Chapter One #2
The middle room housed a good number of stout chairs and sofas that were populated by elderly folks.
Here, her progress stalled thanks to the many slow-moving observers meandering in and out of the space.
The room’s occupants used the numerous handfans for more than creating air movement.
Several times, Tasia saw an old woman hold up her fan to cover her face while she talked to her neighbor and nodded toward the stranger.
Comments “whispered” at volumes that accommodated listeners with failing ears made their way to Tasia.
“A real beanstalk, that one.”
“What was Stavros thinking, letting that into his home?”
“Hair like a candle. Unnatural!”
In Diomland, Tasia had never let meanspirited comments bother her. She knew some of the nobles in their social tier were just like that. Not all of them were, and she had plenty of friends. Or friendly acquaintances. None of them had remained very friendly after the royal scandal, of course.
Finally, she made it to the room reserved for refreshments. When she moved to set her increasingly heavy load in an empty spot, a pinched-nose matron with the earliest hint of silver at her temples stopped her with an imperious look.
“What do we have here?” the woman asked with a shallow veneer of polite interest.
More than ready to relinquish the goodies, Tasia smiled as naturally as she could. “These are the honey treats that Anthi made this morning.”
A flicker of something danced across the other woman’s face. “Ah. Very good. You can put those here.” She directed Tasia to set them exactly where she had been aiming the first time.
A pack of youth deemed too old for the baby room (and totally uninterested in the dance floor) used the disturbance her presence was causing to swarm the tables. They stuffed quite a few pockets before the nearest adults realized what they were doing and shooed them away.
Relieved of her physical burden, Tasia switched to friend-finding mode. “My name is Tasia—”
“That’s nice.” The self-appointed snack sentinel dismissed her with a blink and turned to talk with someone else.
“Right,” Tasia said under her breath. She took a long breath in through her nose. No one else grabbing refreshments would make eye contact with her, so she decided to try her luck elsewhere.
As she wandered away from the space, a small haven by a potted plant was vacated by a middle-aged woman accepting a dance from a man in a red vest. Tasia slipped into the nook so she could get her bearings and plan her next step.
To her left, a man in a dark jacket was invading the space of someone in a brown dress. Very soon after, the woman showed her displeasure at his leaning by flouncing off with a huff. The man shrugged it off and straightened. When he shoved his hands in his pockets, something fell to the floor.
Tasia looked down as the man turned and stooped to grab the item.
She saw him catch sight of her feminine shoes, then begin the journey from her toes to her face.
This gave her time to take in his open jacket and too-tight white shirt tucked over a little extra belly.
The man was smiling as he began introducing himself at about the level of her knees.
“Heeey, Joseph Fusco II is looking to dance and—” He stopped abruptly when he got to her face—slightly above his—and realized that she wasn’t whoever he thought she was.
Tasia raised both eyebrows, leaving space for him to finish the sentence.
“—I forgot that I promised this one to someone else.”
Mr. Fusco vanished impressively fast in the crowded hall.
Tasia’s height allowed her to watch his progress around the dance.
He tried his leaning trick on every woman with enough space nearby for him to squeeze his way in.
Despite being rebuffed repeatedly, his confidence never wavered.
Tasia was inclined to admire his persistence even though it stung a bit to be rejected by such an undiscerning man.
Determined not to wilt in the shadows like a wallflower, she pushed away from the plant and headed toward a small cluster of chatting people who were around her age.
When she got close, one of the young men spotted her and said something that made the group disperse.
Disappointed, but not too surprised, Tasia set her sights on a slightly older trio of women.
These ladies chose to flat-out snub by turning their backs to her instead of running away.
Everywhere Tasia tried, her efforts were met with the same refusal to engage.
Frustrated with the heat and her continued failures, she found a spot by an open window and allowed the breeze to cool her hot cheeks.
She let the conversations wash over her while she regrouped.
As much as Tasia loved being around people and absorbing energy from a crowd, being shunned wasn’t providing the same boost. And, to be frank, she was getting bored.
Hearing about who was walking out with whom was less interesting when the participants were unfamiliar.
Nor did she care much about harvest yields or canning mishaps.
Thirty minutes in, Tasia had changed her tune and was ready to chat about the merits of different axe handles, if anyone would let her.
An hour in, and she would have accepted a dance from the drunk quietly singing to himself half in the potted plant she had paused by earlier.
The approachable expression she wore was becoming difficult to maintain.
A familiar giggle alerted her to a potential issue. Pagona appeared with a gaggle of young women. Three of them she recognized from the house. All of them were smiling too eagerly for Tasia’s comfort.
“Tasia! What are you doing way over here?” The mustard-clad ringleader wrapped one hand around her cousin’s upper arm. “You should be dancing!”
Wary of what the other girl had planned—but curious in her desperation—Tasia pasted on a polite smile and allowed herself to be dragged along. Maneuvering through the crowd took some time. Pagona’s friends whispered and giggled amongst themselves. Tasia overheard the name Mitch more than once.
She soon realized they were aiming for the corner opposite her wallflower station.
A man with silver at his temples and finer party clothes than the average villager had set himself up on a large chair where he seemed to be holding court.
The two capable-looking men that flanked him lent an air of importance and had prevented Tasia from trying her luck in that direction when she still had hope for the evening.
One of the men looked very like all the other men in the room, if a bit rougher around the edges.
The taller one had been tugging at his collar all night; Tasia had seen it from across the room.
“He’s so handsome,” one of the girls sighed. “For an outsider.”
“And that scar,” another one giggled.
The uncomfortable-looking guard turned his head toward the nearest window, and Tasia saw the scar in question.
Three lines had been slashed along the edge of his jaw—unmistakably claw marks.
Not as dark as the villagers, his tan skin and brown hair set off his blue eyes.
Both his hair and beard were on the scruffy side of kempt, but Tasia understood why the others thought he was handsome.
Pagona flounced past the important-looking man in the chair and presented Tasia to the poor fellow stuck at his post. “Mitch, I would like to introduce you to my cousin, Tasia Stone.”
Mitch’s posture became rigid. He nodded once, without expression.
“Tasia, this is Mitch Arany. You should invite her to dance, Mitch,” Pagona declared.
His eyes flicked briefly over Tasia; then he looked away to stare out at the room. “No.”
Until her last, fragile hope had been thwarted, Tasia hadn’t realized how much she had been counting on this man’s outsider status to forge a connection.
Even if he couldn’t leave his post, she would have happily stayed to chat.
His brusque dismissal was worse than the whispers and shunning from the others, somehow.
Something in her crumbled as she smiled sweetly.
“No bother. I’m sure you’re busy.” She then turned on her heel and made her escape as nonchalantly as she could. The burst of laughter from the young women behind her made her want to run, but she kept her pace unhurried.
When Anthi complained of a heat headache twenty minutes later, Tasia happily escorted her home early.