Seraphina(98)

I hung Orma’s earring from a golden chain around my neck, more to settle my nerves with something treasured than because I thought it could be useful; who knew where he was or whether he could even receive its signal. It made an intriguing pendant. I no longer feared the Ardmagar recognizing it. Let him say two words to me about Orma; let him try. He would get more than he bargained for.

Surely no one would try to do him in while I was there, excoriating him.





I’d never attended a feast of such magnitude. I was seated as far as possible from the high table, of course, but I had an unimpeded view of it. The Ardmagar sat between the Queen and Princess Dionne; Kiggs and Glisselda sat on the Queen’s other side, both of them scanning the room anxiously. I took this as simple vigilance at first, until Glisselda spotted me, waved eagerly, and pointed me out to her cousin. It took him a moment to see me, even so, because I didn’t look quite like myself.

He did smile eventually, once he stopped looking astonished.

I can barely recall the kind and number of dishes; I should have taken notes. We had boar and venison and fowl of all kinds, a peacock pie with its great tail fanned out, sallats, soft white bread, almond custard, fish, figs, Zibou dates. My tablemates, distant relations of the dukes and earls at the other end of the room, laughed gently at my impulse to try everything. “Can’t be done,” said an elderly fellow with a goat’s beard. “Not if you hope to walk away from the table under your own power!”

The feast ended with a towering, flaming, six-tiered torte representing the Lighthouse of Ziziba, of all things. Alas, I was truly too full—and by this point, too anxious—to have any.

Thank Heaven I could rely absolutely upon my musicians, because I got caught in the crush of people heading for the great hall and never could have gotten there fast enough to get everyone in place. By the time I entered, the symphonia was already scraping out the overture, one of those infinite-cycle pieces that could be played over and over until the royal family arrived and the first dance could begin.

Someone grabbed my upper right arm and whispered in my ear, “Ready?”

“As ready as we can be for the unknown,” I replied, not daring to look at him. He smelled almondy, like the marchpane torte.

I discerned his nod in my peripheral vision. “Selda’s stowed a flask of Zibou coffee for you somewhere onstage in case you start getting drowsy.” Kiggs clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Save me a pavano.”

He disappeared into the crowd.





No sooner had he left than Dame Okra was upon me. “What do you need now?” she asked crabbily.

I drew her toward the wall of the great hall, away from the mass of people; we stood by a tall candelabra, like a sheltering tree. “We have some concern for the Ardmagar’s safety tonight. Can I count on your help if I need it?”

She lifted her chin, scanning the crowd for Comonot. “What shall I do? Tail him?”

“Observe him discreetly, yes. And keep your stomach, er, focused.”

Her thick glasses reflected candlelight up at me. “Fair enough.”

I caught her satin sleeve as she turned to plunge into the party. “May I contact you with my mind?”

“Absolutely not!” She headed off my objections: “If you need me, I’ll be there.”

I sighed. “Fine. But it’s not just me; one of the others might need you.”

The creases beside her mouth deepened. “What others?”

I opened and shut my mouth, astonished that I could have forgotten that she did not live inside my head. Only Abdo could see the garden. “The others … like us,” I whispered urgently.

Her face underwent a full spectrum of emotion in mere seconds—astonishment, sorrow, wonderment, joy—ending on one she was particularly good at: annoyance. She smacked me with her fan. “You couldn’t tell me this? Do you have any idea how old I am?”

“Er, no.”

“One hundred twenty-eight!” she snarled. “I spent that many years thinking I was alone. Then you prance into my life, nearly giving me a paroxysm, and now you deign to tell me there are more. How many are there?”

“Eighteen, counting you and me,” I said, not daring to keep anything back from her anymore. “But only two others here: the bagpiper”—she guffawed, apparently remembering him—“and one of the pygegyria dancers. A little Porphyrian boy.”

Her brows shot up. “You invited pygegyria dancers? Tonight?” She threw back her head and laughed. “Whatever else may be true of you, you do things your own way, with a refreshingly self-assured pigheadedness. I like that!”

She took off into the colorful crowd, leaving me to puzzle out that compliment.





Speaking of pygegyria, I hadn’t seen the troupe. I reached out: Where are you?

The small reception hall. We are too many for your tiny dressing rooms.

Stay there. I am coming to meet you.

I slipped into the corridor and found the double doors of the small hall easily enough. I hesitated, my hands upon the brass door handles. Abdo was so different from the others I had met—his mind worked more like mine, or Jannoula’s—that I had some anxiety about meeting him. Once I’d met him, he was in my life inextricably, for good or ill.

I took a deep breath and opened the doors.