Chapter 5

APRIL 26TH IN TRELLECH

T hessaly considered her options. They were rather more limited than she’d prefer, given the setting, her clothing, and her social obligations. The evening had begun well. It was her third year attending the St. George’s Day gala, one of Albion’s most notable costume balls. There were hundreds of people throughout the Opera House’s public rooms. From where Thessaly stood on the balcony, she could see people forming up for the next dance.

Of course, the date had been chosen for convenience, not precision. With St. George’s Day falling on a Tuesday, and just after Easter Week, of course it was on the next Friday. It had meant a week of people making final choices about costumes and getting final illusion work done, so Magistra North had been busy with consultations. And Thessaly had been kept busy helping.

And then there were many gatherings before and after the gala itself. There wasn’t one at Arundel. The Fortiers were less enthused about English saints, even as an excuse for a party, but Thessaly had three or four invitations to parties after the gala. She’d have to see where Childeric was planning on going. He had refused to decide the last time she’d talked to him.

And now Childeric was nowhere to be seen, and he should have been easy to spot. He was costumed as the Sun, glowing slightly with illusion and charmlight, enough to brighten any corner he stood in. When she’d seen him earlier, he’d been in fine fettle, gesturing and laughing and gathering people around him, like moths to a flame. Of course, she had no part in the illusion work of his costume. The Fortiers had someone for that, a specialist kept on retainer. And besides, most of the work had already been arranged before the betrothal.

Once she was married, she would not need to have a professional reputation. She might turn her skills to small things. She could do illusions fit for amusing children or for some family gathering that involved charades or small plays put on for the guests at a house party. But whatever she wore, in the years to come, would likely be someone else’s magic. Just as it would be someone else’s sewing and weaving and every other skill that went into a frock. Thessaly appreciated other people’s skills, but she wanted, wistfully, to be able to display her own, without being judged for it. Any of her skills, whether that was illusion work or duelling.

That wasn’t true tonight. She had been tempted, at first, to pick a swordswoman or a Musketeer or something of the kind, a nod at her own duelling prowess. But she had promised Childeric explicitly and his parents implicitly that she would not show him up in public. Making her own skill that visible meant people would remember and perhaps comment.

She might be one of the top rank of duellists in her age range, up to a decade or so older, at least on a good day. And she was clear that part of the reason she was marrying Childeric was because the strength of her magic and her ability to use it were visible, any time she duelled. Despite all that, apparently it was now time to keep that light under a bushel, unless she was actually in the duelling salle. No one had come out and said it, but in the month since the betrothal, Lady Maylis and Lady Chrodechildis had both made specific comments about it. Thessaly wasn’t fool enough to miss them.

So her costume was nothing that would remind people of that set of skills. Thessaly had made several consultations with Magistra North, her apprentice mistress. Finally, she’d gone for a subtle bit of illusion work, or at least as subtle as a twining dragon that coiled around her could be. It had certainly been an interesting project to design, and she’d learned a great deal from it for the next time she did something like this.

The head came up over one shoulder, curling down to rest across the bodice. Its wings were tucked against its back, scales of peacock blue and turquoise shading down to deeper greens and purples against a blue gown the shade of a summer sky. No one had yet noticed the details, and that was interesting information. Mind, the half-mask she wore didn’t exactly obscure her identity. But it made people have to work for it, especially if they didn’t see her next to Childeric or his parents.

Looking down to the dance floor, Thessaly could see the senior Fortiers clearly enough. They had chosen quite conventional costumes. Lord Clovis was dressed as his namesake, in proper Merovingian robes of a deep blue-purple. His long hair was gleaming and loose rather than pulled back, and he looked every bit a king. Lady Maylis looked serene and elegant in long brocade robes and Queen Clotilde’s translucent silk veil over her hair, both a striking scarlet red.

They had a small horde of people ebbing and flowing around them. The crowd would make a smile and nod and bob to them, as people outside of Albion might have done to a King and Queen. She’d only seen Sigbert briefly. It hadn’t been long enough to identify which of the many possible heroic knights was his inspiration. He had forged off into the crowd as soon as they arrived.

Her own parents were not here. They didn’t care for costume parties, and Father thought it was a great deal of fuss and bother to come up with a suitable outfit. An unnecessary expense, he’d declared. That was why Thessaly’s costume used a gown she’d already owned with the illusion doing much of the work and needing only a relatively reasonable set of materia to work.

However, Thessaly expected to see Aunt Metaia at any turn. Her aunt had a long list of people to talk to, since these events were at least two-thirds business for anyone on the Council. Aunt Metaia, however, had let Thessaly help with her costume, and Thessaly wanted to know how people were taking it. There she was, in the opposite corner from the Fortiers. The illusion work was holding up well, too, and Thessaly let herself feel smug. Consistency and stability were some of the trickiest and least appreciated parts of a competent illusion.

The costume was a rather lovely take on an undine, all watery blues, curves, and swirls. Aunt Metaia’s skirts appeared to pool around her ankles like she was always standing in a few inches of water that made them shift and bloom. The illusion work that made strands of her hair appear to do the same was a deft touch, if Thessaly said so herself.

Thessaly had had enough of the dancing for the moment. The masks made it possible for her to dance as many dances as she wished. And to dance without anyone becoming nervous about whether Childeric or his family might take offence at a hand that lingered a hair too long. Thessaly had amused herself, through several sets, in contemplating which of the men she danced with might be worthwhile for further conversation. Of course, she couldn’t tell much from just a dance, it limited what one could talk about. If - more like when - she eventually took up with someone for her personal pleasure and his, she wanted conversation to be a part of it. Conversation mattered near as much as well as the more physical and as yet unknown pleasures of the bed.

Mind, duelling gave her an advantage on spotting people. The way people moved in a duel carried over into dancing. Temenos Sibley, there, was in a deep scarlet red, a knight on a mission. He had a habit of standing with his heels together and his feet at a right angle. Awkward, if he had to move quickly in any direction. That had to be Gerold Teague. He had been a few years ahead of Thessaly in school, but she’d know the way he took a stride anywhere. It was just slightly shorter on the right, from a slight knee injury.

Thessaly was fairly sure that the pair over there were Gaius and Felicia Roberts, brother and sister, rather than a married couple. Their costumes didn’t complement that way, and besides, she could usually pick out Felicia by the way she held herself. She was a much better duellist than her brother, overall, though Gaius was clever about it. If someone could combine his eye for strategy with her skill in making use of it, that person would be near impossible to defeat.

However, there was no one she much wanted to talk to. Several of the women where she’d have had reason to speak to weren’t there, due to having small children. If she talked to any of the male duellists, Childeric would likely be put out, or at least there was a chance he might be. She did not need that bother in her evening, not remotely. Best if Thessaly kept those conversations somewhere less public, like the next time she was in one of the salles in Trellech. And while she enjoyed duelling Felicia, the woman’s conversational skills tended toward a sharp eye for gossip that Thessaly couldn’t indulge in at this sort of event. Far too much chance that someone might overhear.

She was just about to go navigate the stairs - people always picked costumes that took up more space than they realised - when she realised someone was just behind her. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” She turned, her skirt sweeping the floor behind her.

The man bowed, quite low, and with no hesitation. “Mistress.” Then he straightened up. His own costume took her a moment.

He wore a long frock coat better suited to historical dress, all in a muted grey, over a matching shirt. The grey was like stone with slashes in the fabric, where shades of amethyst purple were bunched up to make shapes. It could be better with a little illusion work, but the sewing was well done. “A mine, master? Amethysts?” Once she had the idea, it was obvious.

He grinned - his mask matched his outfit, a muted grey. It didn’t hide his smile at all, or his eyes, which also lit up. “Just so, Mistress. You have a keener eye than most.”

She slipped one foot behind her to curtsy properly. She made the sinking and rising gesture she’d practised for hours of her life so it looked smooth and not like a particularly precise sort of torture. Thessaly considered for just a moment, then shifted her fingers, focusing on her intention. Along the curve of her shoulder, she knew the dragon would open his eyes, blinking slowly, appearing to shift and rearrange himself. If this man had seen the tail as it undulated down her train, it would twitch.

The man took a step back, and then clapped his hands once, delighted. “Oh, you are far beyond me, Mistress. Are you hiding here from the valiant noble knights, then? Or am I keeping you from some treasure or quest or whatever it is dragons do with themselves when not dealing with such bothers?”

It made her laugh, picking up on his honest enjoyment. This was exactly what she had been hoping for, someone to have a bit of a verbal duel with her. She shifted again, and the dragon blinked once more, and then did that thing cats do when they wriggled into sleep. She’d based him on a cat, as it was far easier to study a cat than one of the custos dragons, who had a different shape, anyway. “I was considering the dancing, but I think I’d prefer a breath of fresh air. I do not see my escort handy, either.”

The man considered, his head cocked. “Perhaps I might fetch you a glass of punch? I gather the terrace is warmed, if you would prefer that. And well-lit still, this time of night.” Later, it would be a spot for people who wanted an assignation or at least to arrange one. But it was not yet midnight and plenty of the people who would be in and out were at least nominally innocent young women and spinster aunts.

“That would be most kind. Or wine, if that is easier to find.” She had paid little attention to the refreshment table up on this level when she went by. There’d been a knot of people around it.

The man nodded and gestured at a courtly bow. “I will be back shortly, Mistress.” He took two steps back and then turned smartly. Thessaly considered, and migrated down the balcony toward where it opened up overlooking the broad terrace and courtyard at the back of the building. Whoever he was, he was efficient, because he returned in only a couple of minutes, handing her a glass of wine before offering his arm.

The terrace was not even particularly crowded, and they found a space down at one corner, still well-lit and visible, but away from the din. Thessaly hadn’t realised how wearing that had been until she could hear herself think again. She took a breath, settling herself and letting her train fall into place, before turning to the gentleman. She inclined her head. “Thank you for the glass and the thoughtfulness. Do you wish to remain a mystery, or may I ask who I am thanking?”

It made the corners of his mouth turn up. “Vitus Deschamps, Mistress. An apprentice talisman maker. Though I hope not an apprentice for too much longer.”

Thessaly considered the lists of people she had memorised, not least for the betrothal, when she’d been expected to be able to say something suitable to any person who might speak to her. “Your parents are Master Claud and Mistress Joceline, yes? And you have a younger brother.” She couldn’t quite keep from looking up, searching her memory.

“Lucas.” He supplied the name promptly. “He is not much seen in Albion society. I am impressed. Nor is he here tonight, actually. He’s a cavalry officer, based in Somerset, but with limited leave.”

That was intriguing, actually, to have a family who diverged quite like that. She knew the Deschamps were a client family to the Fortiers. There was some distant family connection, a few generations back, cousins or a cousin marrying in, something like that. Relevant enough, as it was, that she knew the name, not so powerful that she needed to worry about offending out of season. It begged the question of whether she shared her own name or not.

Etiquette - the sort of precise etiquette wielded like a weapon - said that anonymity gave her an edge of power, a chance for a conversation without her current social state interfering. Reality - in that same circle - said that whatever she said or did would make it back to Lady Maylis, eventually. Or to one of her relatives, which was as good as the same thing.

Instead of deciding immediately, she asked him another question. “I have not seen you at other events, at least recently, have I? Though I suppose at most of them you are not impersonating a gemstone mine.” The lack of clarity on the crystals kept making her fingers twitch and want to do something to improve it. Not that it was a poor costume, it just could be stunning with a little touch or three.

“I have been travelling the past year and a half. A series of visits with talisman makers in Europe. I am an apprentice to Magistra Niobe Hall, she was kind enough to make the arrangements.” Ah, the sort of thing where she’d traded favours. Not everyone got that kind of opportunity. Magistra Hall didn’t do work for the Fortiers - nor for the Powells or Lyttons - but she had an excellent reputation.

In particular, she was known for turning down requests she did not care to take, for whatever reason. Which was almost certainly why the Fortiers, Lyttons, and Powells preferred others, who could be relied on to fulfil requests as required. Thessaly nodded once. “I know her reputation, of course.”

“You are learned, Mistress.” Deschamps made another slight bow, lifting his glass in acknowledgement. “And I can see you appreciate magic in its many forms.”