Venturess Page 2

  But I had worked hard since then to mend my heart and remake my understanding of love and family from the simple, binary ideas I’d had before. Fin and I weren’t the starry-eyed couple I’d dreamed of last winter, true; we were simply a unit, together with our Caro. We were three people who loved and needed one another, and it was as easy and as hard as that.

  Just then I was attacked from behind. A pair of strong, soft arms locked around my waist, I felt the pressure on my back of an enveloping hug, and I heard the rustle of another gown’s worth of fine fabric colliding with my own.

  “Caro!” I squeaked. I managed to wriggle around in her arms, and I bent down to plant a happy kiss on her forehead. “Bex sent you that.”

  “What,” Caro said, “am I not to have a kiss from you, then?” She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly.

  We both laughed. I kissed Caro again, for myself this time.

  Caro was wearing a gorgeous marigold-orange gown that I hoped would cause back orders at my shop tomorrow. Any Jules creation became the latest craze; I just wished he could take the credit for them.

  And I hoped at least a few courtiers would have enough money to buy them. Given the War Contributions urns placed strategically around the ballroom, though, and the propaganda announcements that periodically interrupted the music, I suspected very few people would have money to spare.

  Caro looped her arm through mine, and together we stepped out onto the ballroom floor. “Now, what’s our charming prince up to?” she asked.

  “Dying of boredom, I believe,” I said, but when I glanced up at Fin, I found that wasn’t true at all.

  He was talking animatedly with a slim young man in a mask of pristine white lace, angled at the edges to emphasize the sharp lines of his cheekbones and mouth. Thick, shining auburn hair rose above his pale forehead. Even masked, his face was handsome.

  I knew at once who it was and what he and Fin were discussing. And then I knew that another public interaction with the Heir was quite unavoidable, whatever rumors it might restart.

  Caro knew, too, that there was only one type of conversation that could get Fin so excited these days.

  “Ugh, politics,” she tutted under her breath.

  I’m sure she would have left him to it, but I clamped her arm against my side and fairly dragged her up to the dais. Fin could use our help, I was certain, and he was my friend (and I would have to radiate friendship and no other emotion for every instant that we were together in public, I reminded myself) and therefore I was going to help him.

  The handsome courtier’s barrage of talk didn’t cease when we reached them, but Fin glanced over and sent us the flicker of a wink, all the while keeping his face arranged in an expression of intense interest.

  “But Your Highness,” the young man was saying in his voice like treacle, “we must think of your safety.” Coming from anyone other than Fitzwilliam Covington, that tone would have sounded condescending, even wheedling. But Fitz was never anything but slick and smooth.

  Fin’s dark eyes flashed behind his crimson silk mask. “There are others whose safety I value far more,” he said. “There are lives far more endangered than mine ever was.”

  If Fitz’s voice was treacle, then Fin’s was blackstrap molasses, the sweetness still there but made dark and rough. He’d talked more in the past year than he had in probably the whole rest of his life taken together, what with the speeches he was making all over the country now, trying to persuade the public to feel sympathy for Faerie, trying to pull back the tide of war that already threatened to drown us. Our army and Faerie’s were both decimated already, and reports of more battles, more deaths, came back every day.

  Dark clothes were still fashionable, to be sure, but many of this year’s gowns were worn in mourning.

  Fitzwilliam Covington himself wore a black satin band on his arm. He had recently inherited a minor lordhood after his father died in a Fey ambush. Fitz was among the most vocal advocates of the war. He was ambitious, already using his new position any way he could, and he was rising through the ranks in the military too. Yet he had his eyes on a much higher title.

  “Duchess Cerese-Jessine Listro of Soleil Domine,” the announcer called from the staircase, his dignified voice amplified through a series of copper tubes leading to blossom-shaped horns installed along the ceiling of the vast ballroom.

  Fitz’s gaze darted to the tall, stately form of a beautiful young woman descending the main staircase, her hair woven in hundreds of intricate braids on top of her head, a leaf-green gown of Jules’s and a golden mask of my own design setting off the warmth of her brown skin. I liked Cerese, and I’d had great fun dressing her and her sisters for the ball; foreign nobles had been my best customers for months now, and the Listros had a large domain in the Sudlands. I hoped I’d get to speak with her before the end of the night.

  Fitz clearly shared that hope. He kept watching the lovely duchess as he made his excuses to Fin. “Your Highness, you know how I would love to continue reminding you of the duties you hold toward your own precious person,” he said drily, “but I’m afraid true love calls.” As if he had only just noticed that I was there, he made an overelaborate, nearly mocking flourish of a bow. “Of course, you both know how that feels.” The look he shot me made it clear that Cerese wasn’t the real reason he was leaving Fin’s company; I was. It was the same look he once gave me when I walked in on him with my stepsister Piety—​when he was supposed to be courting Chastity. He’d never been one for scruples.

  But I’d kept Fitz’s secrets, and so far he’d kept mine. I met his eyes, imagining frost creeping over the leaves on my mask.

  “Yes, yes, Fitz, go on,” Fin said. Fitz turned away just a hair earlier than was really polite for leaving the presence of royalty, bowing before him just a hair less fully than one ought to bow to the Heir of all Esting.

  “Thank the Lord,” Fin said with a fierce clap of his hands, turning toward Caro and me. “That idiot might have gone on forever if you hadn’t shown up. He’s the only soul in the kingdom who dislikes you, Nick, and although I can’t possibly fathom why, I am glad of it. At least he’s gone now.”

  I knew perfectly well why Fitz didn’t like me: it was because I hadn’t married Fin. I’d refused to play the game Fitz played, the favor-for-favor court intrigue that he was sure I could win as the Heir’s fiancée, the Heiress Apparent to our powerful kingdom and all its empire. As Heiress, I could have done Fitz any favor he wanted; I could have given him his own dukedom outright so that he was not forced to court beautiful women in order to earn the rank.

  But to Fitz’s outrage, I hadn’t taken the bait, hadn’t taken the offer, but had remained only Nicolette Lampton—​not that that wasn’t enough to give me some power these days. The glass slippers I’d danced in a year ago had turned me into the most famous inventor in the country overnight. I was wearing them again today, of course, like almost all the court ladies. I’d never been able to find other shoes quite as comfortable for dancing.

  I’d not been able to resist creating my own mask, either. My handiwork was well-known enough that its style might have revealed my identity, but a few other nobles had ordered masks from me, so this one didn’t stand out. It was fine-hammered silver, inlaid with delicate leaves that fluttered when I moved, controlled by minuscule hidden gears. I wasn’t willing to deprive myself of the gift of pride in my work.

  “Was Fitz talking about the automaton again?” I asked, looking warily at the Brethren beside Corsin’s throne. They both watched Fin, and they didn’t look away even when I glared at them. The king moved his thin fingers slowly back and forth over the sash on his jacket, his eyes half-closed and unfocused. He coughed, and the Brethren turned to him at once, fawning.

  Fin glowered. “What else? But I won’t be made a puppet, Nick. If I won’t let my father secret me away anymore, I certainly won’t let a snake like Fitz make a simulacrum for me to hide behind.”

  It had been nearly six months since Fitz
had proposed creating a decoy version of the Heir to make his speeches for him, but clearly Fin remained unmoved.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Caro,” Fin said suddenly, shifting in his seat. “Shouldn’t you be following Bex around the stables?”

  Though his voice was teasing, not bitter, I couldn’t help but remember the way I’d seen him look at Caro at the previous year’s ball, the moment I realized he was in love with her and therefore couldn’t possibly be in love with me.

  How little I had known back then.

  Caro shot Fin a sardonic look. “Not glad to see me, then?”

  “I’m always glad to see you,” Fin said carefully. Pointedly.

  We all knew Caro was spending more of her free time in the stables with Bex than she was at either the palace or my workshop. I was so occupied with my business that I didn’t mind much. But Fin . . . Fin was tired, lonely, and desperate for conversation with someone who wasn’t trying to change his mind about the war. He’d taken so many verbal beatings, public and private, for advocating for Faerie in the past year. Even his father, King Corsin, couldn’t speak to him without shouting anymore.

  We three dear friends, my beloved family, stood there silent. Caro and Fin glared at each other. As for myself, I did not know what to say.

  So I was disproportionately grateful to the shy young man who tapped my shoulder just then and requested a waltz. I whirled away in his arms, wishing I could take my heart with me.

  I danced with four partners in quick succession, and when I finally stopped to catch my breath I had to refuse several more requests.

  “You’re the belle of the ball again, my dear,” said a familiar deep voice.

  I turned to see my patron, who was wearing a typically flamboyant outfit: gold-and-green pinstriped coat and tails, with a carved pearl pin stuck into his sky-blue tie. He winked at me through his thick monocle.

  “Hardly, Lord Alming,” I said with a quick curtsy. “They saw me with the Heir, and they still believe they might be dancing with their future queen. It’s only about power.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t go in for romance myself,” he said, “but I know it when I see it. Not all of your partners were thinking of their ambitions—​not their political ambitions, at least.” He raised his eyebrows and slipped a hand into his pocket. “But I didn’t seek you out to talk of your beaux, Miss Lampton. I have something for you.” He pulled out an envelope stamped with an elaborate blue wax seal. I didn’t recognize the design.

  “I have last quarter’s royalties for you as well,” he said. “Come by the factory this week and pick them up. I’m afraid sales have sunk a fraction again, but I’m holding out hope for the spring. Glass shoes are so impractical in winter.”

  I was clutching the envelope, trying to think if I did know the seal. There was something familiar about the handwriting on the front, although I couldn’t quite place it.

  N—​ L—​

  Care of Gerald, Lord Alming

  Alming Abbey, Woodshire

  ESTING

  And under the seal on the back: Contents Secret.

  “If I’ve earned enough to save a bit more toward buying Lampton, I’ll be happy,” I said distractedly, turning the envelope over in my hands. “Are you sure I’m the N.L. for whom this is intended?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lord Alming confirmed with utter confidence. But then he cleared his throat. “Ah,” he said. “My dear, I’m afraid I have some news on that score. On Lampton, I mean.”

  I looked up. “News?”

  He frowned, lowering his voice and stepping closer to me. “You know I try to keep abreast of the Brethren’s doings,” he murmured.

  I nodded, remembering the hawklike men who hovered around Corsin. The Brethren were the increasingly extremist religious group that held far too much sway over the king, or so Lord Alming and I and a very few other Estingers thought. The Brethren were unwaveringly anti-magic, and their priests had been the first to advocate banishing all the Fey from Esting and imposing a quarantine on their country. Lord Alming, who kept his own part-Fey lineage a closely guarded secret, suspected them of even more evil than they openly displayed. He’d spent much of his fortune on bribes and espionage, trying to learn their secrets.

  “They’ve been gathering monies to support the war”—​he clicked his tongue—​“which really supports them, of course. There’s more room for religion without magic coming in and making miracles so practical. They’ve just received a sizable donation in the form of a manor and estate grounds from one Lady Coronetta Halving and daughters.”

  I winced. Stepmother had always been pious, even naming her daughters after Brethren-approved virtues: Piety and Chastity. She hated magic and the Fey nearly as much as she hated me. It would be just like her to donate Lampton Manor to the Brethren to keep it out of my hands. I often wondered if she feared I’d try to claim that it was legally mine, an avenue I unfortunately couldn’t pursue. Since she had married my father, the estate had passed to her on his death. My only hope had been to buy it back.

  I remembered her last wish for me, a joyful life, how it had sounded at once sincere and menacing, and my skin crawled.

  My home, the house where I’d been born. My mother’s secret basement workshop, the place where I had found hope, where I had found Jules and the fleet of mechanical insects I loved so much, where I had become the inventor I was today. I’d been working to buy back the house since before I’d even left.

  And now it was gone. The Brethren were too self-​righteous to sell to a nonbeliever like me at any price—​and even if they would, I didn’t think I could bear to give them money that they’d use to help fund the war.

  The envelope started to crumple in my fists. I forced my hands to relax.

  Lord Alming touched my shoulder. “I am so sorry, my dear, but I thought you’d want to hear it from . . . well. Not from them.” He surveyed the ballroom, and I caught a glimpse of my stepsister Chastity in a far corner, flirting halfheartedly with an elderly baron and wearing, I was surprised to see, one of the last dresses I’d made her.

  When I caught her eye, she flinched and turned away.

  “Coward,” I whispered.

  But I tried not to think about the Steps if I could help it, so I looked back at Lord Alming and nodded resolutely.

  “What’s done is done, my dear,” he said, “and perhaps it’s for the best. You can move forward, you know, rather than longing to return to the past. You can use your savings to expand your workshop, or . . .” He waved his hand. “Or anything you like. You’ve thought about travel, haven’t you?”

  “Mm.” I was looking at the envelope again, trying to drag my thoughts away from my lost home.

  Lord Alming made a short bow. “I’ll take my leave of you now, Miss Lampton,” he said. “I’m planning an early morning at the Exposition tomorrow. A source tells me the priests have some plans of their own I’d like to keep an eye on . . . and I never know when I might come across some young genius in need of an angel investor.” He winked, bowed again, and walked away.

  I retreated behind one of the hidden servants’ doors to read my letter. I took the warning on the back seriously, and the ballroom was too crowded for me to be sure that no one would be looking over my shoulder.

  And if I was going to cry about the loss of Lampton Manor, I didn’t want to risk the Steps seeing me do it.

  I opened the envelope. The wax seal melted against my fingers, sticking unpleasantly, and I felt a brief, tingling heat slither up my arms.

  The feeling vanished almost instantly. The wax hardened and fell away from my hands, leaving them clean.

  A spell—​to check my identity, no doubt. I wondered what spell had told Lord Alming I was the correct recipient—​or was I simply the only N.L. he knew? It was so hard to tell with magic sometimes.

  I swatted away my tears and began to read.

  My dear Nicolette,

  I cannot tell you how glad I am to pen this letter. I have l
onged to write to you for years. Perhaps I should have done so; I did not wish to take the risk. I can only hope you will forgive me.

  My friend has described the remarkable young inventor he met at Market last fall in several of his letters, but it was only when he mentioned your horse that I was sure the lady in question was my own one-time charge. I have sent this letter through him because we know him to be sympathetic to the cause.

  I have become an officer in the resistance here, and I write to you on behalf of my commander. We have heard the news of your auspicious engagement, and since I have assured my commander that you are trustworthy, we agree that a meeting between the Heir of Esting, the Heiress Apparent, and the Fey leader would be most desirable. I hope—​and I believe your charming prince hopes too—​that the war need not take so very many more lives than it has already done.

  Would you, and would the Heir, be amenable to a diplomatic meeting on our own shores? The Estinger forces have rendered us incapable of travel, as you know. I cannot say too much more in a note that may be intercepted in spite of all our precautions. Again, I beg your forgiveness.

  You are grown now, and free, and perhaps you still harbor your old sympathy for this place and its people. I remember how you always longed to see Faerie.

  Yours ever,

  A—​ C—​

  I pressed Mr. Candery’s letter to my heart. For a moment I wasn’t standing in the gloomy service corridor at all, but in the green and humid jungles of Faerie.

  Alec Candery had practically raised me, at least until Stepmother dismissed him after Father’s death. I’d always missed my old half-Fey housekeeper and wondered what had become of him; not long after he left me, he and the other part-Fey had all been banished from Esting.