The Queen's Rising(28)

“Of course, Master. I am fond of Edmond Fabre’s lineage.”

So we began to talk of Edmond Fabre and his three sons, who in turn had had three more sons. I was keeping up well, despite the sweat that began to trace down my back, despite the corset that ate all my comfort, despite the way Cartier’s gaze continued to touch me.

But then I misspoke. I didn’t even realize I had said the wrong name until I watched Brice Mathieu frown, as if he had smelled something distasteful.

“Surely you mean Frederique, not Jacques.”

I hung in that moment, trying to reconcile what I had said to what he was saying. “No, Master Brice. I believe it was Jacques.”

“No, no, it was Frederique,” Brice countered. “Jacques was not born until two generations later.”

Had I honestly skipped generations? But, more important, did I honestly care?

My memory went limp, and I chose to laugh, to cover it up. “Of course, I misspoke.” I drained the cordial before I could make a further fool of myself.

I was saved by the entrance of a servant, who announced dinner was now being served in the grand central tent.

I rose on shaky legs, my nerves strung so tight I seriously considered bolting back to the house until the third patron arrived at my side, his lean, great height nearly brushing the wisp of tent.

“Might I escort you to dinner, Brienna?” the auburn-haired master asked. His voice was very soft and delicate, but I was not fooled; there was steel in this one. I recognized it, because Cartier was very similar.

“Yes, Master Nicolas. I would be honored.”

He offered me his arm and I took it, once more feeling hesitant about touching a strange man. But he was older, perhaps the age my father would be. So this touch felt proper, not as dangerous as holding Brice Mathieu’s hand.

We left before the others, heading for the central tent.

There were three round tables, nine chairs per circle, and no seating chart. A dinner intended to let the passions mingle, I thought with renewed dread as Nicolas chose a place for us to sit. I eased into my chair, my gaze roaming the tent as my arden-sisters, their patrons, and their arials wandered in.

The tables were draped with white linens, their centers blossomed with candles and wreaths of roses and glossy leaves. The plates, flatware, and chalices were all spun from the finest silver, set in wait to be touched, gleaming as a dragon’s hoard. Above us, lanterns hung, their panels fashioned from delicately pierced tin, and the light cascaded on us as little stars.

Nicolas did not speak a word to me, not until the rest of our table was filled and introductions had been exchanged. Ciri, naturally, had chosen not to sit at my table. She had drawn Monique with her, and Brice Mathieu had decided to be sociable and sit among the cluster of dramatics. My table was filled by Sibylle (which reassured me as she could keep the conversation flowing), two of her patrons, Mistress Evelina, Mistress Therese (to my dismay), a patron of art, and a patron of music. An odd, mismatched table, I thought as the wine was poured and the first course set down.

“Your master speaks very highly of you, Brienna,” Nicolas said, his voice so muted I could hardly hear him over Sibylle’s chatter.

“Master Cartier has been a very good instructor,” I responded, and realized I had no idea where he was.

My eyes flickered about the other two tables, and found him almost instantly, as if a channel had been forged between us.

He had sat beside Ciri.

I wanted to be hurt by this, that he had chosen to sit with her instead of me. But then I realized his decision had been brilliant, for Ciri was enthused by his choice; indeed, she seemed to glow as she sat between Cartier and Monique. And if he had sat beside me, it would have heightened my reservations; I would not feel the freedom to talk to Nicolas Babineaux, who was likely the final hope I had of securing a patron.

“Tell me more about yourself, Brienna,” Nicolas said, dicing his salad.

And so I did, relying on the same conversation thread I had done before with Monique. He listened as he ate; I wondered who he was, what he wanted, and if I would be a good match for him.

Was he too a physician? A historian? A teacher?

By the time the main course came, pheasant and duck drowning in apricot sauce, Nicolas finally revealed himself.

“I am the headmaster of a House of knowledge,” he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “I was thrilled when the Dowager extended her invitation to me, for I am currently in need of an arial to teach my ardens.”

I should have expected this. Nevertheless, my heart plummeted at the revelation.

This was, perhaps, the one source of patronage that made me the most anxious. For I had only been applying myself to knowledge for three years, and how could I be expected to quickly turn around and teach it to others? I felt like I needed more time, time to expand my mastery, time to gain my confidence. If I had just chosen Cartier from the very first year, if I had not been so foolish to claim I was art . . . then I could easily see myself as a teacher, pouring my passion into others.

“Tell me more of your House,” I said, hoping my hesitations were not evident in my voice, in my expression.

Nicolas began to illustrate it for me, a House he had founded west of here, near the city of Adalene. It was a House that instructed only knowledge, a six-year program, teaching girls and boys alike.

I was pondering all of this, wondering if I was being unreasonable by considering myself unprepared for such a task, when I heard my name on Sibylle’s tongue.