Chapter 15

MAY 25TH AT brYN GLAS

“I t’s still not right.” Thessaly didn’t turn around. They were in Aunt Metaia’s workroom. She knew right where her aunt was. Thessaly could feel her, ten feet back, across the room, and about three feet to the left. Thessaly was trying - and failing - to get a proper complex illusion to take. She’d somehow made the time to make and apply the gesso, the bulk of it earlier last Saturday, so it had time to dry.

Now, it was refusing to behave. Oh, not the gesso, precisely. Thessaly was fully willing to accept that certain materia had opinions about how, when, whether, and in what circumstances it was best used. The recipe Aunt Metaia preferred - and thus the one Thessaly also preferred - involved rabbit skin glue, marble dust, titanium white. And at least seven drops of honey from Aunt Metaia’s beehives. That was not the problem, not exactly.

Getting the illusion to hold was the problem. She’d tried twice, and she couldn’t make it work. The images fluttered there for a moment and then faded, like a rose wilting out of season and before the eyes.

“No. Talk me through it, then.” Aunt Metaia sounded amused rather than annoyed, and that was enough to get Thessaly to turn around and look. Aunt Metaia was wearing another of her favourite aesthetic gowns - there was no one in the house besides the staff and the two of them. This was a rich green with gold-embroidered ribbon adding subtle touches over a paler green undergown. Thessaly was wearing one of the ones Aunt Metaia had gifted her for times like these. She had five in the wardrobe upstairs.

Mama wouldn’t let her out of her bedroom in one at home, even just to the portal. Mama had extremely precise ideas about how one dressed and moved and acted in public, and no degree of informality was permitted within those standards. Her clothing was armour and protection. Thessaly knew that, even if she yearned for something different, and a fight on a different field. This gown was a muted lavender over a darker purple, and it made Thessaly think of fields of the flower, something soothing.

Now she took a breath, turning to face her aunt. “It’s not flowing properly. It is not the materia. I am confident it was mixed and applied properly. Not only by my skill, but you checked it. One of us might miss something, but both is unlikely.”

Her aunt snorted, but nodded her agreement. Thessaly went on. “It is not the current weather, it is an ordinary enough sort of day. Neither too dry nor too utterly damp.” Both could affect the humidity of the room, and thus the finest nuances of the casting, but they were of Albion. They were used to dealing with humidity in a range from damp to soggy to utterly waterlogged on a regular basis. She’d have far more trouble in a desert. Thessaly considered. “Me, I suppose.” It was the factor she couldn’t bring into line.

“Talk to me about that, then. How do you feel today?” Aunt Metaia took a couple of steps forward.

“Unsettled.” It was the first thing that came to mind, and Thessaly could and would say it here, rather than guarding her tongue. If she couldn’t trust Aunt Metaia, here, at home, there wasn’t anyone she could trust.

“Your apprenticeship? Your engagement? Things at home?” Aunt Metaia considered. “Come sit. We’ll have tea before we try again. Tea often helps.” One hand on Thessaly’s waist guided her out toward the library, and Aunt Metaia summoned a tea cart. Five minutes later, there was tea steeping and a plate of Welsh cakes to nibble on.

It had given Thessaly time to figure out some words that might describe what she felt. “It’s nothing specific. But I was out for supper at Arundel last night, and I am still getting used to how they do things. Not the manners. My manners are fine.” At the moment, she was leaning an elbow on the table, which was decidedly not permitted anywhere else.

“I’m sure they have their particular ways. Do they explain much to you?” Aunt Metaia reached for her own teacup. “Or are you expected to work it out from first principles and etiquette guides on your own?”

It made Thessaly almost choke on her tea, and she set her cup down pointedly. “The latter. With occasional raised eyebrows when I misstep. I am getting fairly good at the eyebrows. They are all expressive with them. I wonder if it’s hereditary.”

“Maylis and Laudine did not start as Fortiers. Though I grant that Chrodechildis was a distant cousin.” Aunt Metaia considered. “Though Maylis and Laudine both come from Third Families, they’re related more generations back.”

Unlike the Powells, who were Fourth Families, even if they were one of the most notable ones. They were part of the families who had come up through Wales and Scotland, ancient magic pushed to the borders of the island by invasion after invasion. “Eyebrows.” Thessaly said firmly. “And Childeric won’t explain. Not that I expected that much, but even less than I’d expected. He’s busy with something.”

“And he’s not bragging about it to you? The boy doesn’t understand how to carry through with a project, does he?” Aunt Metaia scoffed, then her expression softened. “I’m sorry, that must be terribly frustrating.”

“It is. For one thing, I might have ideas. He’s, I don’t know, frustrated about something. Like he was last year, when he couldn’t get Fulgett’s Triad to come out right.” It was a particular new duelling technique, and Thessaly had picked it up in under three goes. Childeric had taken five months, though admittedly he was not very steady about doing his drills. And he’d only managed it once, when she had been doing bouts with both Childeric and Sigbert, before Childeric had declared he didn’t want to duel her again. “Yes. It’s like that. Frustration and pent-up energy, and an edge of something, but he won’t explain it at all.”

“Is he also frustrated, expressing it the same sort of way, at his parents or his grandmother, or his brother?” Aunt Metaia poured herself a little more from the teapot, fiddling slightly with the lid.

That one, Thessaly had to think about. “A bit more deferential to his father than usual, actually? But I thought that was mostly the betrothal being settled and him finishing his apprenticeship, and I don’t know. Growing up a bit. Maturing. Realising that petulance doesn’t go with his looks, charm is much better.” She sighed. “He’s certainly much more fun when he’s inclined to be charming.”

Aunt Metaia considered. “The offer still stands, if you change your mind. I’m going to keep saying that, I suspect, until you’re actually wed. Just in case.”

That brought Thessaly’s eyes up from the table, tilting her head to peer at her aunt. She was also doing things with her eyebrows, she was fairly sure. It was contagious. “Nothing’s changed. I knew what I was agreeing to. And it’s not as if I’d get a better offer.” She cleared her throat. “And Father and the uncles made it clear where they stand, the needs of the family.”

“Ah.” Aunt Metaia considered. “They have been very set on you making a match with Childeric, indeed.” It was a decidedly neutral statement, deliberately, and Thessaly focused on her aunt’s face.

“You don’t approve?” Then Thessaly caught herself. She knew better, she’d been trained to better, even though the slip wouldn’t matter here. “Pardon. You have opinions, you’ve expressed them to Mama, but this isn’t your decision to make. Or advise on, other than making it clear to me, in private, that there are alternatives.”

Aunt Metaia nodded once, confirming Thessaly had laid it out properly. “Your parents - and your father, in particular - have reasons. They’re even understandable reasons. But they are not much about what’s best for you, as much as what’s best for the family. Those are two different things. I worry about what it will mean for you.”

Thessaly nodded. “I— well, I am expected to marry someone. Talking with the uncles made it clear there aren’t many other options, not for our sort of family. Of the other people who are heirs or likely to be, the others are all promised or in need of a dowry, or both.”

“Quite.” Now that was a bit of sharpness. “And your uncles have opinions about the dowry and marriage settlement. And your father is guided by that.” It was a precise and nuanced commentary, and Thessaly could not figure out how to ask about the money side of it. It wasn’t anything Father discussed with her, and not the sort of thing she’d ever talked about with Aunt Metaia in this sort of context. “There’s Jupiter Delwyn, but he’s both younger and in line to be heir but not heir yet.”

“No, and I don’t think I’d like Noctua Delwyn as a mother-in-law. Lady Maylis has strong opinions, but with the Delwyns, I think there’s no chance of being myself, ever. I’d lose any time there was a disagreement with anyone in the family.” She shrugged. “It’s a series of choices, and Childeric can be quite decent when he wants to be.”

“There are a number of ways something might be better or worse. You know enough about the political maths, how it’s not a straight line, or even more complex maths. And your mother made choices the same way, with her eyes open to what they were.” Then Aunt Metaia got distracted by a take on it. “Curves and volumes and such.” Aunt Metaia waved a hand at Thessaly’s torso. “Even if you bring pleasant curves - or at least curves Childeric ought to be appreciating properly - to the equation.”

That broke the tension a little, and it was Thessaly’s turn to snort. “He used to at least look.” She had to count back. “Not that he ever presumed too far.”

“Not least because you can trounce him, formal duel or no, and you both know it,” Aunt Metaia agreed. “I suspect you could even do it without disarranging your hair an iota.”

“That is something to aspire to as a standard.” Thessaly would have to contemplate that, how to be optimally effective with the least physical movement, especially any that might be noticed. It allowed - well, the bustled skirts allowed - for a number of foot placements, in reasonable shoes. She could do a number of things with finger positions, as well, never mind incantations and charms. All in all, that would be a pleasant challenge to sort out, though she hoped not to need any of the resulting skills.

It brought her back to the essential issue, however. “No. He’s distracted. It’s not that he’s trying to be dismissive, exactly. Whatever he is, it’s not about me. It’s about something else.”

“Huh.” Aunt Metaia sniffed. “All right. Tell me if you discover what it is, then. Perhaps we can sort out better what to do about it. And I suppose you’ll have the usual sort of things coming up, where his attention will not be divided. The Council rites, and then the Midsummer Faire.”

“Exactly. And I have excellent new frocks for both, and really, when Childeric is being social, he really can honestly be lovely.” That was the thing. She didn’t love him, but until the betrothal, she’d generally enjoyed her time with him. He wasn’t terribly interested in the exact things she was - or when he was, she was better, and she tried not to rub it in. But they had plenty of overlap in other ways, and of course, a whole host of young men and women of their age and social status to gossip about. Which could, in fact, carry quite a few conversations. Perhaps she ought to try that again.

“Yes, dearest?” Aunt Metaia was leaning back.

“I was thinking I ought to collect some gossip, and see if that gave us something to talk about. Is there any that you’d find interesting to share? Or useful to the family, or whatever else it is you have in mind?”

“Oh, now, that’s an interesting question. And we all know plenty of couples where what keeps them happy together is a bit of mutual social plotting. Is there anything you’ve heard that seems likely?”

Thessaly wavered. Her mind got stuck on Vitus, because part of the gossip recently had been about his costume at the St. George’s Day gala. Not about him directly. He’d kept his mask on, but about the effect of it. Her aunt raised an eyebrow, in her own mode of it, and Thessaly blushed. “You remember Vitus Deschamps? I was talking to him when you came to find me at the gala.”

“Ah, yes. Respectable family, not our league, but I gather Niobe Hall’s quite pleased with him. And he is a handsome young man. I saw him in passing - the other side of the street, not to speak to - last week in Trellech.”

“I bumped into him - well, he saved me from a tumble on the movable steps - in the library Friday week.” Thessaly ducked her chin, then looked up at her aunt. “We talked. He’s...”

“Ah.” Aunt Metaia considered. “You know your agreements, of course. And I am not someone to discourage you from pleasure. In those places it might reasonably be found.”

“Aunt Metaia!” That came out pitched and startled. Aunt Metaia had in fact made it plain she was no untouched maiden, but this was a bit more than she’d said. Thessaly wondered if her aunt could in fact read minds, given Thessaly had been thinking about asking her about how she might open a conversation with Vitus about something beyond decorous conversation. Now she had an opening, but she wasn’t sure how to position herself to move into it smoothly. Duelling gave her the mode she wanted, but not the words, here.

“You know your mythology perfectly well. It is possible to be an independent woman - a sovereign lady, a parthenos, whatever we call ourselves, in whichever language.” Aunt Metaia was leaning back. “Not that I have recently, mind. I’ve been far too busy.”

Thessaly blinked several times, then ventured, “And also, whoever you might take up with might have political aspirations, and that’s exhausting?”

Her aunt laughed, though it was a bit hollow. “That too. That’s the trouble with ageing. You know far too many people’s quirks and, even worse, the things that entirely put you off them, in any form of congress. Perhaps the seasons will change and I will be inclined. Perhaps I will not. Either way, I have had my grand times.” She waved a hand. “You should have some too, that is all I am saying. And if Childeric is not forthcoming, he knows what the agreements are.”

Thessaly ducked her chin again. “I prevailed on Vitus to call me Thessaly. And he’s coming around this week to talk about the lapis lazuli illusion. Finally.” Then she sat bolt upright. “I think I have an idea. Can you give me five minutes to set something up?” One of the articles she’d been reading at the library touched on what she wanted, a way to better lay groundwork for an illusion, but she’d need to work through how it felt in practice. Reading about it was not remotely the same as doing it.

“Of course. I’ll be along then.”

Thessaly brought the last fragment of Welsh cake to her mouth, chewed, and abandoned her tea as she went back to the workroom.