Tournament of Ruses

by Kate Stradling

  “Miss Moreland,” Lord Winthrop began. “I suppose you feel that this interview is just a formality for you, is that correct?”

  “No,” said Viola. The four committeemen straightened in their chairs. Mrs. Moreland scribbled something in her notes, never once looking up at her daughter.

  “You don’t? Would you care to elaborate?” Lord Winthrop pressed. “Surely you know that you’re the rumored favorite to win this tournament.”

  “Whether I’m the rumored favorite has no bearing on anything,” Viola replied. “This interview is no more a formality for me than it is for any other candidate. Or perhaps it’s merely a formality for us all. The Prince will do what he wants to do regardless, just as he always has and always will.”

  “You feel you know him well, then?” asked Lord Winthrop.

  “No,” she replied, and her eyes suddenly dropped to her hands. She fiddled with the fabric of her skirt. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know him at all. I’m never sure what he’s going to do from one day to the next. He’s unpredictable.”

  Flora glanced toward Will, who was suddenly anxious as he watched the interview. Charlie caught her looking. She swiftly turned back to the scene below.

  “You don’t like unpredictability?” one of the lords inquired.

  “I can’t depend on it, that’s all,” said Viola.

  “Ouch,” said Charlie in a low, sarcastic voice.

  “Be quiet,” Will retorted. “I’m dependable.”

  “We can certainly depend on you to stir up some trouble,” Charlie agreed. “Half the country’s in a fervor right now because of you.”

  “If you’re going to blame this tournament on anyone, blame your own father,” hissed Will. “He’s the one who told me I had to ask Parliament for permission to marry! And he just stood there with a smug expression on his face when the lords started offering candidates, too! It’s almost like he—”

  He caught sight of Flora and abruptly stopped speaking.

  Her curiosity was piqued. “Almost like he what?” she prompted.

  The Prince looked from her to Charlie. Resolutely he declared, “Almost like he orchestrated this whole debacle from the very beginning, that’s what.”

  Next to him, Charlie grunted. “He probably did.” Feeling two pairs of eyes upon him, he added, “Father advised Lord Dalton in private before his swearing in: he told him to be bold in asserting himself, and to actively pursue means of gaining clout among his peers. He knew you’d be there that day, and from what you’ve said, he knew the request you were going to make.”

  Flora’s stomach dropped at this admission, but her dismay was nothing in comparison to Will’s. “I’m going to wring his neck, the dirty, double-crossing—!”

  “That’s my father you’re talking about,” Charlie reminded him. “Keep talking and you’re going to miss all the fun below, too.”

  Viola’s interview had continued regardless of their argument, of course. The trio in the spyhole refocused their attention just in time to hear Mrs. Moreland’s first question.

  “Viola, what’s your favorite dessert?”

  The rest of the committee rolled their eyes in exasperation.

  “You know what my favorite dessert is, Mother,” said Viola, somewhat reprovingly.

  “Yes, dear, but I want to see whether you know it,” Mrs. Moreland replied.

  “It’s your oatmeal cake.”

  “Well, of course it is,” said her mother, and she wrote something in her notes. “Would the rest of the committee mind if I asked a follow-up question?”

  “By all means,” Lord Winthrop muttered.

  “Viola, do you love the Eternal Prince?”

  The room grew suddenly still. Viola’s eyes rounded as a self-conscious blush bloomed upon her cheeks. She opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly—

  “Hey!” cried Will, bounding to his feet. To Flora’s great horror, he pushed open a small door in the scrolled panel that hid them from view and called down to the interviewers, “You can’t ask her that question! I haven’t asked her myself, and I won’t have her telling you before she tells me!”

  “Are you crazy?” Charlie hissed, pulling him back. “You don’t have your headdress on!”

  “They can’t see in here,” Will retorted over his shoulder. “It’s dark, and they’re in the light. I’m still in the shadows, too, so it’s okay.”

  Below, the interview committee gaped, aghast at this unexpected interruption—all except for Mrs. Moreland, Flora noticed. That woman simply smiled and added to her notes.

  Viola was beside herself with mortification. “Your Highness! How long have you been up there?” she demanded.

  “No one said I couldn’t watch,” Will replied. He reached forward and shut the little door. “Carry on, now,” he instructed through the panel.

  The lords on the interviewing committee floundered over how to proceed. Mrs. Moreland cleared her throat. “I think we’ve heard enough from this candidate. Don’t you agree? Perhaps it would be appropriate to use the remainder of her time for a short recess.”

  The motion quickly passed. Viola glared ominously up at the little spyhole and immediately left the room.

  “I’m probably in for it,” Will remarked to Charlie. “Do me a favor and take Flora back to her office, would you? No reason she should get caught alongside the both of us.”

  “You’d better come,” Charlie told her. Flora gathered up her books and obeyed. He led her up the stairs to the hall above; together they hurried away from the incriminating site before Viola could make her appearance.

  Guilt enveloped Flora as they went. “I didn’t think of how she’d feel if we were found out,” she admitted remorsefully.

  “You didn’t think of anything at all, did you,” Charlie replied.

  His words cut her to the quick. She stopped short, hurt by such a callous statement.

  “Well?” he prompted. “You didn’t, did you? You let him lead you around, just like you always let people lead you around.”

  Had she?

  “I didn’t,” she whispered, suddenly sure of those words.

  Charlie frowned.

  “I didn’t,” she repeated. “I chose to go. I wanted to see Viola’s interview. You’re no different. You were there to spy as well!”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Of course I was. She’s my sister.”

  “And she’s my friend. We didn’t mean any harm by going. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been alone with the Prince, but I didn’t even think of that. It wasn’t supposed to be scandalous or cruel. And who could predict that he’d betray our position himself?”

  “Like Viola said, he’s unpredictable,” Charlie remarked. In the ensuing silence, his countenance turned sheepish. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes, and she couldn’t quite meet his as they both floundered for words.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he told her at last. “It was childish of me. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too,” replied Flora. “I should’ve stayed where I was and studied.”

  The atmosphere between them was beyond awkward by now.

  “Let’s get you back,” he murmured. “You do have studies waiting, after all.”

  Gladly she fell in step behind him, all the way to her office door. He stood beside her as she extracted the key.

  “Can I—” he started. Flora looked up at him inquiringly. Charlie straightened his shoulders. “Am I allowed inside?” he asked. He quickly added, “Just for a minute, to see how you’re coming along with everything.”

  Flora’s brows arched. “Do you intend to help or hinder?”

  “Probably a little of both.”

  There was a teasing note in his voice, one that made her feel like they were on better terms than before. She supposed there was no harm in letting him review her studies, as long as he was nice about it.

  “What on earth are they teaching you?” he demanded on first inspection of the array of papers spread across her des
k, though.

  “Viola’s teaching me the language, and Edmund’s teaching me seals,” she said defensively.

  “Without the spell words? What’s the point? And look at these seals! Do you have any idea what these do?”

  She bit her lower lip and gestured to one. “I know that makes things combust.”

  “Yes, count on Edmund to teach you explosions,” he replied sarcastically. “This one makes things melt. This one freezes things solid. This one is for summoning a flurry of razor-blades—where did he even learn that? He’s not supposed to have access to those books for another two years! Oh, here’s one for purification, in case any contaminants get into the well. He must’ve slipped that one in by mistake. It’s actually useful to you!”

  “Are you telling me I’ve memorized a series of useless seals?” Flora asked in dismay.

  Charlie snorted. “They’re plenty useful if you want to start a war against your brownies—or they would be if you had the spell words. Here,” he added, and he grabbed a pencil to write something next to each seal. “You should at least be memorizing the words and the seals together, don’t you think?”

  “I just figured that the words would come later.”

  “You should’ve asked.”

  “I didn’t know I could! I’m in the hands of my tutors, for better or for worse. Besides, I thought they didn’t want me to know seals and spells together in case I were to try out a few at home.”

  He scowled at her. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

  She hedged, for the thought had crossed her mind.

  “Flora!”

  “I haven’t,” she insisted.

  “Well, don’t! Especially not with the seals Edmund gives you! Don’t practice any magic on your own. If anything goes wrong, no one would be there to help you. He should be teaching you protection seals, healing seals, things that might actually come in handy in your role as guardian. That’s the sort of thing my father’s going to test you on.”

  So Charlie had learned of the test. She wondered if that was the reason he was suddenly interested in her studies. Regardless, she was in no position to decline any help he chose to offer.

  “I really don’t understand how you expect to participate in both the tournament and my father’s assessment,” he abruptly remarked. “You should give up on one or the other.”

  Flora bristled. “Why? All that’s really left of the tournament is the exhibition. I have plenty of time to study.”

  “What’s your exhibit, then?”

  She had an idea for one, but she suddenly didn’t want to tell him. “I haven’t decided.”

  “But you have plenty of time? It starts in two weeks. Your assessment’s in three: Father said he was giving it to you the day after the tournament ends. Which is more important to you, Flora? Finding favor with the Prince and the nation, or tending to your duties as a guardian?”

  The intensity of his gaze flustered her. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why do I have to choose one over the other? Why does it matter? The tournament’s a farce—you said so yourself!”

  “So drop out,” he told her.

  “I can’t do that! You don’t understand! I can’t drop out—of the tournament or your father’s assessment. If I fail, I fail, but I can’t just give up without trying!”

  Her answer dissatisfied him. She could see that plain as day on his face.

  It made her heart flutter in her chest. “What does it matter to you?” she ventured, her voice seeming weak to her own ears.

  “It doesn’t,” Charlie said shortly. He looked to one side as he schooled the discontent from his expression. “It has nothing to do with me. Look, if you’ll let me, I’ll help you—not with the tournament; I’m not helping anyone with that. But I’ll help you with your studies, to make up for being so unhelpful before.”

  He met her gaze, his own perfectly steady. She saw shades of Prime Minister Moreland in that controlled look. Now she was the one who was disappointed.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, finding refuge in looking down at her hands. “I’d appreciate it.”

  He left soon afterward. Flora maintained her calm until the door shut behind him, and then she collapsed into her chair, shaken to her very bones.

  What had she expected? That he would ask her to drop out of the tournament for his sake? Of course he wouldn’t.

  But if he had…?

  She wilted, her head upon her arms upon her desk. She didn’t want to answer the question. She didn’t want to analyze why five minutes alone in a room with Charlie was so nerve-wracking to her when an hour alone with Will had been nothing. She barely even noticed the Prince, so why should Charlie’s presence put her into such a chaotic state of mind? It wasn’t logical.

  But certain things in life weren’t logical, by their very nature. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. She’d always been conscious of Charlie, from their first awkward meeting. It wasn’t love at first sight—she didn’t think she was capable of something like that—but it was a spark of interest, one that had grown while she wasn’t paying attention.

  It was no wonder he could rile her faster than anyone else. She liked him. She liked him in spite of his moodiness, in spite of Georgiana Winthrop and every other reason she had not to like him.

  And deep down, she wanted him to like her too. If he had honestly asked her to abandon the tournament for his sake…

  But he hadn’t. He hadn’t asked her. He was only kind to her because he was generally kind to everyone. And when the tournament was finally over, Georgiana and probably countless other girls would be lined up on his doorstep to curry favor with the future Prime Minister.

  Charlie was a lady-killer; she’d been told so from the very beginning.

  “Add another victim to his count,” Flora muttered glumly, but she would sooner die than admit it to anyone, and to Charlie most of all.

  Chapter Twenty: Frivolous

  It doesn’t matter. My feelings don’t have to govern my life. I certainly don’t have time for them to govern it right now, either. I don’t have time for anything other than studies and my preparations for the exhibit.

  Thank heavens for that, too. It keeps my mind nicely occupied.

  I am daily cursing myself for including a walking course in my list of fake assessments. I suppose I should be daily cursing the Prince for keeping it in. I’ll give him credit, though. (Or perhaps I’ll give Parliament credit?) The palace sent out a map of the course, and it’s not a course at all, but a promenade from the palace to the Royal Academy. It should take all of fifteen minutes at the very most. Would that my younger self had left it off the list entirely!

  (Except that it was funny to see so many girls balancing books on their heads. Shame on me for thinking so, but I do.)

  “What do you usually do on the weekends, Miss Dalton?” asked Mrs. Moreland pleasantly.

  Flora glanced past her to Viola at the kitchen counter; the girl seemed unconcerned about this question. “Back home I usually spent my time in the greenhouse,” she answered. “Here, I suppose I don’t have any particular routine yet.”

  It was Saturday again, and she should have been in her office studying. Instead, Edmund had informed her that they were going to his house. There were no interviews scheduled for Saturdays, and his mother wanted Flora’s company for the morning.

  “Lord Winthrop never comes up to the palace on a Saturday, of course,” Mrs. Moreland had remarked on the subject, “and we must adhere to his schedule, you know.”

  As Viola and Edmund were both home to keep their mother company, Flora did not know why her presence was required. She was not about to question the invitation, however.

  “What does your weekend usually involve?” she politely asked.

  “Oh, just house chores and such,” said Mrs. Moreland, and she poured herself a second cup of tea from the pot that sat between them. “Today is special.”

  Flora looked quizzically from Mrs. Moreland to Viola, who seemed just as confused.
>
  “What’s so special about today, Mother?”

  Mrs. Moreland smiled fondly. “Why, I told you first thing this morning that the seamstress was coming. She’ll be here any minute.” Her daughter’s mouth rounded in enlightenment; Mrs. Moreland turned back to Flora. “It’s always so exciting when the seamstress comes to consult on a new dress, don’t you think? And this one’s especially exciting because it’s a ball gown. She’s already made a mock-up in muslin, so we get to have Viola put it on to see how it fits and where it needs changes. Then, we get to pick a fabric! Won’t it be fun?”

  Flora realized that the “we” in Mrs. Moreland’s description included her. “Oh, yes,” she said, hoping that this wasn’t some sort of secret test to gauge how fashion-savvy she really was. Mary was doing wonders with her, but she had no confidence in her own skills.

  “Is that why you invited Flora?” asked Viola curiously. “For another opinion?”

  “Of course, dear,” said her mother. “It’s always good to have another set of eyes when reviewing these things, especially when it comes to ball gowns. Normally the country only ever has the Midsummer’s Eve banquet, of course,” she added for Flora’s benefit, “so this winter’s ball is such a wonderful opportunity. Given how abruptly it was announced, there’s hardly time for a new dress at all, but in Viola’s case we really didn’t have a choice.”

  Viola looked away self-consciously, her complexion paler than usual. Flora wondered at this reaction but thought it best not to ask. She knew that the Prime Minister’s daughter had attended the Midsummer’s Eve banquet, and that she had been dressed at the very height of fashion. Obviously some mishap had befallen that dress.

  “And what sort of dress do you plan to wear to the ball, Miss Dalton?” inquired Mrs. Moreland. She added coyly, “Am I allowed to ask?”

  “I suppose I’ll wear one of my evening dresses,” Flora replied. From what Mrs. Moreland had already said, there was probably a huge difference between those evening dresses and the ball gowns that other girls would be wearing, but evening dresses were all she had. She certainly wasn’t going to ask her father for a new dress so soon after he had supplied her with so many others. Besides that, the seamstresses in town were already swamped with work.