The Glittering Court (The Glittering Court, #1)(16)

“Well, I knew it couldn’t have been Mistress Masterson.”

A girl beside me hesitantly offered: “We haven’t been here long. Cosmetics haven’t been part of the curricu—curricu—”

“Curriculum,” I said, helping her with the unfamiliar word. I glanced back at Clara before returning to my tart. “Obviously it hasn’t.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” she demanded.

I drew out the tension by eating another piece before answering. “Because Mistress Masterson would have never directed you to use cosmetics like that. Red lips aren’t in style in Osfro anymore. All the highborn ladies are wearing coral and dusky pink. And you’ve applied the rouge in the wrong spot—it goes higher, up on your cheekbones.” That’s what I’d heard, at least. I’d certainly never applied my own cosmetics. “Where you’ve got it right now makes you look like you have mumps. You’ve got a steady hand on the kohl, but everyone knows you have to smudge it to get the proper look. Otherwise, your eyes look beady. And everything—everything—you’ve applied is far too dark. A light touch goes a long way. The way you’re wearing it now makes you look . . . how shall I put it . . . well, like a lady of questionable morals.”

Two spots of color appeared in the girl’s cheek, making her badly applied rouge look even worse. “Like what?”

“Like a prostitute. That’s another word for ‘whore,’ in case you’re not familiar with it,” I explained, using as formal a tone as my former governess would use while teaching Ruvan grammar. “That’s someone who sells her body for—”

“I know what it means!” the girl exclaimed, turning even redder.

“But,” I added, “if it’s any consolation, you look like a very high-class one. Like one who would work in one of the more expensive brothels. Where the girls dance and sing. Not like the ones who work down by the wharves. Those poor things don’t have access to true cosmetics at all, so they have to make do with whatever they can scrape together. Be grateful you haven’t hit that low.” I paused. “Oh. And, by the way, you’re using the wrong fork.”

The girl stared at me openmouthed, and I braced myself for a backlash. It’d be no more than I deserved, but she’d certainly deserved my belittling. I didn’t know Mira well, but something about her resonated with me—a mix of sorrow shielded by pride. Clara had the air of someone who preyed on others frequently. I knew that type of girl. They apparently existed in both upper and lower classes, so I felt no remorse for what I’d done.

Until her eyes—and those of everyone else at the table—lifted to something beyond me. A cold feeling welled up in the pit of my stomach, and I slowly turned around, unsurprised to see Mistress Masterson and the Thorns standing in the entryway to the dining room. I wasn’t sure how much they’d heard, but their shocked expressions told me they’d heard enough.

No one acknowledged it, however, as Cedric and Jasper joined us at the table. Really, no one acknowledged much of anything as the meal progressed. I wanted to shrink into my seat but remembered a lady must always sit straight. The tension had been thick before, but now I could feel it pressing upon my shoulders. I regretted finishing the tart because then I had nothing to occupy myself or fix my gaze upon. I poured another cup of tea, stirring it endlessly until the Thorns rose to leave and Mistress Masterson formally dismissed us to our rooms.

I was one of the first to hurry out, hoping if I escaped Mistress Masterson’s eye, she’d eventually forget about the scene she’d witnessed. Surely she had better things to worry about. The other girls turned toward the spiral staircase, but just as I was about to, a flash of color caught my eye at the opposite end of the foyer. Everyone was preoccupied going their own way and paid little attention when I turned from the stairs. At the far end of the great hall was the entrance to the drawing room, and beside it hung a painting of surpassing beauty.

I recognized the artist as I drew nearer. Florencio. The National Gallery in Osfro also held one of his paintings, and I’d studied it many times. He was a Sirminican renowned for painting landscapes in his own country, and I was surprised to find one of his works in this country manor. Closer scrutiny made me think it was one of the artist’s earlier works. Certain techniques weren’t quite as refined as the gallery portrait. It was still exquisite, but those imprecise details might explain how the painting had ended up here.

I admired it a little longer, trying to puzzle out some of his methods, and then turned around to go back to the staircase. To my astonishment, I saw Jasper and Cedric headed my way down the corridor. Neither had noticed me yet. They were too engrossed in their own conversation. I quickly stepped around a corner, cringing back into a small nook to the side of the drawing room’s entrance that was out of sight of the main hall.

“. . . knew it was too good to be true,” Jasper was saying. “You had two chances. Two chances, and you blew them both.”

“You don’t think you’re being a little extreme?” asked Cedric. His tone was light, laconic even, but I could sense the tension underneath it.

“Did you hear the mouth on that girl?” Jasper exclaimed. “Atrocious.”

“Not really. She was quite polite about it all. No improper language.” Cedric hesitated. “And her grammar and diction are quite excellent.”