Gilded Cage (Dark Gifts #1)(21)

The Chancellor sat. Parliament was in session.

Before the Proposal came the regular business. Usually, Bouda took a keen interest in the routine affairs of state, but today she was distracted by thoughts of the coming announcement.

Down on the chamber floor Dawson was up on her hind legs, yapping away. She was objecting to a perfectly logical scheme to assist the long-term unemployed by returning them to slavery for twelve months’ respite. So Bouda tuned her out and gave the matter further thought. Could Silyen really do as he had promised, and revive Euterpe Parva? Could Zelston still love the woman so much that he would risk his position with such an insane Proposal?

And this was hardest of all to understand: why, given that the Proposal would surely fail, would Silyen ask for it?

She turned over what she knew of the boy, and to her surprise found that it wasn’t much. Silyen was rarely present at Kyneston’s social events – the garden parties, the hunts, or Lady Thalia’s interminable chamber opera evenings. He would occasionally turn up for family dinners, eating sparingly and offering sly, barbed remarks. These were usually at the expense of his eldest brother, and Bouda had to repress her urge to laugh. The family all maintained that Silyen was powerfully Skillful, but Bouda had never seen any direct evidence.

Although there had been moments. Feelings. She’d never been able to put her finger on one, but sometimes at Kyneston she’d experienced small sensations of wrongness. Conversations that she couldn’t clearly remember. Objects that didn’t feel entirely right in her hand. Even the taste of the air felt off sometimes, static and heavy.

She usually put it down to Gavar’s generosity with the contents of his father’s wine cellar. She’d even wondered if it was due to the charge crackling through Kyneston’s vast Skill-forged wings.

But she couldn’t be sure.

When the recess bell sounded, Daddy levered himself up to head for the Members’ Parlour and its cake trolley. His disappearance gave Bouda the opportunity to have a long-overdue conversation. She looked for her quarry. Sure enough, Lady Armeria Tresco was there, in the furthest row of seats. Alone.

The Tresco seat in the chamber matched the location of their estate of Highwithel: peripheral. Had Highwithel’s heir not broken her sister’s heart, Bouda might one day have found herself a frequent visitor. She was glad this was no longer likely. The Tresco estate was an island at the heart of an archipelago: the Scillies. They were the southernmost point of the British Isles, off the tip of Cornwall. Beyond Land’s End.

That was quite the best place for feckless Heir Meilyr and his ghastly mother. If only they’d stay there.

Lady Tresco looked up as Bouda approached. She had been rifling through a worn leather handbag. Possibly for a hairbrush, given the woman’s dishevelled appearance – though then again, it seemed unlikely she owned one.

Armeria gave Bouda a pleasant smile, closed her bag, and placed it on the adjoining heir’s chair. The conspicuously empty heir’s chair.

‘Meilyr’s still not with you, I see,’ Bouda said. ‘Any word from your prodigal son?’

‘None, I’m afraid,’ replied the older woman. ‘Believe me, your sister would be the first to know. But he’s been gone more than six months now. Bodina must be over the worst of her disappointment, I hope?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Bouda. ‘Quite over it. He could long since be back at Highwithel for all she cares. I was only asking on my own account, as I’ll be sending out the wedding invitations soon. Just the one for the Trescos, then?’

‘You never know,’ said Lady Tresco unhelpfully. ‘So that’s happening soon, is it? Congratulations. Your star really is rising.’

‘Thank you.’ It was an automatic response. ‘And yes, at Kyneston in March, after the Third Proposal Debate and the vote.’

‘The Third Debate? How fitting for such a politic union. Well, I shall see you before then at Esterby for the First.’

And with that, Armeria Tresco retrieved her handbag and recommenced sorting through it.

Bouda stood there a moment, astonished. Had she just been dismissed? It appeared that she had. At least no one had seen it happen. But still. She felt her cheeks flame as she turned away and descended to the second tier. She would look as florid as dear Papa.

At least she’d gleaned a little information for Dina. Or rather, had no news – which was most definitely good news, in Bouda’s opinion. Her little sister’s passion for Meilyr Tresco had been quite genuine, but sorely misplaced. Meilyr was an affable creature, but of the same absurd political persuasion as his mother, and Bouda held him chiefly responsible for filling DiDi’s head with abolitionist enthusiasm.

Even the way he’d broken things off with Dina had been vague and unsatisfactory. He’d simply told poor DiDi that he wanted to go and ‘find himself’, her heartbroken sister had confided. With Meilyr out of the picture, a more suitable husband could be found for her. Dina needed someone solid and reliable, who understood the family’s interests. Bouda had a few possibilities in mind.

Papa was back at their seat, an emergency, napkin-wrapped slice of cake stuffed down the side of his chair. Greedy Daddy! She pinched his cheek indulgently and whispered in his ear.

‘From what I heard from Lord Jardine earlier, this could be interesting.’

Then the trumpets again; the Chancellor again. The chamber fell expectantly quiet.