House of Salt and Sorrows(25)

“Why don’t you go to bed?” I asked. “It’s nearly midnight. I’m surprised you three haven’t been sent upstairs already.”

“Papa said we don’t have to be little girls tonight. Besides, I can’t miss this party! Camille or you could die, and we’ll never have another one.”

“Mercy!”

She scowled. “What? It might be true.”

I sighed at her insensitivity. “Who were you dancing with?”

“Lord Asterby’s son, Hansel. He’s twelve,” she said, giving the number grave importance.

“You looked like you were having fun.”

Her eyebrows pinched. “He only talked about his horses, telling me all of their sires, five generations back. He said he didn’t want to dance at all but his parents made him.”

“Hansel Asterby sounds like he needs to learn some manners. I’m sorry you didn’t get on with him.”

“Are all boys so very dull?”

I shrugged. Though not a total shock, Cassius hadn’t been among the guests. Consequently, every other man seemed a shade less by comparison.

“You haven’t been dancing much,” she observed. “And Camille looks peeved.”

I followed her gaze to where Camille stood near the crowd surrounding Lord Briord. Her face was pinched, her laughs too loud. “He hasn’t made an introduction yet.”

Mercy pushed her chin into her hand—had the orchestra been playing a softer tune, she would have been asleep in an instant. “We should ask him why he’s stalling. I don’t think he’s talked to any of us but Papa. It’s so rude. Even if he doesn’t fancy Camille, it’s the triplets’ birthday. He should at least wish them many happy returns.”

I’d noticed as much. I was also keenly aware my dance card had never filled up. Without Fisher’s kindness, I would have looked like a sour old maid.

“Someone should make him.” Mercy glared over the rim of her cup.

Lenore joined us, her full skirts piling up over the arms of the chair like a plum-colored waterfall. She downed a glass of champagne in one swallow. “Octavia’s wake was livelier than this.”

“You’ve not been dancing either?” I guessed.

“Just with Fisher. It’s my birthday. Can’t I insist someone ask me?”

Mercy shot me a knowing look.

“I don’t understand it,” said Lenore. “We all look lovely.”

“We do,” I agreed.

“We’re all well mannered and have many fine and admirable qualities,” she continued, taking on the affected accent of an Arcannian mainlander.

“Mmm.”

“We’re rich,” she spat out, and I began to suspect that was not her first or second glass of champagne.

“That we are.”

“Then why are we sitting in the corner with no dance partners?” She slammed the glass on the table. It fell over but did not break.

“I intend to ask Lord Briord exactly that!” Mercy was across the dance floor, weaving in and out of couples with righteous indignation, before we could stop her.

“We should go after her.” Lenore made no effort to get up. “She’s going to embarrass herself.”

“She’s going to embarrass Camille,” I predicted.

“Won’t that be fun?”

Lenore flagged down a server carrying a tray of icy champagne coupes. She grabbed two, giving the second to me. I waved it off.

“I’d almost summon a Trickster here and now, just to have someone to dance with!” she groaned, downing her drink.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I warned her. “There are enough whispers about our family as it is. Besides, if Papa catches you, he’ll have your head.” As if on cue, he and Morella waltzed by, beaming radiant smiles at each other. It was hard to believe they’d sat at Eulalie’s funeral only weeks before.

Setting aside the empty glass, Lenore picked up the one meant for me. “What?” she asked, seeing my pointed stare. “It’s my birthday. If I’m not dancing, I might as well be lousy with champagne. Look,” she said, pointing. “Even Camille agrees with me.”

I glanced across the dance floor in time to see Camille throw back a coupe of liquid courage. She took a deep breath and pinched her cheeks, drawing bright spots of color to her face. Her lips moved, clearly practicing her speech for Lord Briord.

As she made her way to him, I’d never seen her look lovelier.

Reaching the outer edge of his circle, she paused, tilting her head toward their conversation. A moment passed, then another, and the rosy hue drained from her cheeks. She held one hand up to her mouth, and I feared she might be sick.

She pushed a path away from the group, staggering back and bumping into a waltzing couple.

“What’s the matter with her?” Lenore asked.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Camille apologized to the dancers before finding her way to us. She pulled me to my feet and dragged me off like a swimmer caught in a passing ship’s wake. “We have to get out of here!”

“What just happened?”

“Now, Annaleigh, please!”

Camille didn’t stop until we were deep in the garden. Thousands of tiny candles dotted ledges hidden throughout the topiaries. It would have seemed magical had the fog ever lifted. Now the little lights played strangely with the mist, creating shadowy phantoms, there one moment and gone the next.