“I’m not done prancing yet,” Kaab said. “Next I go to the Hill.”
“Oh. No. You shouldn’t do that.” Rafe slouched back in his chair, making a face. “I’ve been exploring the Hill lately myself, and I don’t like it at all.”
“You don’t mind the Hill, pigeon,” Joshua said. “You just mind the work.”
Rafe shrugged, smiling slightly. “There are some benefits.” He said it like he had a secret, which meant it was about his duke. Which wasn’t a secret at all. Micah wasn’t sure why everyone kept pretending that it was.
“I must go to the Hill,” Kaab repeated.
“But why? The Hill will never appreciate you the way I do, my dearest Ixkaab. Let me buy you ale—or chocolate, if you prefer, although the stuff they sell here is utter dreck—and then you and I can talk to Micah about—”
“Because my family was invited to the party, of course. Are not you their secretary? You must have seen our name on the invitations.”
He paused with his hand half-raised to call a server, his eyebrows drawing down in confusion. “What party?”
“The Tremontaine ball!” Kaab threw up her hands in frustration. “There cannot be so many parties that you have forgotten.”
“Ah yes. As a matter of fact, I was asked to help the duchess with a few small matters—”
“You’re writing invitations?” Joshua asked, his voice incredulous. “I know I advised you to take the job, but, pigeon, I never imagined he would ask you to stoop so low.”
“It was one day—” Rafe began, but Micah had an important question and raised her voice over both of them.
“What’s a ball?”
“It’s a party,” Kaab answered after an awkward moment of silence, since Rafe was frowning fiercely and Joshua was focused on him, his gaze sympathetic. Henry was still staring at Kaab and then quickly looking away and pretending that he hadn’t been.
“Why didn’t the duchess write her own invitations? Doesn’t she know how to write?” Micah asked.
“Well, she does, but—”
“Does she have bad handwriting?”
“It shows how important she is,” Kaab explained. “She pays a secretary to write her letters for her, because she has many more letters than you or I do.”
Micah thought about that and then nodded. It made sense. “What will the party be like?”
“This is what I also want to know,” Kaab said, turning to Rafe.
He groaned but dropped his hands from his face. “Don’t ask me. I’m sick of talking about this ball already, and it’s still days away. Writing the invitations would have been terrible enough, but the duchess babbled at me the entire time about every single detail. Which flowers should she buy? What color should her dress be? What songs will the musicians play, and should two violinists be enough, or must she have three? And the rest of the household is going crazy. You’re entirely right about her using it to show how important she is. Why do we even have nobility? What antiquated purpose do they serve?” He turned his face toward the ceiling. “Did I go to University for this?”
“It will get better, pigeon,” Joshua murmured, squeezing Rafe’s shoulder.
Kaab ignored his tragic expression. “Why were the Balam invited? And what does one wear to balls on the Hill? My family has never attended a noble’s ball before.”
“No, no, no, no, no!” Rafe groaned. “Not you too! I like you. Don’t clutter up that brilliant mind with ribbons and lace, I beg of you. It’s bad enough that I’ve been reduced to a secretary; don’t make me a fashion consultant too.”
Micah was worried at the way Rafe was shouting and flinging his arms about, but Kaab smiled and put her dark hand over Rafe’s pale, nail-bitten one. “I like you too. And I believe you will not let me go to the ball looking like a stupid peasant.”
Rafe sighed loudly, but his shoulders slumped and he nodded.
“My cousin Dinah talks a lot about fashion,” Micah said. “She could help. But I don’t think she’s ever been to a ball. What happens at them?”
“I know a Dinah,” Joshua said musingly. “But this Dinah is very familiar with balls. She has this trick where she takes four of them and puts them—”
“Joshua! Not in front of a lady!” Henry shouted. Kaab glanced at him, surprised, and he turned beet red and stared hard at the tabletop, adding quietly, “It isn’t proper.”
Rafe held up his hands in a placating gesture. He answered Micah’s question first, which made her smile. “A ball is just a fancy party with dancing. People wear very expensive clothes and eat a lot of expensive food and talk to one another about nothing except the clothes and the food, and never about anything worthwhile like mathematics or natural philosophy or history.”
“What type of food?” she asked. “And how much?”
“Two hundred pounds of potatoes,” Joshua said, ticking each item off on his fingers, “ninety-nine loaves of bread, eight thousand tomato pies, three eels, an entire boar—”
“Wait, wait!” Micah scrabbled for a fresh sheet of paper. “I have to write it down; it’s too many to remember.”
“He’s making it up, Micah,” Rafe said, irritation showing in his voice.
“Then what do you eat at balls?”
“I don’t know! They didn’t make me write their shopping lists too. And anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“You must know something of what food is served,” Kaab said in a calm, soothing way that Micah found reassuring after all of the shouting. “I’m sure Micah would be grateful for an answer, and I would be also.”
Rafe snorted, but Kaab’s steady gaze made him look aside. “Apparently it is traditional for this ball to have a swan theme. Swans are on the Tremontaine family crest, you know, and the duchess is very proud of herself for finding ever new and inventive ways to incorporate swans into the ball each year. She was almost as tedious on this subject as she was on the dress. There will be pastries shaped like swans, and baked swans’ eggs, and cold swan pie. There will be a swan of ice, floating upon the punch bowl. But what she’s most proud of is her plan for a swan-shaped pudding, made of blackberries and wine.” He rolled his eyes. “It sounds utterly unappetizing to me. I advise you to eat well before arriving.”
“Are there vegetables?” Micah asked.
“There must be, I suppose.”
Micah shuffled through her papers, looking for the letter she had struggled to write to her family. Once she found it, she handed it to Rafe and asked, “Turnips?”
He looked at the letter and frowned, not understanding, then shrugged. “Only if she can make a swan out of turnips.”
“You can! I know you can!” She wriggled with excitement at her new idea. “The duchess needs to meet my cousin Reuben.”
“I don’t think the duchess—”
“He carves turnips. He’s very good at it—he can make houses, or faces, or little cows. We do it every Last Night, and put candles in them for the dead. I’m sure he could make swans! If the duchess bought them for her party, she would pay a lot, and then it wouldn’t even matter so much that I’m here and not there helping them. So I could stay and learn more about straight lines and spheres. If I go home now, I’ll never find out what the lines do!” Micah stood and leaned over the table toward Rafe. “You must tell the duchess.”
“She doesn’t want my menu advice. I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“What about the duke? He’s your boyfriend!”
Rafe sighed. “Yes, that would be why she doesn’t like me very much, thank you.”
“She needs swan turnips and I can get them. This is very important!” Micah shouted when she saw that Rafe was about to explain to her why it really wasn’t important after all and she should just listen to him. “I know more about turnips than you do. My cousin will be at the market tomorrow. Will you come with me and tell him about the ball and the duchess and also help him understand why I have to figure out the lines?”
“Yes,” Kaab answered. “Ye
s, he will. But first, he will tell me what one wears to a ball. And why the duchess would want my family to be there.”
Rafe looked at Joshua. “Why did I take this job?” he moaned.
“Think of your school, pigeon,” Joshua said. “Focus on that.”
Kaab returned home in a gloomy mood. All hope was not lost, but she certainly didn’t feel as though she’d solved the mystery as she’d promised. Part of the difficulty had been Micah and her belief in Tremontaine’s need for turnips, but Rafe had seemed grateful for the distraction. Presumably because he didn’t like his job, but Kaab couldn’t be sure. Could he be protecting Tremontaine from her inquiries? Did he know something about Ben’s death? Or about Diane’s interest in the Balam family?
The Balam household had returned to its normal activities, and she found Aunt Saabim in the kitchen, going over her own menus for the coming week with the cook. “Ah, little bee,” Saabim said, straightening up and putting a hand to her lower back. “Come, sit, and tell me what you have learned.”
Kaab settled on the floor next to her aunt. It was a difficult manner of sitting when wearing the Local clothing; the long skirt bound her legs and added to her irritation. Finally managing to arrange herself into a position that was tolerable, she flung an exasperated hand toward the menus waiting by Saabim’s north side. “I might as well have stayed here. They kept talking about food, no matter how many other questions I asked.”
“If they talked about it so much, perhaps it is important to them,” Saabim said mildly. “Tell me what they said.”
“I don’t think so.” Kaab switched her ankles from one side to the other but was no more comfortable. “It was a conversation about turnips. Micah’s people sell turnips and she wanted to sell some to the duchess, but Rafe didn’t think she wanted any.”
Saabim hummed thoughtfully. “Did Rafe say what the duchess is planning on serving?”
“He mentioned birds—”
“What kind?”
“Swans. Swans of ice, swans of cake, swans of pudding.”
Saabim exchanged a meaningful look with the cook. “But no actual swans, correct, ma’am?” the cook asked. “And what spices in the pudding?”
“Did you want recipes?” Kaab was beginning to understand Rafe’s hostility toward the frivolity of balls in general, and this one in particular.
“No,” Saabim said. “Did he mention anything else?”
“Swans’ eggs.” Again the significant look, the comprehending nods. “What?” Kaab asked. “What am I missing?”
“Ice, cakes, puddings,” said the cook. “These are the things one serves when one does not wish to spend a great deal at the market. Nothing more than flour and sugar and a cold storage room. This menu of the duchess’s . . . it is not impressive. Instead, it strives to hide a lack of wealth. I’d wager that even the eggs will be nothing more than goose eggs, chopped up to disguise their size.”
Kaab was sure the older woman had been introduced to her at one point, but she’d forgotten her name, and couldn’t ask now without appearing rude. She bowed her head to the cook thankfully, her mind racing. “If the duchess has no money, is that why she’s trying to make a deal with Uncle?”
“Perhaps,” Saabim said. “We need more information to be sure. I will keep an eye out at the ball for further indications of financial troubles, and you should do the same. Your uncle and I had already begun to suspect that such was the case. While you were busy”—and she delicately emphasized the word, making Kaab flush and look away—“we received word that the reduced tariffs she promised us will not be forthcoming soon. Her husband the duke somehow failed to attend the Council meeting where the matter was to be discussed! There is something very strange going on with that family, and if she wants our assistance, she will have to prove that she has something more to offer than empty promises and party invitations.” Saabim huffed out a breath of air. “Now, did Rafe tell you anything about clothing?”
“He said they wear the same things to a ball that they wear for every day, just more elaborate and made of more expensive fabrics. And never the same one twice.”
Saabim frowned. “Xamanek’s light! Then I suppose that none of the Local outfits we already have will do. But a week isn’t enough time to order new ones for everyone. What will we wear?”
“Why not wear our own clothes?” Kaab suggested. “The Locals seemed impressed with them at our banquet.”
“Those were City merchants,” Saabim said. “The nobles are very different. Even if this duchess is willing—or desperate enough—to break tradition to do business with us, I doubt she and her guests would find our anklets and nose rings anything but shocking—let alone the length of your uncle’s skirt!” She chuckled, but then looked grave. “No, this is a delicate matter. I will have to discuss it with Chuleb and the elder cousins.” She gathered the menus from the floor and handed them to the cook, then climbed to her feet. But before she left the room, she put a hand on Kaab’s shoulder. “Thank you. This is useful knowledge you have gathered for us. Your mother would be proud.”
It was only because she was so tired, Kaab told herself, that she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
Returning to the North Market brought a certain relief. While Rafe had never liked it—as the son of a merchant he resented being expected to waste his life on trays of bread and tins of spices—he knew it. His family was wealthy enough that they hadn’t needed to attend to the marketing themselves, but his father had insisted on it. He’d always said that there was no substitute for hands-on knowledge, for the innate skill at haggling and trading and making deals that could only come from being raised in the midst of a bustling market.
Rafe had avoided coming here as much as he could since he’d been at University, but everyone there ended up in North Market eventually; there was no way to escape the need to sell and to buy, to scrape and to hustle. Even Micah, normally only good with numbers, understood it instinctively. In the end, everyone needed turnips.
“Now, you both need to let me do the talking,” said Micah, turning to Rafe and then to Kaab. They flanked him like a wildly mismatched honor guard through the crowded lanes.
“Then why are we here?” Kaab asked.
“Details,” Micah said. “I need you to do the details.”
Once they’d found his cousin Reuben’s stall, Micah waited patiently, letting him serve the current customers. Kaab plucked a turnip from the pile on the wooden boards and turned it over in her hands, apparently unfamiliar with the purple-and-cream-colored vegetable, and Micah told her several facts about it that the boy probably thought were very interesting. He seemed calm now that he was actually here, despite his worry and desperate strategizing the previous night.
Finally Reuben greeted them. His voice was a mix of surprise, concern, and—most of all—curiosity: Rafe and Kaab likely seemed strange companions.
“I’m not here to go home, but I wrote you a letter,” Micah said, holding it out to his imposing cousin. “But then I found out something better than what was in the letter so I came to tell you in person.”
Reuben smiled, tired and fond. “What could be better than a letter from you?” He pulled a stool out from behind himself and sat down, apparently willing to spend some time with them despite it being midmorning, the best time for selling vegetables. A man who would do that didn’t seem likely to demand Micah’s immediate return, which eased Rafe’s worries. They were so close to solving the problem of navigation that he couldn’t afford to lose Micah now.
“The Duchess Tremontaine is having a ball,” Micah began seriously.
Reuben laughed, not unkindly. “Don’t tell me living in the City has made you take a fancy to parties? You used to not even like it when Judith’s sister and her little ones came to stay for Year’s End.”
“No, listen to me. The duchess needs turnips. She needs carved turnips, ones that look like swans. You could do that! No one can carve turnips like you! And because she’s a duchess she’ll pay
lots of money for them. You should go to her immediately.”
“Micah, the duchess don’t need our turnips. She’s got her own lands, and they produce plenty. Besides, someone like me can’t go to a duchess without an introduction.”
“I know that. Rafe can introduce you,” Micah said, tugging Rafe forward as though Reuben might not have noticed him. “He works for her!”
“Is that so?” Reuben didn’t seemed particularly impressed, which made Rafe like him even more.
“I’m the Duke Tremontaine’s secretary now,” he explained. “But I’m still helping Micah at University. Truly, we all expect great discoveries from him. So we appreciate your letting him stay.”
“That true, boy?” Reuben asked Micah.
“Micah is very happy at the University,” Kaab said, trying to be helpful.
“I just like solving things,” Micah said. “And I’ve solved this. We have to sell the duchess your turnips.”
“Micah, Tremontaine has this ball every year. Even if they wanted to serve turnips, which I doubt, they’d have ordered them weeks or even months ago. They plan that party very far in advance, just like we plan the plantings. I’m glad that you’re thinking of your family, even with all your new friends, but I think we’ll manage without providing turnips for this ball.”
Micah’s shoulders slumped. “Are you sure, Cousin?”
“If you’re not coming home yet, you’re not coming home yet. I’ll make sure everyone reads this letter.” Reuben reached across the stall’s front and thumped Micah’s shoulder in a friendly fashion. “Hey, why not go to the ball yourself? Then you could write us all about it. Your cousin Dinah’ll pine away from jealousy.”
The joke wasn’t unkind. Not to Micah anyway. But Rafe could see the consequences of it rushing toward him. In the hopes of distracting Micah, he offered to buy a few turnips. “As a thank you for your time,” he added.
“If you like,” Reuben said agreeably, “but if you’ll take my advice, we’re getting past the season for turnips. Let me show you our green cabbage instead.”
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 26
