Chapter Twelve #3
Milady crooked a finger. “Come.”
The drawing room was so shadowed, lit only by the fireplace and the burning coals in the hookah pipes, that I nearly tripped over the carpet. Milady, luckily, stood out, with her shining gold hair and the glint of metal thread embroidered on her dress.
“You took your time. I trust you are sufficiently refreshed.”
“Yes.” I swallowed. To my surprise, Milady shifted slightly on the couch and smoothed a cushion before patting it invitingly.
“Join us.”
I hesitated, glancing at the silver-haired man.
He smiled, that one protruding incisor tooth glinting in the firelight, just a little.
I gathered my skirts and tried to lower myself elegantly.
Milady had managed to arrange her skirts in perfect folds, but I ended up with something like an over-played fabric concertina.
“Netta, this is Sawl Morin, Margrave of Sterne.”
I scrambled to remember Mother’s old stories. Margrave. That meant this man was both powerful and rich, although that didn’t come as a surprise. He would have holdings, probably extensive ones, and possibly a private army also. I held out my hand.
“Pleased to meet you. Er, again.”
Should I have waited for him to speak? Was he meant to hold out his hand first? Was I meant to touch his hand at all, or was there some other more proper greeting? A strand of the Hair sprang into a tight curl at the back of my neck, in protest.
The silver-haired man—Sawl Morin, his name was Sawl Morin, and at least now I didn’t have to ask for it—seemed amused. He took my hand in both of his, trapping it, and I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to wriggle my fingers.
“Pleased to meet you,” he echoed, with a twitch at the corners of his mouth that suggested a smile. That pointed tooth again. Something about it made me uneasy.
“You will address him as Margrave,” said Milady.
“Please, Milady.” He released my hand. His hands had been perfectly dry, but mine were sweating. “She may call me Ban Morin.”
“An honor,” said Milady.
“Ban Morin,” I repeated, the words sitting oddly in my mouth. The man smiled. A curl of Hair freed itself from the pins that were desperately trying to contain it at the nape of my neck, twisting itself around to the front as if to get a good look at the Margrave.
Ban Morin raised Milady’s white-gloved hand to his lips. “It is a rare treat for me, also. I wish I could attend your parties more often. The border roads, however, demand a great deal of my attention.”
“Netta is going to read to us,” said Milady. “Isn’t that nice?”
The room held masculine scents as a glass held wine, scents warmed and deepened by the fire: leather, sweat, smoke, brandy, hair oil.
Only Milady’s perfume floated above it all, elusive and sweet and sinister.
I took up my position before the fireplace, feeling it hot at the backs of my knees.
It gave me a little strength, the warmth, but my hands still shook.
Milady took the chosen book from me, examined it, and then passed it back, nodding.
I had never read aloud before so many. I swallowed, catching the eye of Ban Morin, who was smiling at me with that disconcerting, wolfish gleam of tooth. I looked down. If I kept my eyes on the page, and didn’t look up, I might be able to do this. I wished Baldbeak were there, or Mieka.
I willed my hands to be steady, took a deep breath, and started to “read.”
The familiar rhythm of the words calmed me somewhat.
I kept my eyes on the page, letting them dart from one line to another as if I were really reading, remembering where I should raise and lower my voice; where I should pause; where I should add emphasis.
I almost relaxed. It wasn’t until I heard a muffled gasp from the audience that I looked up, feeling myself tense again.
The Hair was floating. I had forgotten about that.
Most of it was still contained by the elaborate updo, but feathers of red had worked their way free and were coiling about my neck.
I kept both hands steady on the book, but my brief glance upwards at the audience had reminded me of the rows of suddenly intent faces, and now I felt as hot as the fire behind me.
I reached the end of the passage, with a sick surge of relief, and closed the book. The stray hairs fluttered back to plaster themselves against my sweaty neck. Perhaps no one had even noticed or thought anything of it. Perhaps they had merely been interested in the words. I looked at Milady.
“Thank you, Netta,” said Milady. “You may go.”
Behind her, Ban Morin was tapping one of his cold, gold rings against his teeth, watching me.
They were all watching me. I tucked the book under my arm, mumbled something, and started to make my way out, aware of the faces turning to watch me go.
I looked back, just once, and was aware again of the mysterious smudge, the patch of rubbed-out air that had evaded my gaze at dinner.
I could no longer make out the figure behind it, but I felt, somehow, its fierce attention.