The Glittering Court (The Glittering Court, #1)(22)

Miss Hayworth’s back was to me, and I caught Mira’s eye with a small gesture, holding up four fingers.

“The fourth, Miss Hayworth.” Although her accent was still noticeable, Mira’s dedication to improving her Osfridian was already apparent.

“Correct.”

Miss Hayworth moved on, and Mira gave me a nod of thanks. I nodded back, happy to have helped. The lesson closed with us drilling repetitive steps on a new dance. Naturally, I pretended to fumble through it.

“I saw what you did,” Clara hissed, sidling up beside me while Miss Hayworth’s attention was elsewhere. “You gave her the answer. You do it all the time. As soon as I get proof, I’m going to bust you and that Sirminican slut.”

“Don’t call her that,” I snapped.

Triumph flared in Clara’s face. I’d become pretty good at ignoring her jabs, and it had been a while since she’d gotten a rise out of me. Someone as nasty as her lived for that kind of thing.

“Why not?” she asked. “It’s true, you know. I’m not just making it up.”

“Of course you are,” I said. “Mira’s one of the most decent girls here—which you’d know if you weren’t such a bigot.”

Clara shook her head. “How do you think she got here? How in the world do you think a Sirminican refugee managed to snag a spot in an establishment like this—one whose whole point is to train elite Osfridian girls?”

“Cedric Thorn saw potential in her.”

Clara smirked. “Oh, he’s seen a lot more of her than that.”

I didn’t have to fake my next stumble. “You’re such a liar. I should report you for slander.”

“Am I? Did you see the way he dotes on her when he visits? The way he defied his father to get her and risk his commission? They made a deal. She went to bed with him in exchange for a spot here. I’ve heard other people talking about it.”

“Who?” I asked. “Your toady friends?”

“Say whatever you want, but there’s no getting around the truth. Your Sirminican friend is a dirty, shameless—”

I did what I did next without a second thought. Clara had moved close to me in order to keep her voice down, and I used that proximity to snake my foot out and strike her in the ankle. The results were spectacular, throwing both of us off-balance. Mishaps weren’t uncommon for me, but she was one of the better dancers. I was thrown off by my move, falling backward and striking a bureau rather painfully. It was worth it to see Clara go sprawling on the floor, causing the whole class to come to a standstill.

“Girls!” exclaimed Miss Hayworth. “What is the meaning of this?”

I straightened up, smoothing my dress from where it had snagged on the bureau’s elaborate handles. “I’m sorry, Miss Hayworth. It was my fault—my clumsiness.”

She looked understandably exasperated. “How can you understand the principles so well and not execute them? And oh, look—you’ve torn your dress. We’ll both get in trouble with Mistress Masterson for that.”

I looked down and woefully saw that she was right. These dresses might not be the silks and velvets I’d once worn, but they were a substantial investment by the Glittering Court. Respect for them had been drilled into us. Clara’s embarrassment might have come at a greater cost than I’d expected.

“Well,” said Miss Hayworth, leaning close, “it looks like it should be an easy enough fix, thankfully. You may go early to take care of it.”

I stared up at her in confusion. “Take care of it?”

“Yes, yes. It’s a quick mend. Go now, and you probably won’t be late for Mister Bricker’s lesson.”

I didn’t move right away as I let the impact of her words sink into me. “A quick mend,” I repeated.

Annoyance filled her features. “Yes, now go!”

Spurred by her command, I hurried out of the classroom, taking only small satisfaction from Clara’s outrage. When I was alone in the great hall, I surveyed my skirt’s tear and felt despair sink in. For anyone else, this probably was an easy mend—unless you’d never mended anything. I’d occasionally done fancy, very fine needlework, and if she’d wanted me to embroider flowers on the dress, I could’ve managed that. I had no idea how to mend something like this, but dutifully borrowed one of the manor’s sewing kits and went to my room.

There, I found a housemaid cleaning. I retreated, not wanting her to see my ineptitude, and instead chose to work in the conservatory. It was unoccupied; the music teacher wouldn’t be here for two days. I unlaced my overdress and settled down on a small sofa. I wriggled out of the voluminous garment and spread the fabric over my knees. It was a light, rose-colored wool, suitable for our late spring weather. It was thicker than the fine silks I’d embroidered, so I randomly chose a larger needle and set to work.

My maids had always threaded my embroidery needles for me, so that alone took time. And once I started sewing, I knew it was hopeless. I didn’t know how to seamlessly mend the tear. My stitches were uneven and badly spaced, creating obvious puckers in the fabric. I paused and stared at it morosely. My regular excuse about being a lady’s maid wouldn’t get me out of this. Maybe I could make up a story about how my abysmal sewing skills had gotten me dismissed.