Chapter 21

JUNE 20TH AT brYN GLAS

“H ere, dearest, close your eyes. I want you to try something on.” Thessaly was perched on one of the silk-covered benches in Aunt Metaia’s bedroom, as they were getting ready for the festivities at the Council Keep. Aunt Metaia had been out with the more private Council rites all last night and this morning into the early afternoon. Everyone had retreated to their homes or other suitable places to change for the evening’s formal presentations and dancing. They had an hour before they had to think about leaving, at the least.

Thessaly was already dressed. Collins, Aunt Metaia’s housekeeper and lady’s maid, had put her hair up beautifully, swoops of it gleaming in the light, looking exceedingly elegant. There were flowers to add, the last touch, but those were waiting until just before they left.

The gown was designed for the summer. It had swaths of golden silk, the shades of a perfect sunset, over a deep red underskirt, the bodice shading from gold up to white. She had long silk gloves, perfectly cut and charmed to fit her hands, that would stretch to the puffs of the sleeves. A nearly invisible layer of delicate lace protected her bosom from magical harm. It was the most adult gown she’d worn yet, in some ways. These were not the pastels and demure cuts of a young woman not yet betrothed, in keeping with Albion’s current fashions for that sort of thing.

Aunt Metaia’s gown was a brilliant peacock green over an underskirt shot with silver thread, like the cool beauty of a shimmering pond or a hint of snow on Snowdonia. Not, of course, that the great and looming mountain had snow at the summer solstice. But Aunt Metaia did favour reminding everyone that every season came and went and came again, and that the cycles mattered.

She obediently closed her eyes. “Yes, Aunt?” Behind her, she could feel Aunt Metaia’s presence, the weight and power of her magic, before she felt the brush of silk against silk. Then there were hands reaching around her, and the cold weight of metal against her skin through the lace. A necklace, whatever it was, and much more substantial than she’d expected.

“There. Look at yourself, do.” Aunt Metaia gestured at the mirror in front of them. The necklace was nothing she’d expected. Thessaly brought her fingers up to touch it, a parure of ovals set with garnets. She knew it, of course she knew it. Aunt Metaia wore it regularly. The colour shaded from brighter red nearer the back, to a deep red, the colour of blood, at the front. That was a single larger teardrop garnet, drawing the eye instantly. That wasn’t all, though. She could feel the magic in the piece.

“Aunt Metaia?” Thessaly turned her head. “Mama will think it far too adult.” Though Mama had told her earlier not to bother packing jewellery, her aunt had something for her. “Does she know?”

“She does.” Aunt Metaia let her fingers rest on Thessaly’s bare skin, warmth against warmth. “It’s a talismanic piece. Protection, that’s why it’s garnet. The central piece is one I wore for my challenge. You can wear the pendant on its own, that’s the one with the greatest talismanic work.”

Thessaly’s fingers brushed it, trying to get a sense of it. “It’s stunning. But are you sure you don’t want to wear it?”

“It wouldn’t go with my gown, dearest. And besides...” Aunt Metaia considered. “It is time for you to have it.”

There was an odd quality there, something Thessaly noted, but did not understand. Of course she noted it. This was Aunt Metaia, who loved her, who she loved back wholeheartedly, and without the complications of loving Mama. Aunt Metaia had named that herself years ago. There were obligations to parents, and from parents in return. How she was with others in the family, how they were with her, that was more of a choice on both their parts. It was a deliberate choice in how it felt and what she made of it.

She twisted to look up at her aunt, and her aunt waved a hand, summoning another one of the padded benches with the pull of her magic, then settling down onto it, facing Thessaly. “There’s something I wanted to talk about, dearest.”

A serious something, then, a terribly serious something. Aunt Metaia could look like that, had looked like that, but always at other people. Never at Thessaly. Thessaly had been nine when her aunt challenged for the Council, too young to be there for it. But she remembered Aunt Metaia looking like this, discussing it with Mama, insisting she was going to do it, and do it in her own way. And Thessaly had seen it since. That was most often when some piece of political manoeuvring or personal benefit had run up against Aunt Metaia’s instincts and ethics and sense of what would be done. “Yes?” Her voice cracked a little, even in so short a word, and Aunt Metaia patted her hand.

“I am worried about you, dearest. Or rather, I am worried about Childeric Fortier, and you are so near him, within easy reach.”

Thessaly blinked several times, unsure of what to say. “Aunt?” When in doubt, an interrogative appellation worked well. She’d learned that at Schola, in several of her classes.

“Will you promise to hear me out? To trust that I may not have experience in marriage, but I have experience in observing men - and women - and their ways?” Aunt Metaia squeezed her hand once.

“Of course, aunt.” Why wouldn’t she hear this out? Thessaly expected it would not be comfortable to hear, or Aunt Metaia would not be nervous about how she took it.

“I would like you to pay attention to how he treats you tonight, and in the days to come. How he treats other people.” Aunt Metaia took a little breath. “The problem with some men is that the more power they have, the more likely they are to abuse it. Some women, too, but here we are concerned about a man.”

Thessaly opened her mouth, wanting to protest that he had not done that with her. And then she closed it. Because she remembered what he’d been like the last few times they had been in each other’s company. None of it was an obvious twisting of power like that. She swallowed. “What does that look like that you’ve seen?”

There was a sudden sigh from her aunt, both hands grasping Thessaly’s. “Thank the gods and the ancestors. You’re not fighting me. I couldn’t bear that.” Aunt Metaia took a breath, settling herself a bit. “He was charming with you, to begin, wasn’t he? I saw some of that in public, of course, but also in private?”

Thessaly thought back. “He was charming in private, too. He does know how to be.” Examples seemed called for. “Childeric would ask about what I was working on. He would give me some small token. A book of interest, tickets to a concert, not just the usual sort of flowers that are dictated by etiquette, telling sentences in their choices.” The language of flowers had a lot to answer for, honestly.

“And then you were betrothed. What changed?” Her aunt hesitated for a second. “When did it change?”

“That week. Before we were formally betrothed, actually. He’ll go off on his own or with Sigbert and his friends. Gaming, cards, maybe other gambling. Or he’d go riding, in ways I couldn’t join him. And of course he won’t duel me.” Her mouth twitched. “Not going to be a marital hobby, he sulks for days when he loses, and he always loses.” Other people, other women who were entirely competent duellists, might throw the bout, at least sometimes, but Childeric knew exactly how much better she was. “He’s rather exhausting to be around, actually. Though that’s probably as much the pressures of the family, the expectations.”

“But he hasn’t tried to hurt you. Push you, force you to do something, grab you tightly. He hasn’t left bruises?” Thessaly glanced down at her arms, which were bare and the proper pale white of her class and station. The bruise from last month’s duelling had long since faded, and she hadn’t had the chance to acquire more that way. Those were honest bruises, not what Aunt Metaia meant.

She shook her head. “No. But I - now you say it, I’ve wondered if he might, once or twice.” She looked up, meeting her aunt’s eyes. “What do I do?”

“You’ve explained why you made this choice. And I can’t say you’re wrong. It would secure your family’s position for the next generation. There are not any other particularly palatable choices on the horizon. And Childeric can be very charming. How is he when he is around his family, with you? Other than Sigbert?”

“Charming. Pleasant. Especially with his grandmother. Of course, she sees everything and knows even more. I don’t know what kinds of charms and tools she has built into Arundel. Not the gardens, though, or the salle, or outside spaces, I think. That’s where he’s been abrupt.” Thessaly could at least work through it now, pulling together the threads of the relevant patterns. “Do you think he’ll get worse?”

“I think there’s a chance.” Aunt Metaia let go of her hands, turning hers over. “He had to be charming until the betrothal was secure. He needs you, too, mind. There aren’t so many women from a background the Fortiers would consider who are unmarried and within a few years of your age. And you are not vain, my dear, but you know you’re one of the most attractive.” Thessaly snorted, bemused. But Aunt Metaia was right, of course. They’d been over this multiple times.

Some were already matched, or had not flourished as expected. Some who might be considered were far too young - one of the Alvey girls, for example, might make a match with Garin, but they wouldn’t do for Childeric, not in the next decade or so. The Great Families no longer reliably pledged their daughters under the age of ten, and besides, it wasn’t like Childeric was inclined to be patient about whatever marital rights applied.

A couple of women of her generation seemed well enough, but there were hereditary concerns in their families, the sort of thing the Fortiers would avoid. A couple of others would have refused to follow the Fortier customs and would have insisted on Childeric marrying into their line, with all the implications of that. And Childeric was his father’s Heir, and the Fortiers did not make that sort of match, had not since the Conquest. “Does that give me any leverage, then?”

“With his parents and grandmother, yes. With Childeric, I do not know. What I am going to tell you here and now is that if he behaves in the way he seems he might, I will take issue with it.” Her fingers lifted to touch the jewel she was wearing, a faceted aquamarine. “With every bit of power at my disposal, magical and social.” Aunt Metaia raised an eyebrow. “We can discuss the sensible strategy later this week.”

Thessaly nodded slowly, thinking it through. “And tonight?”

“Tonight, pay attention to how he treats you. And watch how the men there treat their wives or their fiancees. And vice versa, though it’s more often men grasping at their power than women for all sorts of reasons.” Aunt Metaia tilted her head, thinking. “Watch Lord and Lady Teague. How he treats her. How he has for years. There are others.”

It made Thessaly shiver. Not someone she wanted to get close to. Mabyn Teague had come from an extremely wealthy family, and she was enough older they’d only overlapped in Fox House for a year. Now, she spoke little among others, unless her husband was elsewhere. And he was almost always around. “Yes, Aunt.” She took in a breath and let it out. “I’ll think about it.”

“And like I said, dearest, if you do choose to break the engagement, I will back you with every resource at my disposal.” She stood, bending over to kiss Thessaly’s forehead. “I understand why you said yes, enough. And it would mean a battle with your father that would have consequences. But I will do my best to make sure you have choices, whatever is required. Now, will you help me choose a ring or two? Then Collins should be back to make sure our flowers are perfect.”

“And once we’ve slept tomorrow, there’s the Midsummer Faire. Far more pleasant. How do you think the pavo matches will go? I can’t decide which of the tournament teams are most promising.” That, at least, was a far more diverting conversation topic. Thessaly was a competent rider, but not at the level required for a pavo match. On the other hand, she appreciated skill at it no end, and it gave the players fine form.