Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(21)

Amid the darkness of the room, Vianca Augustine was fair. Her white hair and ivory, sallow skin made her appear ghostlike, and there was certainly something haunting about the emptiness of her gaze. Soulless. She looked to be in her sixties, and her age was exaggerated by the powdery makeup caked within the creases of her face. Despite her ornate dress and overwhelming amount of jewelry, nothing about her was elegant. She had clearly never been beautiful, and—judging from the severe frown lines and pruned wrinkles around her pursed lips—she had never been kind, either.

“Levi,” Vianca said. She spoke his name slowly, as if savoring its taste. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I owe this girl a favor. She needs work, and with all I need to juggle at the moment—” He smiled, a bit too widely. “It would put my mind at ease knowing she gets settled.”

Vianca raised her pencil-drawn eyebrows and shifted her gaze to Enne. “What’s your name, girl?”

Grace, Enne told herself. I am grace and ease.

“Erienne Abacus Salta, Madame.”

“A dancer? I already have more dancers than I need. And usually my dancers come with a vocal or instrumental split talent. What use do I have for a dancer who can count?”

Enne wasn’t sure how to respond, especially as, truth be told, she wasn’t much of a counter at all.

“She’s a gymnast, as well,” Levi added quickly. “I heard there’s a spot open for a new acrobat.”

Enne struggled to contain her alarm. She hadn’t bargained for that. She didn’t know the first thing about gymnastics.

“Is she, now?” Vianca asked, not looking at Enne so much as through her. “You may go, Levi. I’ll speak to Miss Salta in private.”

He blinked in surprise, then nodded. After giving Enne a final weary look, he slipped out the door. Enne tried not to let his apparent nervousness bother her. She had faced worse interviews for admission to her finishing school.

Vianca beckoned her forward, and Enne moved to stand in front of one of the chairs before the donna’s desk.

“Do you plan on taking a seat, Miss Salta?” she asked.

“Not unless you ask me, Madame.”

Vianca’s green, lizard-like eyes inspected every foot, inch and hair of Enne’s body. Her lips curled, and Enne couldn’t help but notice her uneven red lipstick. “Sit.” Once Enne had taken a seat, Vianca asked, “Where are you from?”

“Bellamy, Madame.”

“That’s quite a journey. How long have you lived here?”

“About half a day, Madame.”

That made Vianca smile. For a moment. Enne hadn’t been trying to be humorous.

“Is Levi trying to court you? He serves a number of roles for me, and I require him to have a clear head. If his belle is living within St. Morse, it will distract him.”

Enne would never walk out with a card dealer, not if she planned on keeping the last shreds of her reputation intact. And if the card dealer in question was Levi, she’d also need to salvage what remained of her dignity. Even if he was attractive, she had no patience for his jokes and smirking. “No, Madame. Nothing like that.”

“Then why is he so interested in your well-being?”

Enne uttered the first lie she could think of: “He owes a favor to my father.”

“I should’ve guessed Levi would be in debt to a counter. How good are your counting abilities?”

Enne could barely add or subtract without the use of her fingers. “Quite good, Madame.”

“Are you literate?” With each new question, Vianca leaned closer to Enne over her desk, almost close enough to grab her.

“Yes, Madame.”

“How well you can read?”

“I read very well, Madame,” she answered, barely able to hide the bite in her voice.

“Who taught you?”

“I went to finishing school. The Bellamy Finishing School of Fine Arts.”

“Did you really? They don’t accept just anyone. You must be the only Salta in your class.”

Enne kept her hands folded calmly in her lap, despite the fury shooting through her like an electric current. The Saltas might’ve been the lowest and most common dancing family, but she wasn’t ashamed of her name. It didn’t matter that her talents didn’t compare to her classmates. She’d worked for her place at that school, for her future.

“I was, Madame.”

Vianca was now bent so close to Enne that Enne could smell her musky perfume. “And you must be quite intelligent to have passed the entrance exams.”

It wasn’t a question, so Enne stayed quiet.

“Is there anything else I should know about you, Miss Salta? Anything else that could be useful to me?”

“No, Madame.”

“Pity.” At last, Vianca leaned back in her seat and drummed her fingers against a stack of papers. Each of her rings—there were almost a dozen—shimmered. Unlike Reymond’s, these appeared to contain real jewels. “How old are you, Miss Salta? You must be at least fourteen to work here, and I don’t make exceptions.”

Enne cringed inwardly. This interview had already been the best test of her etiquette skills she’d ever experienced, and it had been only a few minutes.

“I turned seventeen in February, Madame,” she said.