than was strictly polite. Keeping her smile fixed, she turned and made her way from the dance floor. It was an effort to walk, not run. The room was stifling and suddenly too small as she headed for the doors. She left the ballroom and moved on instinct, toward the rear of the townhouse and the garden that lay beyond.
There was no guarantee the garden would be empty, but anywhere would be an improvement over the ballroom.
But when she stopped through the back door, no one was in sight. She moved deeper into the garden, hand clenched too tightly on the sticks of her fan as she tried to cool herself down and not give in to the urge to loosen the back of her dress so she could catch her breath.
She could breathe perfectly well. She wasn't foolish enough to lace too tightly.
Besides, if she did manage to undo the damned buttons, there was no way she'd be able to do them up again. Being discovered in Imogene's garden half undressed was not the way to avoid a scandal.
But her breath still came too fast.
Lucien. Damn him.
She'd been doing well. Thinking it was possible that Imogene was right and she could become part of life in Lumia again. But the truth was it wasn't going to be so easy. She had been Madame de Montesse, Illvyan refugee and therefore automatically suspect and strange in Anglion. Here she was Madame de Montesse, either tragically fooled widow to those who believed the emperor's declaration, or likely traitor who had managed to get away with it to those who didn't.
That would change over time. She could live quietly and people would lose interest, as they had in Anglion. But that was exhausting to contemplate. She'd lost so much time already. Why did she have to fight again, here, where things had once been simple? She wanted to be somewhere where things could be simple again. Or at least where she had no reputation preceding her. Where people judged her on who she was and the skills and qualities she had to offer.
People who saw just her.
But she had no idea where that might be.
A sob caught in her throat.
"Chloe?" Imogene's voice came softly from behind her. "What's wrong?"
She didn't turn to face her friend. Didn't want Imogene to see her so close to undone. They'd cried back in Anglion, when they'd finally been alone together, after the shock of the rescue attempt and the assassination of Queen Eloisa and the upheaval that had followed in its wake. She'd been determined not to cry again. She was home. She should be happy.
"I'm all right," she managed.
"Jean-Paul told me Lucien was here," Imogene said. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't invite him. And I didn't imagine that he would just appear. He isn't a regular at our parties."
Just her luck. The one night Lucien de Roche decided to kick up his heels was the night she took her first tentative step back toward society.
"I don't care about the Marq of Castaigne," she said savagely.
Imogene snorted. "I hardly need to share his talents to know that can't be true."
"I don't want to talk about Charl," Chloe said, whirling to face Imogene. "I can't change what happened."
"Of course you can't," Imogene said. "But that also means you can't change the fact that it still affects you. That what he did altered your life. But you can control your reaction."
Chloe clenched her jaw, anger chasing away some of the distress. She had been nothing but controlled for years now. "Maybe I shouldn't have come back."
Imogene's eyes widened. "What? That's ridiculous. You're Illvyan. You belong here, with the people who love you."
"The people who love me can't see me as who I am," Chloe said. "You don't know who I am now. You love me, I know that. I love you, too. But to you, I'm still the idea you used to have in your head of me. I want to be the person I am now. And I don't know how to become that here in Lumia. With all of it hanging over my head." She snapped the fan out in frustration, flapping it back toward the townhouse. Maybe it would cool her temper along with her face.
To her credit, Imogene didn't flinch or try to argue. She just regarded Chloe for a moment, the moonlight glinting off her diamonds, then asked, "Who do you think you are?”
Chloe blinked. She'd been expecting an argument. More protests that she should just give herself time to adjust. That she'd find her feet. That she'd fit back in. But why should she fit back in? Maybe there needed to be changes.
"I wanted to join the mages, once upon a time. Travel. See the world a little. Do some good. Like you did."
She hadn't realized until she spoke the words that they were true. Or still true, perhaps. Joining the mages was a dream she'd made herself let go of when Ana had fallen ill. And then she'd buried it entirely in Anglion. Holding onto it would have torn her apart. To survive there, she had to be small. It sounded strange to say it out loud. But it didn't feel strange.
"Well, you could still join," Imogene said in a matter-of-fact tone.
She blinked. That wasn't the answer she'd expected. "I'm too old," she said. Most mages joined the army straight out of the Academe.
"Not for the diplomatic corps, if that's what you want. Diplomats need brains, not muscles." Imogene smiled. "Not that you're not capable of defending yourself. But the corps looks for other skills than the ability to wield a sword. You'd be an asset. You can't deny you have unique experience to bring with you."
"Don't they also want skilled mages? I'm rusty. Very rusty." Madame Simsa still hadn't let her try her water magic.
"Rust is polished away easily enough. What matters is whether the metal beneath is still strong. And you were always strong. You've proved that by surviving Anglion for a decade. You can do this, if it's what you really want to do."
"It might kill my mother," Choe said, naming another fear. "I'm not sure she'll cope if I announce I want to go traipsing all over the empire."
"Your mother is no longer ill," Imogene said, waving her fan dismissively. "And yes, perhaps she will be upset. But she'll forgive you if she sees it makes you happy. And she wouldn't forgive herself if she realized you were staying in Lumia and hating every second just to make her happy."
"I'm not so sure about that. She hasn't wanted to let me out of her sight."
"Also a natural reaction. But one that will ease with time. It might even speed things up if you went on a short mission and returned safe and soun
d. It would set her mind at ease to know you aren't going to vanish again."
The tightness in her chest was easing, the night air cooler now against her skin. Imogene made it sound easy. And that it was normal that she should want to attempt this. Was she right? "What if I hate it?”
"Well, then, you return and try something else. Nothing is set in stone."
Easy for Imogene to say. Her life had followed a steady path after that one unexpected fork when she met Jean-Paul. She had money and power, and no one would gainsay her if she decided to take up an eccentric interest.
She didn't have to earn a living. And she hadn't lost ten years of her life.
But Chloe didn't know how to explain the lurking sense of time slipping away from her. "I guess. It all seems so daunting. How would I even apply to the mages now? Recruiters aren't looking for people like me."
Imogene grinned. "No. But they listen to their officers. Like me. I can promise a stellar recommendation. And they listen to generals from the regular corps. Like my husband, who adores you like one of his sisters. But in your case, love, if you truly want to move things along, I recommend starting at the top. Ask Aristides for his blessing, and no one else will stand in your way if he grants it."
Aristides. The name rolled so easily off Imogene's tongue. Chloe had met the emperor in Anglion, but she wouldn't have dared to address him as anything but Your Imperial Majesty. He had been kind to her, but it was hard to forget the power he wielded. With a word, he'd offered her the pardon and the means to come home. With a word, he could take that away again. He held the power of life and death over all the empire's citizens. Hardly a man one could regard casually. But apparently Imogene felt differently.
"And if he doesn't?"
"Well, then, you try things the regular way. Work at the Academe for a month or so to brush up whatever skills you are worried about, then go to headquarters and make your case. But I don't think the emperor will refuse to help. He brought you home. He wanted me to help you rejoin society. He seems to have taken an interest in you."
Was that a good thing or a terrifying one? "Why do I have the feeling that if Aristides orders them to take me on, that will come with its own set of problems?"
Imogene shrugged. "There may be some degree of resentment, but I doubt it would go much beyond that. Raw recruits get set some odd tasks, testing their mettle, so to speak, but I doubt they'd tease you too much. You're bringing more to the table than some fresh-out-of-school Academe student." She grinned suddenly. "Trust me, I was one of those. You know far more than I did back then."
Imogene had been a star pupil of her class. She could have had her pick of positions in the Imperial mages. Or any of the civilian mage guilds. Or even the Academe itself. But like Chloe, she'd wanted to travel and had chosen the diplomatic corps. She'd been twenty-two. Fresh from school. Surely Chloe could manage it now?
She took a deep breath. Imogene, too, had suffered through a scandal early in her career. Her very first mission had been a failure that set relations between Illvya and Andalyssia, the most northern country in the empire, back severely. It hadn't been Imogene's fault, but everyone on the mission had been caught up in the resultant disgrace, and she had to fight her way back to a second chance.
"You're thinking very hard," Imogene said. "You don't need to decide everything tonight. Come back and dance. Lord Castaigne has left, so you don't have anything to worry about. Or I can call for a carriage and you can go home. I'll tell people you have a headache."
"No," Chloe said. She straightened her shoulders. If she disappeared into the night, then it would just start rumors all over again. "I'll come back inside."
Imogene looked relieved. "Good. Supper will be served soon, and our cook made seila berry pies for dessert in your honor."
Seila berries had always been her favorite. Tiny and sweet with a burst of tartness at their heart. They didn't grow in Anglion. "Are seila berries even in season?"
"We have miles of greenhouses at Sanct de Sangre. We always have a few delicacies available to grace our tables all year. And your homecoming seems like a good reason to use some of them."
"Thank you," Chloe said. Seila berry pie might chase away the last of her anxieties. "I'm sorry I got upset."
"No need to apologize, I can only imagine it must be very strange. But I am on your side—don't ever forget that. And never hesitate to ask for help."
It was strange indeed to think she had people to call on now after fending for herself for so long.
"I won't," she promised. "Starting with now. Because I don't need to think about it. I would like to join the mages. Do you think you could get me an audience with Aristides?"
Imogene grinned. "That, love, will be even less of a problem than the seila berries."
Chloe laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"That Imogene Carvelle, my friend who once almost set her hair on fire trying to curl it, can now call on the emperor's favor. Life is strange."
"It is. But it's also an adventure. And yours is just beginning again.”
Chapter 7
"My lord Truth Seeker?"
Lucien looked up to find his junior grefiere, Kristof, hovering in the doorway.
"Yes?" he said, then regretted the sharpness of the tone when Kristof flinched. He was new to the role but had the makings of a good steward, and Lucien had no reason to be short with him. Especially when the irritation rising in his veins at the interruption was purely his own fault.
"A note from the Imperial office, my lord." Kristof moved to the desk and offered an envelope. "The courier said it was urgent."
"A new case?" Lucien asked, turning the envelope over, ignoring the throb in his temples at the thought of more work. The headache bedeviling him was of his own making. After he'd blundered into Chloe's path last night and she'd fled the damned ballroom as soon as possible to get away from him, he'd taken himself off to one of the salons he and his friends sometimes frequented, planted himself by the fire, and drunk most of a bottle of Ilvsoir, trying to drown out the memory of her face.
Goddess, she loathed him.
He didn't want to think about how much. It was just salting wounds that he should know to leave damn well alone. The resultant headache was the reason he had chosen to work from his office in his house in Arge-Nor rather than the one at the headquarters of the Imperial judiciary.
That and the fact that both his seneschal and his senior grefiere, Fidel, who handled the business of the estate for him when he couldn't do it himself, had been dropping tactful “you are spending too much time on the judiciary” hints for the last few weeks. He needed to spend a day or so where they could ask him all the things they wanted to ask and brief him on everything he needed to know and get him to authorize more damned bank drafts.
He'd already growled at Fidel that it was too damned early to discuss the breeding lines of pigs earlier that morning, which was probably why Kristof had been tasked with bringing him the message. He was clever—Fidel wouldn't have taken on anyone without the brains for the job—but perpetually cheerful and seemingly delighted to be learning the business of a grefiere. All of Lucien's household seemed to regard any sign of ill temper toward the lad as equivalent to kicking a puppy.
He turned the envelope over and frowned. It wasn't the Office of the Judiciary's seal on the back. It was the emperor's.
Damn.
He couldn't think of any good reason for Aristides to write to him. The trail on the Anglion scandals had largely run dry. They were looking for new leads on who the Anglions had hired in Lumia to attempt to kill Queen Sophia and her husband but so far had come up short. Likewise, they were yet to find the connections in Anglion. That was the only active case of his that the emperor had taken a direct interest in.
"That will be all," he said to Kristof. "I'll let you know if there's an answer."
Kristof nodded, his hand snapping a salute.
You could take the man out of the army, it seemed, but not
the army out of the man. The judicial corps didn't really stand much on ceremony. Kristof hadn't served that long with them before the chief clerk had dropped a word in Lucien's ear that Kristof had perhaps more talent for the civil side of the law, given he seemed to delight in contracts more than the criminal code. The cases the Truth Seekers got involved in were rarely pleasant, and some people just didn't have the stomach for the work.
It had been timely. Fidel had been not so subtly hinting that he needed an assistant. Fidel had interviewed Kristof, and after that, it had been easy to free the lad from his service. But Kristof had been through basic training and a year or so in the regulars and couldn't quite break himself of the habit of saluting a man who was a major, a Truth Seeker, and a marq. He would relax in time. Lucien's talent was rare, and he had always been pleased to use it to serve the empire, but when he was home, he wanted to be Lucien, not the soldier. Definitely not the Truth Seeker. He didn't want a household of staff who were in awe—or fear—of him.
He glared down at the envelope as Kristof closed the door on his way out. Tempting to toss the damned thing in the fire and pretend it hadn't arrived. He was in no mood for new tales of betrayal or thievery or dishonor.
Not when the remorse snaking through his stomach with poisonous persistence kept telling him he was guilty of all three.
But he served the truth. It was the only way he could reconcile the power the goddess had seen fit to damn him with. To make good of it.
It was the only way he could remain human. Men weren't supposed to know what other men were thinking, to see into their deepest hearts.
He'd caught a glimpse of Chloe's as they’d danced, those big dark eyes full of anger, and he hadn't had to use his power. She was never going to forgive him. And they were destined to cross paths and simply hurt each other more every time they did.
He couldn't avoid court. She was the best friend of a duquesse. It was inevitable.
So he needed a strategy for how best to handle those occasions. Definitely not as he had last night. But then again, simply abandoning her on the dance floor would have caused a scene. She didn't need scandal. He had let her go at the end, even though he had to force his hands to release her. He was a gentleman, and he would bloody well behave like one and leave her alone. His heart would get over it eventually.
