Seraphina(58)

He stared at me; his eyes were slightly bulgy, reminding me unpleasantly of Basind’s. He licked his thick lips and said, “That is just how a dragon would approach the problem. You see, our peoples are not so different after all.”

Before he could speak again, a regal presence loomed behind us and a woman’s stern voice said, “Ardmagar, would you care to try our Goreddi dances?”

It was Glisselda’s mother, Princess Dionne, in shining yellow silk; she wore a simple circlet and light veil, her hair tucked up in crispinettes. She gleamed like the golden phoenixes of Ziziba; I, in my maroon houppelande, was a dull little peahen in comparison. I backed away, relieved that she had eclipsed me in the Ardmagar’s attention, but Comonot, the old fox, pointed me out to her. “I was just discussing the dances with this peculiar young person.”

The princess gazed coolly down her elegant nose. “That is our assistant music mistress. She aided Viridius in organizing tonight’s music.”

I didn’t have a name, apparently; that was fine with me. I curtsied, drifting further away as quickly as I dared.

Something satiny and rose-colored hit me in the side of the head. I looked up, startled, just in time to get the end of Princess Glisselda’s trailing sleeve full in the face again. She laughed, whirling away from me; her partner, the Earl of Apsig, was light on his feet. My heart sank at the sight of him, but he scorned to even look at me. He was an adept dancer, and a handsome fellow when he wasn’t threatening anyone. His severe blacks set off her rosy gown; they captivated every eye in the room. He pranced her back toward me. I braced myself for the sleeve again, but she called out to me, “Did Lucian speak with you? I didn’t see you dancing!”

Kiggs had said he’d discussed Imlann with her; I hoped she hadn’t thoughtlessly babbled everything to the earl. “We’re waiting for the pavano,” I said as she passed again.

“Cowards! Dancing with you was my idea, you know! You’ll be harder to overhe …” Josef whisked her away across the floor.

I lost the end of the word, but not the idea.

The second dance ended; the musicians transitioned to a sarabande with almost no pause. I watched the promenading couples; Comonot was not the only one mesmerized by all the pomp. Glisselda still danced with Josef, earning herself a pointed glare from her mother. The Earl of Apsig was not a nobody, presumably, but the second heir could not just dance for fun; serious politics happened on the floor.

Kiggs had danced the cinque pas with Amerta, daughter of Count Pesavolta of Ninys, gavotted with the Regina of Samsam, and now sashayed his way through the sarabande with some duchess I couldn’t identify. He danced competently, if not as flashily as Josef, and seemed to enjoy it. He smiled at the duchess, a glorious, unguarded, unself-conscious smile, and for a moment he was transparent to me: I felt I could see all the way to the center of him. I’d glimpsed that at the funeral too, I realized with a start. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, exactly, but he did keep it in a place where I could see it.

The sarabande wound down. Half the symphonia got up; after every third dance, half the musicians took a “pie break,” and the rest played a repetitive placeholder until everyone came back. It was a nice system in that the dancers got a breather and the elderly—our Queen not least among them—could maintain their stamina.

Beside me stood Princess Dionne and Lady Corongi, eating pie. “Pie break” was, of course, a euphemism; it tickled me that these two highborn ladies should be breaking for pie, in fact. “I confess I’m shocked at the Ardmagar,” Lady Corongi said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief carefully, so as not to smear her crimson lips.

“It wasn’t his fault,” said the princess. “He’s short; he tripped. My décolletage was right there.”

I tried to picture what must have happened, and regretted it instantly.

“He’s a fool,” said Lady Corongi, puckering her face as if the Ardmagar were as sour as she was. Her eyes darted slyly, however, and she said, “What must it be like to take one of them to bed?”

“Clarissa!” Princess Dionne’s laugh reminded me of Glisselda’s. “Now I am shocked, you naughty thing. You hate dragons!”

Lady Corongi smirked nastily. “I didn’t say marry one. But one hears—”

I had no intention of sticking around to hear what one hears. I moved off toward the drinks table, but there was Josef, complaining bitterly. “We Samsamese—those of us who take our faith to heart—don’t imbibe the devil’s drink,” he snapped at the hapless serving lad. “St. Abaster never did. Should I spit in the face of his holy example?”

I rolled my eyes; I was not overly fond of wine myself, but there were nicer ways to ask for tea. I dove back into the crowd, shouldering my way through forests of gossamer veils and ermine-edged houppelandes until I was halfway around the hall. The symphonia’s holding cycle drew to its conclusion, and they began the opening strains of the pavano. I stepped toward the dance floor but saw no red doublet anywhere.

“You look nice!” Kiggs said in my ear, making me jump.

I blinked stupidly. There was something one said in response to compliments, something normal people instinctively replied, but my heart pounded in my ears and I couldn’t come up with it. I said, “No I don’t.”