Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(39)
“Well, how lovely,” Mrs. Winter intoned while I gave her a subtle shake of my head. “Miss Cavill, is it?”
“Callista, ma’am, daughter of Jameson and Lucinda Cavill,” Callista simpered.
“Yes, I know your parents very well,” Mrs. Winter said flatly. Either Callista didn’t notice the unwelcoming tone of Mrs. Winter’s voice or she was just that good at ignoring it, because at the ripe old age of fourteen, she did not seem at all phased by Mrs. Winter’s disinterest.
“Oh, and I see my mother now, please excuse me,” Callista said, curtsying again before fluttering across the foyer toward a petite woman in head-to-toe pink lace. She looked like an over-frosted cream puff. The woman greeted her with a cool air kiss and commenced a detailed inspection of Callista’s hairstyle.
“Let’s go inside before that ridiculous girl brings her mother over,” Mrs. Winter whispered. “Lucinda Cavill is a ninny of the first order. She seems to think she can force her husband’s place on the Guild committee for Snipe enforcement with ham-handed attempts at flattery. If I have to deal with her while managing your debut into polite society and whatever mischief Owen is going to get into today, I may snap and say something that can’t be undone by magical law.”
“Must we go inside?” I asked softly.
Mrs. Winter pulled me into a tiny alcove behind a massive grandfather clock and spoke so quietly I could barely hear her. “Cassandra, you are the Translator. The selection of a new Translator is a major event in Guild Guardian circles, no matter where she’s from. And the fact that Cassandra Reed comes from nowhere has complicated how we might have handled your entry into society. It’s taken all of the influence I have to keep the story out of the newspapers until we’re ready to make a formal announcement this week, an announcement we have carefully crafted to deflect any doubt that you are anything but a gently born, delicately bred young Guardian lady. By now, girls from Miss Castwell’s have already written letters, detailing your rather spectacular first visit to the library to their families. It’s known that I will be attending today’s social to observe my niece. And now that those families know that you’re the Translator, they’re going to want to meet you. If you do not fulfill your social obligations on the first time out, it will give a very poor impression. You cannot tell me that a girl with your natural gifts doesn’t have the audacity to get through a little school dance. Now, are you willing to fulfill those obligations or have I greatly over-estimated you?”
I took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m ready.”
“Excellent. Now, have I ever told you the story of my first social here at the school? Headmistress Lockwood was still a student then, and just as severe and rigid as she is now, which as you can imagine made her ever so much fun at parties. Some poor Palmer boy asked her to dance and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she spelled his pants to come loose from their suspenders and drop every time he came near her. I laughed so hard that I dribbled punch down my chin and onto the front of my gown.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the idea of random pants-dropping or Mrs. Winter doing something so gauche as spitting punch down her dress, but thanks to her well-timed story, I entered the room laughing. My tinkling giggle was barely audible over the soft strains of piano and violin. The school’s dance hall was a well-appointed ballroom, slightly less grand than Mrs. Winter’s, but certainly warmer with its sage walls and floral brocade furniture. Tall potted palms and peace lilies seemed to burst forth from every corner, creating an intimate, if slightly mossy environment, courtesy of Madame Greenwood. The twenty or so people gathered there seemed to stop talking the moment Mrs. Winter and I walked through the door. And since they were none-too-subtly staring right at us, there wasn’t much chance that someone else had interrupted the party.
Mrs. Winter, however, was perfectly poised, basking in the attention as if it were her natural right. “Well, I was young and didn’t have the control over myself that I did now.”
Owen came forward, looking far more polished and un-gangly than any boy of fourteen had the right to be, and bowed to us both.
“Deep breath,” Owen whispered as I rose from my curtsy. “I don’t think I could haul you off the floor wearing that much dress.”
An ever-flowing fountain of comfort, Owen Winter.
Still, his sarcasm broke through the strange paralysis, and I straightened my shoulders. I lifted my chin, putting on my “best smile.” Audacity, Mrs. Winter told me. I would need a touch of audacity.
The students of both schools gathered on the dancefloor, some of them already coupled off. Headmistress Lockwood welcomed us all to the first social dance of the fall semester and announced that Mrs. Eugenia Dalrymple, a Miss Castwell’s alumna and grandmother to Ivy Cowell, would serve as this afternoon’s hostess. Students were to find their appointed partners and prepare to dance a Spring Reel, a complicated English country dance that was meant to encourage a long and prosperous growing season. As I had a “strained ankle,” meaning I had never danced a Spring Reel in my life and wasn’t going to be able to start now, my “dearest cousin,” Owen, would be escorting me around the room, making introductions and preventing other Palmer students from asking me to dance. While I found this plan suited my “not exposing my dance ignorance to the Guardian world at large” needs, it did upset my “not wanting to spend the afternoon being subtly mocked by Owen Winter” preferences.