“. . . pertaining to the delicate matter of which you have no doubt been apprised by Lady Alymere on the 7th of this month. Her Grace would be much obliged if you would be so kind as to ensure that all parties involved are offered a resolution of a nature as to safeguard their dignity and spare their finer sentiments.” Sfjona Brist carefully enunciated each word inked with dramatic strokes on a pristine sheet of paper.
The letter had been sent at dawn by the secretary of the Duchess of Nymaine to Lady River of Orloth, her new employer. Sfjona placed it back on Lady River’s writing desk, careful not to wrinkle it. The room was silent, freshly painted in emerald tones and steeped in buttery late-afternoon light. The mingled scents of beeswax and fresh blooms laced the air, the latter coming from the live boughs that ran through the walls of the Camelot townhouse to form its bones.
Lady River stood by a tall arched window, eyeing the missive indecisively. “So . . . what do you think?”
Sfjona straightened her shoulders and raised herself to her full height of five feet—one inch of which could be credited to spool heels. “Given the circumstances, I believe you must act swiftly and decisively, my lady.”
Lady River, who was still relatively new to the intricacies of drawing-room politics, deftly folded her crinoline hoops and settled onto a brocade settee in a puff of iridescent blue silk. She was a coltish young woman, who often allowed her long black tresses to cascade freely down her back—at least in private. This audacious breach of propriety, along with her slouching posture and unusual accent, were but a few of the clues that might betray Lady River’s otherworldly origins to observant eyes. Perhaps the most damning piece of evidence, however, was her disconcertingly frank manner of speech.
The lady steepled her hands on her lap and leaned forward, as a gentleman would. “Honestly, that letter was three pages long, and I still have no idea what the duchess wants or what Lady Alymere has to do with it. What am I expected to do here?”
“I presume it concerns Lady Kay of Demetīrr,” Sfjona hedged. As Lady River’s newly appointed secretary and, to the extent that their differences in age and station permitted it, her friend, it behooved Sfjona to guide the young woman on the tortuous path to social respectability and, more importantly, to keep her apprised of any relevant piece of gossip.
“Kay’s wife?” Lady River’s brow furrowed. “She’s not even mentioned in the letter.”
“Oh.” Sfjona lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, her hands tingling from a culpable thrill. “You haven’t heard about . . . last year’s incident?”
Lady River gave a slow shake of her head.
“Last year,” Sfjona began, “during a house party hosted by the duchess at her seaside estate in Nymaine, Lady Kay’s capybara made public advances to the duchess’s.”
“Advances?” Lady River’s fingers moved to form graceful air quotes. “Like, did they . . .”
“In front of all the guests gathered in the breakfast parlor. It is said that the duchess fainted in shock, and it was Lord Tristain who succeeded in separating the sinners by pouring a pitcher of lemonade over them. But it was too late!” Sfjona balled her fists, gripped by the intensity of her own account. “For the vine of indecency had borne fruit!”
Lady River jumped from her seat. “Oh, wow. Nymaine’s capybara popped pups?”
“A litter of six lovely fawn rexes,” Sfjona confirmed. “The duchess sold them all: she couldn’t bear the sight of them.”
“Okay, so now there’s bad blood between the Duchess of Nymaine and Lady Kay,” Lady River surmised, pacing on the thick rug that spanned most of her study. “Let’s circle back to the letter. What, exactly, do I have to do with Kay’s capybara being a registered sex offender?”
Sfjona marked a solemn pause. “I’m afraid that the issue lies with the wedding’s seating arrangements, my lady.”
Lady River slowly dragged both her palms over her face in a rather unsightly display that made it look as if the flesh were melting off her bones. “Ugh . . . kill me now. We’ve changed that plan a hundred times already.”
Not quite. By Sfjona’s mental count, the seating plan had heretofore been updated only thirty-six times—a fairly reasonable figure, considering the stakes at play.
Eleven days hence, on the first day of Knutlugger—marking the beginning of fall and the reaping of crops—Her Ladyship would bind her blood to Hadrian Landevale, the Duke of Caid, keeper of the Round Table seat of Landevale and, more importantly, Sfjona’s former employer. Whispers of the match were on all of Camelot’s lips, and much as polite society reveled in smearing the characters of Lady River and the duke behind closed doors, no one who mattered in the kingdom of Logres would miss the opportunity to attend—and comment on—the single most significant event of the social season.
The stakes were high indeed, and so was the pressure slowly building upon Sfjona’s shoulders. His Grace, who had heretofore employed her as the housekeeper of his country seat of Thunor Hall, had entrusted her to serve the other half of his heart, and she would not fail. There would be nothing but praise for Lady River’s fashion choices or diplomatic skills under Sfjona Brist’s watch.
Which brought them back to the dratted seating plan. Ever since it had been made known that Prince Arthur would be attending the ceremony and ensuing revels, Lady River had been bombarded with letters from ambitious mothers beseeching her to rectify the seating arrangements so that their daughters might bask in the light of the young Prince. Had Lady River consented to satisfy all their demands, the seating plan would have included a table of fifteen guests composed of His Majesty and fourteen daughters of the Table between the ages of sixteen and thirty, all vying for his favor and ready to commit nothing short of murder to secure it.
Sfjona’s shoulders sagged. The plan would have to be drawn anew.
Offering her young employer a commiserating smile, she walked over to the writing desk and seized a blank sheet of paper and a glass quill, which she dipped in a waiting pot of ink. “As you already know, guests ought to be placed in accordance with their order of precedence.” Sfjona drew a circle encompassed in a semicircle to represent the tables. “Being the king’s seneschal,” she went on, “His Grace Pellias of Nymaine is third in the order of precedence. He and his wife must, therefore, sit across from you at the bridal table.”
Lady River leaned over Sfjona’s shoulder to inspect the sketch. “Yes, with Arthur and Lancelot. That’s what we agreed on with Hadrian.”
“The rest of the sitting knights and their wives,” Sfjona continued, “shall occupy a semicircular table facing the bridal table. Therein lies the issue.” She inked a cross mark onto Lady Kay’s designated seat, back to back with the Duchess of Nymaine’s.
Lady River rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “She doesn’t want to sit on the same planet as Lady Kay.”
“Indeed, my lady.” The feuding aristocrats would nonetheless have no choice but to sit together on Thule: travel to Lady River’s home world, the mysterious “other side,” had been strictly regulated for two centuries and remained restricted to a privileged few[JNT1] .
“How self-absorbed are these people? Do they even realize that I actually have other things to do than cater to their whims? I’m already doing balls, horticultural committee meetings, and harpsichord recitals where I clap with the tips of my fingers without making any noise, like you taught me . . .” The veins on Lady River’s temples came alight and glowed like molten silver under her skin as she demonstrated her clapping technique with perfect form. It was a distinctive trait among Thule’s most powerful ichorites: ichor particles, the essence of all life on Thule, flowed in their blood in such dense concentration that even the slightest agitation—a fluttering heartbeat, a rise in body temperature—was enough to ignite their light.
Sfjona had no connection to the almighty bloodlines of the Round Table. Her father was a teacher in Bedrydant, and her mother had been the daughter of a well-to-do grocer. Her blood had never ignited and never would, a fact in which lay the insurmountable physical evidence of her social condition as a commoner. She accepted it as one might accept the fact that one couldn’t grow wings and fly, but unlike others, she felt no rancor toward her betters. Rather, whenever she witnessed Lady River or His Grace’s veins shimmer under the spell of some powerful emotion, she wondered whether the light in their blood truly owed everything to the mysterious properties of ichor or if, perhaps, these beings who loved, raged, and wept quite simply felt more than she did. Sfjona was no stranger to joy and grief, but being a spinster of two and fifty, she harbored no passions to speak of, nothing to stir her blood beyond the reasonable—unless fashion plates counted?
Meanwhile, the light in Lady River’s veins had receded as she exhaled the last of her outburst. “I know I have to do all these things to get us accepted into society, but I have exams coming too . . .”
Sfjona bobbed her head in sympathy. Lady River studied medical arts at the Royal College of Medicine here in Camelot—an unusual pursuit for a woman of her rank but which His Grace strongly encouraged. Hence, part of Sfjona’s duties consisted of reconciling the demands of the lady’s daunting class schedule with the countless social obligations befalling her as the future Duchess of Caid.
“I recommend citing the wedding preparations to excuse yourself from the next horticultural committee meeting, my lady,” Sfjona offered.
“Let’s do that, yes.” Lady River gave an apologetic wince. “Sorry for digressing. So, back to seating . . . What if we move the tables away just enough to slip in a . . . a potted plant? Maybe a flower bush, something tall enough that they won’t see each other even if they turn around?”
“Wouldn’t it look quite odd?” Sfjona bit back a chortle at the notion of Lady Kay hidden behind a lone potted plant as an object of public shame.
“How about we switch the Kays with Bedivere and his mother?” Lady River mused.
Every fiber in Sfjona’s body tensed. She pressed her eyelids closed, willing the rush of blood away from her cheeks . . . and understood too late that the fight was lost. The heat had already spread to the tip of her ears.
Lady River’s eyes narrowed with devilish intent. “Bedivere probably won’t mind. He’s such a nice guy . . .” She tilted her head, studying Sfjona’s furious blush. “Not the type to throw a tantrum over a change of seat.”
“Certainly not,” Sfjona conceded in a small voice. Indeed, a kinder, milder—or taller—gentleman than Sir Bedivere she had never met. Sfjona’s rib cage strained against the bones of her stays as her mind drifted back to a glittering ballroom in autumn. She pictured him, dark and handsome, in his black evening suit and pristine boiled shirt; the bold, solid strokes of his body; the broad nose and soft brown eyes. She had danced with him twice. Twice! She, a housekeeper, passed as a lady’s companion in a sumptuous gown lent to her by Lady River that night. When she dared offer her hand to his baise-mains, he’d bent, brushed his lips to her glove, and requested the pleasure of a dance. She’d accepted, making herself tall and assured when, in truth, she felt small and brittle standing in his shade.
Sir Bedivere had taken her spinning around the ballroom and held her much smaller hand in his, unaware that under the snowy silk, her skin was just a little too rough and her nails just a little too short to be those of a well-bred lady. Minutes had stretched like hours, twirling in his arms, absent to her surroundings . . . and then he had bent low, low, he who was as far above her station as the stars were from the ground. Sfjona shivered at the memory of the surreptitious brush of his chin against her hair, the smoky scent of him as he whispered in her ear.
He’d asked her for a third dance.
No gentleman asked for a third dance who did not mean to later call on the lady. Would he have done so? Would Sir Bedivere of Bedrydant have presented himself at His Grace’s doorstep and requested the privilege of speaking to Miss Brist, only to discover the truth of her: a mousey creature clad in a plain wool dress, her strawberry-blond hair covered by an admittedly fashionable dotted-lace cap. Perhaps his gaze would have traveled down to her waist and, there, seen her only treasure: a burnished brass chatelaine that had once belonged to her mother. She couldn’t bear to imagine his confusion, then his anger upon discovering that the object of his pursuit was nothing but a servant.
Around them, a few guests had looked on with avid curiosity. Sfjona’s stomach had sunk in regret as she shook her head and denied him. She couldn’t have let him compromise his reputation like that. Pulled back to the present, she balled her fists against a prickling sensation in her veins, which she recognized as shame.
Once she had managed to collect herself, she pretended to study her sketch and said, “What an excellent solution, my lady. I shall make the necessary arrangements and write to Lady Bedivere’s secretary.” She nodded to herself, her head bobbing like a toy as she folded the thirty-seventh iteration of the seating plan.
A soft rap averted their attention to the study’s doors. Three knocks were all it took for Lady River to whirl around, her eyes widening in delight. Sfjona ducked her head to conceal a smile, knowing that the rest of their conversation would have to wait.
Lady River cleared her throat and delivered a nearly perfect “Twagī en” in Thulish, the product of countless hours of studying the language with a tutor.
The doors opened, revealing a tall gentleman with silvery hair that seemed at odds with his youthful features and vital countenance. His Grace was still in his prime—and, in truth, younger than herself, being only nine and forty—but the Great Blight that had ravaged the land of Caid for twelve years had left its permanent mark on him, robbing his once-blond hair of its color. He whose blood destined him to live for centuries would not have reached his fiftieth year had Lady River not barreled into their lives and toppled them over like skittles the year prior. She had brought her light—and, admittedly, no small amount of chaos—to a man and a land who desperately needed it.
The three of them never broached the series of stupefying events that had taken place last autumn. There was no need to: the snowy locks on His Grace’s temples were the secret that bound them far beyond mere masters and servant. Scandal sheets may write another hundred thousand pages about the fateful events of the last Hweg: they would never know the half of it.
Sfjona curtsied to her former employer. His Grace’s tastefully embroidered waistcoat and dark tailcoat were a familiar sight, but the faint smile at the corners of his lips was a recent development. Once a forbidding man, he had mellowed over the past months, as snow does when spring returns. “Good afternoon, madams. May I briefly intrude on your meeting?”
“Oh, we were done,” Lady River announced with a grin.
Sfjona wondered if the young woman was aware of the way her body turned toward him whenever he entered a room, as a flower would seek the sun. The duke seemed similarly besotted, his usually piercing gray gaze softening as it lingered upon his intended. These daily (often nightly) visits were but a poor substitute for the concubinary bliss he and Lady River had heretofore enjoyed at Thunor Hall . . . until a series of rather prurient pieces published in the Thulish Intelligencer had made it clear that polite society was tired of waiting for His Grace to capitulate to the demands of propriety.
Out of concern for their reputations—and that of Lady Sage, Lady River’s younger sister, whose future marital prospects might find themselves caught and shredded in the relentless spin of the rumor mill—the couple had henceforth elected to live separately until their union had been duly blessed by a druid and witnessed by their peers. A charming townhouse had been leased for Lady River two doors down from Landevale House, where His Grace resided when in Camelot, and so the Duke of Caid was reduced to calling on his beloved no more than once a day, as any respectable suitor ought to.
Sfjona averted her eyes to the silent conversation weaving itself between the lovers and dipped for a low curtsy. “My lady, Your Grace. Shall you be needing my services again today?”
His eyebrows jolted as if he’d forgotten her very presence until now. “No. You may retire, Miss Brist.”
As she made to leave the room, he raised a hand to stop her. “Ah, Miss Brist. I nearly forgot . . .”
She noticed for the first time the envelope in his hand, bearing the crimson seal of the Thulair Express Mail Service, which relied on the airline’s extensive fleet of windcruisers to deliver urgent communications in the four and twenty provinces of Logres and four Meroitic kingdoms “at unsurpassed speed,” according to the advertisements painted on buildings or printed in the Illustrated Camelot Gazette. Being a personage of considerable importance in the kingdom, His Grace received several such envelopes daily despite the exorbitant cost of mailing even a few words through the service.
“It was delivered to Landevale House and brought to me in error,” he explained, handing her the envelope. “I believe this is for you.”
Indeed, as she inspected it, Sfjona’s eyes widened upon reading her name in the filigree frame reserved for the recipient. Dear blood . . . who in the world had gone to the trouble—and the ludicrous expense!—of sending her an express?
Lady River aimed curious, catlike jade eyes at the mysterious dispatch. “Shouldn’t you open it?”
Sfjona turned over the envelope. The sender’s name sent a foreboding chill down her spine. S. Brist, Bogfrog St. 9, Rigsnā, Bedrydant
Seifja. Her sister would have never spent so much money without a good reason. The incipient doubt in her chest ballooned into full-blown fear as Sfjona ripped the paper folds open. Was father gravely ill? Dead, perhaps?
Expresses were billed by the character, and Seifja had done a superb job of cutting costs with a mere eleven letters, nonetheless worth seventy-nine denari and two kantem—nearly four crowns! It was, however, the substance of the message rather than its outrageous price that drew a gasp from Sfjona . . . just before her knees buckled.
PA N JAIL CM AO
Papa in jail. Come at once.
1 Comment. Leave new
What an enticing start to a new adventure. Mischief, mayhem and high romance guaranteed. Such a treat.