by Sharon Shinn
Which was a comfort to me, if we were equally as difficult to scan.
One of the priestesses paused at the pew and asked if we wanted her to pray with us. Marguerite surprised me by shaking her head and looking down at her hands. The priestess walked on, but we sat there for another twenty minutes while Marguerite continued to meditate, her fingers methodically stroking the onyx disks of her bracelet. So she truly had come here this morning just to soothe her soul by laying her troubles at the feet of the goddess. Even I was beginning to feel the peace of the temple seep into my bones by the time Marguerite lifted her head. She touched her fingers to her forehead, breast, and lips, and the three of us quickly followed suit. Then we all rose to our feet and quietly exited the building, not having spoken a word since we stepped in.
“Can you find the way to the market from here?” Marguerite asked once we were back in the sunlight and crossing one of the bridges.
I glanced around because this was the point at which Nico generally came bounding out of the shadows, but he was nowhere in sight. Of course, that didn’t mean we hadn’t been followed by some other member of the inquisitor’s crew. I was just as glad our errands today all seemed to be completely innocent.
“I think so. Last time we walked there from the temple and first we took this street, to the right—”
Between the two of us, we remembered the way well enough, and the one time we had to ask a stranger for directions, he confirmed that we were on the correct route. As before, the flower market seemed to burst onto our senses in one glorious riot of color and scent the minute we turned the final corner. I practically gasped, and I heard Marguerite laugh.
“It’s just so beautiful,” she said.
“It really is.”
We browsed slowly, almost sensuously, pausing at stalls where the arrayed blooms possessed particularly intense shades, and sniffing at the air as if color produced its own weighted aroma. Tonight, Marguerite would be wearing a deep-dyed gown in a hue somewhere between red and purple; it was almost too vivid for her pale complexion, but I knew the right headpiece would draw attention back to her face. So we gathered bunches of lilacs, stems of roses, sprays of azaleas, and handfuls of violets, each petal just a tint away from the actual color of the dress.
“I can hardly wait to get started putting these together,” I said as we headed over to the carts-for-hire and paid for passage home.
“Do you have time to make four of them before tonight?”
“I do—but it will take me the rest of the day.”
Marguerite patted the back of her head. “Then I think I feel another of my headaches coming on.”
She said as much to Lourdes, who was naturally lurking in the foyer when we returned to the palace. “Shall I have lunch sent to your rooms?” the housekeeper offered.
“Oh, that would be so kind of you! Enough for Brianna, too, since I will want her to stay by me in case I need something.”
“Certainly, my lady.”
As soon as we were in her suite, I hastily switched to my workaday attire. “If I ever leave your service, I think I’ll join a theater group,” I observed. “Not only am I getting a great deal of experience as an actress, I’ve become adept at quickly changing my appearance, which is something I understand actresses must do between scenes.”
“Why would you ever want to leave my service?” Marguerite asked from the bedroom, where she had retired with the echoes.
I laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t. I can’t imagine even a theatrical troupe could live a life as exciting as this one is proving to be.”
I accepted the tray when the maid arrived, thanking her in a whisper to reinforce the notion of Marguerite’s headache. The minute the door was shut, the other three leapt up, and we all had a hearty meal, since the morning’s walk had left us hungry.
“Now,” I said, spreading the blossoms on a center table, “let’s get to work.” It took me nearly five hours—even with the help of Marguerite and the echoes—to create the four headpieces, but I was absurdly pleased with how well they turned out. Marguerite’s was the most elaborate, a confection of wire and net and flowers that fit closely over a sleek chignon. The updrawn hairstyle left her delicate neck exposed; the deep décolletage of the dress accentuated the whiteness of her skin, which we had left bare of any jewelry. The effect was striking. Her cheeks and her throat were so pale, so still, between the vivid variety of the flowers on top and the rich darkness of the dress below, that your eyes were instantly drawn to her face.
“Everyone will want to dance with you,” I predicted.
She stood in front of the mirror, admiring her reflection. She wasn’t particularly vain, but it was clear she liked the way she looked in this ensemble. “I hope dancing is more fun than playing cards,” she said.
“I’m sure it will be,” I answered, but inwardly I was feeling a certain trepidation. More chances to make a mistake during a ball, I thought. More opportunities to trip, take a misstep, fail to imitate Marguerite perfectly. Last night’s revelation that she could release her echoes would excuse a certain amount of clumsiness on my part, maybe, but I still saw a lot of places for this evening to go badly.
But Marguerite could be right. It could be fun.
In fact, Prince Cormac and all his guests seemed to think the ball would be the best of good times. No one lingered in the drawing room before the meal or took much time over dinner, and soon we were assembling in a charming room of high ceilings, glittering chandeliers, mirrored walls, and polished wooden floors. A quartet of musicians was already in place, playing soft music with a lilting beat. A thrill of excitement hummed through the air.
Nothing quite like the chance to twirl about in the arms of an attractive partner to make it seem like the world was rife with possibilities.
I saw the Banchura triplets whispering together and heard Elyssa’s tinkling laugh before I realized exactly why everyone was so on edge. All the women were wondering: Who will Cormac dance with first? Everyone knew the rumor that he would be taking Marguerite as his bride—but it was still only a rumor. They could all still make plays for his attention, and a ball was an excellent place to pursue romantic intrigue. It was hardly a surprise that most of the ladies lingered near the doorway, hoping to be the first to catch his eye when he strolled into the room.
Marguerite was about as far from the doorway as she could get when Cormac stepped across the threshold, and I saw him pause for a moment, looking around the room. It seemed to me that he noted her position and didn’t want to cause a stir by crossing the entire width of the floor to speak to her, so he turned to one of the women more conveniently nearby. It happened to be Darrily of Pandrea.
“Would you honor me with a dance?” he asked, offering her a bow.
She laid her hand in his and curtseyed so gracefully that the opal pendant against her forehead didn’t even quiver. “Majesty, I would be delighted.”
Everyone else quickly paired up once the prince had made his selection. Since there were twelve men and twelve women present, no one was left to sit on the sidelines to feel sulky and unattractive, as had happened at every country dance I had ever attended.
I was certain Marguerite was not best-pleased when Lord Deryk was the first man to solicit her hand. But he seemed somewhat chastened and much more sober this evening.
“You must allow me a chance to apologize for my boorishness yesterday,” he said. “If you refuse me now, I’ll simply follow you around all evening, growing increasingly desperate in my attempts to win your forgiveness.”
Her face showed neutral politeness. “No need for such extreme behavior,” she said. “I was not harmed by a few drops of wine.”
“Of course not,” he said, apparently unable to suppress a roguish smile. “When did a little wine ever hurt anyone?”
Marguerite laid her hands in his, and Patience and Purpose and I joined up with his echoes. “Still,” she said, “I would prefer not to be doused again tonight.”
He laughed and pulled us onto the floor to join the other waltzers. For the first few measures, I was shaky and nervous, knowing that the dips and turns of the dance would prevent me from always keeping Marguerite and her echoes in sight. How could I copy her steps if I couldn’t even watch what her echoes were doing? But I quickly realized that dancing might be the easiest imitation of all, since my partner was mimicking his original’s movements exactly. All I had to do was relax and follow his lead. Perhaps my head might tilt at an imperfect angle or my expression might not mirror Marguerite’s, but I would spin and sway just as she did as long as I followed my partner’s cues.
I began to enjoy myself.
Deryk, despite his flaws, appeared to be an excellent dancer, and we all skimmed along the floor with great energy and flair. Marguerite even consented to take a second turn with him; in the glimpses I got of her face, I could see she was smiling. I didn’t think she was sorry, though, when another lord solicited her hand as soon as the second dance concluded.
It was a little trickier for me to copy Marguerite as she partnered with this fellow because his echo was more reserved than Deryk’s. His arms around me were almost weightless; his cues were so subtle that now and then I had trouble telling which way I was supposed to turn. Some of my nervousness returned, and I made more of an effort to watch Patience and Purpose when I couldn’t see Marguerite.
Nonetheless, I managed to make it creditably through the dance, and I started to relax again. But Marguerite had barely pulled her hands free from his clasp before she was approached by a new partner—Prince Cormac.
“Would you honor me with this dance?” he asked formally, and she formally accepted. The music started up again and I stepped into the embrace of one of his echoes.
It was like dancing with an ordinary man. His hands were warm through the fabric of my dress, his arms were muscled and powerful, and he led me through every spin with decisive firmness. Even more unnerving, he looked me straight in the eyes, as the other echoes had not, with a gaze that was almost unblinkingly direct. I practically expected him to open his mouth and ask how I was enjoying my visit to the royal city.
Except. The dark eyes might be direct, but they weren’t expressive. Even through the scrim of my veil I could tell that he wasn’t actually focused on me. There was a blankness to the firm lines of his handsome face, an empty, waiting look. The closest comparison I could come up with was the expression you sometimes see on the face of a man who’s sleeping. This creature wasn’t fully alive—but he might be, someday, if something woke him up.
I thought again of the story of King Edwin, of the essence that flowed from his original body into the shells of his echoes. This echo looked perfectly ready to receive Cormac’s spirit if the situation arose. Though I did not think tonight would be that occasion.
The three sets of echoes spun in a slow orbit around Marguerite and Cormac, as I assumed all the other echoes circled their originals. I found myself wishing I could have a seat somewhere above the dance floor so I could see the splendid sight. I risked a few glances at the high walls, looking for places where the molding seemed thick enough to mark a hidden door. Surely there were peepholes behind some of the wainscoting; surely there were undercooks and upstairs maids clustered in secret alcoves, peering down at us and sighing in envy. I wished I could trade places with one of them for five minutes, just to enjoy the magnificent choreography of the ball.
But, of course, I couldn’t slip away. And, of course, I needed to pay attention to what was happening right around me, where the motions of the dance sometimes took me close enough to Marguerite and Cormac to overhear snatches of their conversation.
“I remember this,” Cormac said the first time I caught some of their words.
“Remember what? I’ve never been to Camarria before.” Like his, her tone was light, flirtatious. I knew she was capable of pretending, but she sounded like she was having a good time.
“Dancing with you. There was a ball at your father’s house.”
“Indeed, there was.”
“You wore a white dress with red ribbons.”
“I’m flattered that you can still call it to mind.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever forget it.”
“But you’ve seen so many girls! In so many dresses!”
“And you wore a lovely necklace. All white and black stones, except for one drop of red, right—” He freed a hand so he could touch a fingertip to her chest, just above the neckline of her dress. I could feel the echo’s warm finger press for a moment against my own bare skin. “Here.”
“A necklace of onyx,” she said, sounding a little breathless. “To show how proud I am of the city where I was born.”
Prince Cormac took her hand again, and the echo took mine. “Yes,” he said, “but there are other cities in the Seven Jewels where you might find yourself equally at home if you gave yourself the chance.”
I couldn’t hear her reply to that, since a swell of the music indicated a change in our pattern, and the echo swept me into a series of complicated steps. By the time we were back within earshot, Cormac and Marguerite were discussing less heady stuff and she was perfectly in command of her voice.
I hoped Cormac didn’t flirt so broadly with all the other women at court—although, from what I could tell, all the nobles flirted with each other all the time. I couldn’t imagine what any of them would talk about once they were actually married, since they didn’t seem to have any conversations of substance beforehand. Although I supposed that marriages between nobles were ultimately about property and possessions, and those topics would dominate their discussions once they had joined their estates. Probably not that different, when you came right down to it, than the conversations Robbie and I used to have about the improvements we would make to his father’s farm once we inherited it.
I stifled a sigh.
Marguerite accepted a second dance with Cormac, but it was a reel, so energetic that there was no breath left for conversation. After that, everyone took a short break to sample refreshments and whisper bits of gossip they’d managed to pick up during the evening so far. The musicians were just retuning their instruments, signaling that the dancing was about to start again, when Dezmen came over and offered Marguerite a friendly bow.
“Are you free for the next number?” he asked. “So far you’ve been besieged by suitors.”
Marguerite set down her empty glass and smiled. “Free and happy to dance with you!” she said. “Perhaps you can explain why Prince Cormac thinks I would be interested in going on an excursion to see some ruins on the far edge of the city.”
Dezmen chuckled and held out his hand. “Oh, but they are very special ruins!”
I lost the rest of his answer as his echoes also extended their hands and Marguerite’s shadows responded. But Dezmen had only two echoes to Marguerite’s three. I had to assume that Cormac had hired extra men and women to fill in when the numbers were unequal, so I was not surprised when a masculine shape materialized in front of Purpose just as I allowed one of Dezmen’s echoes to take my hand. The newcomer wore all black, with no ornamentation at all; clearly, he was trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. But as far as I was concerned, he might as well have been wearing scarlet and gold—and having his appearance announced by blaring trumpets. Because it was Nico.
I was as nerveless and free of volition as any echo when Dezmen’s shadow first pulled me onto the dance floor. Nico! He had told me himself that he sometimes filled in for missing echoes at the king’s balls—how could I possibly have forgotten? It was by the sheerest chance that he had been closer to Purpose than to me. It so easily could have been my hand he grasped, not hers. And the minute he’d looked me in the eye, he would have recognized me. Even through the veil. Even not expecting to see me. Or, I don’t know—maybe he was so used to dancing with echoes that he wouldn’t have bothered glancing down at my face. He was so accustomed to their blank expressions, their averted eyes, that he wouldn�
�t even have bothered to check whether this one might be different.
But as soon as his hands closed over mine, surely he would have noticed something amiss. Expecting an echo’s cool fingers, he would have been surprised by my warm ones. He would have glanced down—he would have identified my face—he would have—
What would he have done?
Cried out in astonishment, come to a sudden halt, caused Dezmen and the other dancers to crash into him, demanding to know what was wrong? Or would he have played along—crushed my hands in his, maybe, fixed his fierce gaze on mine, and hissed out angry questions under his breath? If Nico ever found out about our deception, he might not expose me, not right away, but he would require an answer, and at the moment I couldn’t think of any story that would satisfy him. I could certainly tell him that one of Marguerite’s echoes had died, but that would be a tragedy; that would be something that would earn her the horrified sympathy of everyone in this room. He would want to know why we had concealed such a thing, and there was no explanation that made sense except the truth—which I obviously could not share.
My brain was in such a whirl that I was almost unaware of the first few measures of the dance. Not until I almost stumbled into Patience did I realize that Dezmen’s echo was trying to steer me into a turn and that my body was not properly responding. Then a flood of adrenaline turned my skin prickly and my hands clammy, and I turned almost too quickly. I had to concentrate. I had to play this precisely right. Nico might not be my partner for this number, but he was only a few feet away. If I stumbled, if I missed a step, he was close enough to see. He was near enough to recognize me even if he wasn’t holding me in his arms.
