Rook(7)

“You are radiant tonight,” he said, very Parisian, and very much for the benefit of the crowd around them. “A bright star fallen to the earth.”

She smiled. “Why, you offend me, Monsieur. Isn’t that what the Ancients said about Lucifer?” Parry, Monsieur, she thought. Even the vicar was laughing.

“But unlike the devil,” René replied, “I am certain your beauty reflects your nature.”

She eyed the button in the midst of all that gold brocade. “If you keep trying to flatter me, Monsieur, I will grow brighter still. So bright that your tailor will be disappointed.”

“Disappointed, Mademoiselle?”

“That his most extravagant work should go unnoticed.” And thrust, Sophia thought as a titter went through the delighted crowd. René’s voice was unfazed. And possibly amused.

“To be eclipsed by you, Miss Bellamy, could only be an honor.”

Oh, he was good, she thought. Just as glib and empty-headed and Upper City elite as Lauren Rathbone could have wished for. Sophia took his arm, careful not to disturb the balance of her hair, allowing him to charm her neighbors and her father’s friends as he led her through the congratulations and well-wishes and more than a few looks of envy. She smiled until her face hurt, nodding at the appropriate times, her mind not really on any of it. She was thinking how unfair her brother’s last words had been. She’d thought her parry and thrust were in quite good order.



Sophia danced twice with René, circumventing any possibility of being charmed by staring only at his second jacket button. His movements were lithe across the dance floor, her request to go and find cooler air their only conversation. Now she sat on a cushioned window seat in one of the bricked arches, taking refuge behind a row of potted ferns, fanning madly as the tottering heeled shoes of the Ancients went clacking across the floor tiles, keeping time with the drums. She wished she could throw open the window behind her, let the sea wind blow away the smoke and sheets of music, muss the shining curls and the hair ribbons, drive out the smell of perfume with fresh brine. But she couldn’t. Not without ruining the Bellamy show. And the window was probably stuck, anyway.

The sudden plop of a body onto the seat broke her reverie. She turned to find Mrs. Rathbone beside her, the woman’s sharp, wrinkled face glistening in the candlelight. Mrs. Rathbone seemed to have combined several pages of the Wesson’s Guide at once, choosing one of the straight, white, one-shouldered styles worn in the pictures by both women and men, pairing it with a heavily embroidered corset and random sprays of flowers and lace. A dusting of hair powder drifted down onto her shoulders. Sophia resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose.

“There you are!” said Mrs. Rathbone. “What are you doing hiding back here? Why aren’t you dancing with your young man? He is a fetching thing, I must say. Quite a catch!”

Sophia started to say what she thought, then opted for discretion.

“Well!” Mrs. Rathbone said, dabbing at her forehead. “I’m certain I would never have been so sour at my Banns. When I was your age I could dance all night, among other things. I’ve just done a turn with your future partner, if you can believe it. Why don’t you go dance with Spear, then, poor boy, and console him?”

Sophia forced her smile. Usually she liked Mrs. Rathbone, but she was not in the mood for her tonight. “Don’t you think the room is rather hot?”

“I think it’s rather fascinating. I suppose you’ve heard about the Bonnards?”

“The Bonnards?”

“Yes, the Bonnards! Everyone is talking about it. The execution was not carried out!” Mrs. Rathbone leaned closer. “They were rescued. The entire family.”

“Were they?”

“Spirited right out of the prison. By him. Or that’s what everyone is saying, anyway.”

Sophia twisted a large ring set with a pale white stone around her forefinger. “ ‘Him,’ Mrs. Rathbone?”

“Really, Sophia! You might get away with that act with the others, but I’d advise you not to sport with my intelligence. I’m talking about ‘him,’ of course. Le Corbeau Rouge, as the Parisians say. The merciful spirit. The Red Rook!”

Sophia smiled. “Now you’re talking about a myth.”

“Myth, my arse,” stated Mrs. Rathbone. “Someone is unlocking the doors of the Sunken City’s prison holes and I doubt very much that it’s Premier Allemande, my dear. They say there wasn’t a head left to cut off. Rooms bursting full of rook feathers! But listen …”

She breathed so close that Sophia could make a guess at the color of her wine.

“… if the Bonnards have escaped then they will be trying to put their feet on Commonwealth soil just as soon as may be, isn’t that so? And here you are, my dear … right across the Channel Sea.” She whispered this last part, tapping Sophia’s arm with each word, as if the location of Bellamy House was a diplomatic secret.

Sophia looked at her carefully. “Mrs. Rathbone, are you suggesting that fugitive members of the ousted Parisian government have escaped both prison and death just to attend my Banns?” She was beginning to enjoy this conversation.

“Well, I shouldn’t think so,” the woman replied seriously. “They wouldn’t have a thing to wear, now would they? But why, then, do you think that he is here?”