Chapter 21
CHAPTER
Sabine
Forget the killer hunting them; if Sabine had to attend one more Gilt musicale displaying some young debutante’s less-than-stellar talent, she might have died from bleeding ears.
The retiring room greeted her with a pleasant warmth and the scent of orange blossom and rose petals.
In clear homage to the Countess of Tessalin, painted-silk privacy screens depicted sun-bleached hillsides dotted with ancient, gnarled olive trees.
Sabine placed her reticule on the marble-topped washstand and browsed through the selection of oils.
The small marble hearth in the corner crackled.
She imagined what Lord Vaelros might’ve said of tonight’s spectacle, had he been present. No one else could wear their contempt so openly.
Her lips curled in a smile.
The double doors swung open, laughter spilling into the room.
Sabine kept her gaze down. Two young ladies flung themselves onto the twin fainting couches.
A third came to stand by Sabine at the washstand.
Her reticule slid onto the marble. Pale peach satin, embroidered with precious flowers and dangling crystals.
A very familiar reticule.
Sabine raised her gaze to her sister’s profile in the mirror. Liora pretended not to notice. Her undivided attention remained turned to the row of precious bottles.
“Did you see them dance at last night’s ball?” Miss Novaris trilled from the couch.
Miss Velindor laughed, nasal and piercing.
“Come now,” Liora said in the same tone Sabine once used to scold pupils she secretly found amusing. “He was by far not her worst match of the night. What of that Lord who even asked for a second dance?”
The laughter doubled. “Lord Avonley!”
Liora snapped her fingers. “Yes! The man has to be at least one hundred cycles old. Surely he is a worse option than poor Caelen Thornevail.”
A trickle of dread licked down Sabine’s spine. They were speaking of Virelle. Caelen would not have danced with another. Sabine found his singular focus admirable. Virelle’s friends— former friends, perhaps?—clearly did not.
“Actually? For someone in Virelle’s position? Lord Avonley may be the best option she can get. Squandering it for a soldier…” Miss Novaris trailed off, offense seemingly too great to name.
“I don’t understand…” Liora mumbled.
“Of course not.” Miss Velindor giggled. “Someone like you, Miss Liora, will never need to consider such things. You’re the Season’s Singular. You will certainly have your pick of a match. I believe I saw Lord Blackwell dancing with you twice, too.”
Liora laughed behind her hand. “I shall not speak on the matter until the Lord’s intentions have been made clear. But… being a future duchess would suit me rather well, don’t you think?”
“You would make a splendid duchess,” Miss Novaris agreed.
“But for someone like Virelle,” Miss Velindor steered the conversation back on topic—”beauty and an auspicious affinity are no longer enough. She’s on her fifth Season and offers a suitor neither title nor riches.”
Sabine busied herself fishing through her reticule for her rouge. For all the three ladies seemed to care, she could’ve been invisible.
“Lord Avonley never had children from his previous blood vows,” Miss Velindor continued. “All that matters to him is siring an heir. Virelle’s beauty and affinity serve him well for that purpose.”
Though she attempted a valiant fight, Sabine lost against a scowl. She remembered being scrutinized by the Gilt’s most unscrupulous lords as little more than broodmare for their litters. Despite Virelle’s vitriol, Sabine couldn’t wish that same fate for her.
“I see.” Liora continued to fix her appearance in the mirror. “Well, when you put it that way, I could see how he would be the most sensible choice.”
Sabine’s hands tingled with the urge to shake her sister.
Miss Velindor giggled. “Of course, you do. You are smart and ambitious. Not even the best finishing school in Ilvarenne can teach those skills, and Virelle’s was definitely… well, not the best.”
The three ladies all laughed.
In the prime of their valenhold, Sabine’s father had decided to raise bees and sell the honey from their renowned orchards. And because she had never met a book she hadn’t liked, Sabine had spent several days poring over his newly acquired bee biology tomes.
One aspect came to mind, watching the three young ladies. When a hive sensed a queen’s weakness, they began the slow, deliberate work of raising a new one in her place. And when the new queen emerged, she sought out the old ruler for a battle to the death.
How often humanity mimicked nature. Would Liora, newly transformed, be the one to deliver the final, killing blow to Virelle’s reign?
Liora gave a delicate shiver. “Poor Virelle. I mean, she was never going to be a future duchess, but to go straight for social suicide…”
And there was the newly emerged queen bee, poised for the kill. How sadly predictable. Sabine figured she’d taught Liora better.
Miss Novaris leapt up. “Exactly! She truly must have lost her mind! She was never the brightest, but…”
The reed calling the river crooked. Ladies of the Gilt could spot every flaw but their own.
“I’m simply glad we removed ourselves when we did, or she might have dragged us into ruin by association,” Miss Velindor said.
“One can simply never win with you all,” Sabine muttered, unable to keep silent any longer.
“Miss Almarien, we had not noticed you.” Miss Novaris’s lie was saccharine and cloying.
Sabine turned to the two ladies behind her. Liora remained facing the mirror, pointedly ignoring her sister.
Very well. If Liora refused to end this, Sabine would do it herself.
“Have any of you thought that Miss Celastra might simply find Mr. Thornevail appealing? That she might find him charming, kind, funny? Or, threads shield us, that she might want a match capable of… satisfying her? Mr. Thornevail strikes me as the kind of man eager to please his partner.”
Their shock was predictable and delicious. The Gilt let women command soldiers, own estates, even rule a province, but threads forbid she claimed her own pleasure. They trained girls to be ignorant, as if never tasting the sweetness of touch would keep them content with bitter matches.
Sabine had never been one for empty virtue.
“Sabine, please…” Liora’s voice was thin, but Sabine pressed on.
“Despite what your bitter mamas may have told you, there is more to a match than money, titles, or convenient affinities. You may not believe it now, but the rest of your life is a long time to spend with someone whose only charm is the weight of their purse. What good does it do, mocking Miss Celastra for her match? At least she is making her own choices. We get so few during the Season. Even our marriages depend on the Registry’s approval. ”
The sharp intake of breath told Sabine her audience was not used to people speaking so plainly of the Registry, but Sabine was already marked for death. What more could they do? Kill her sooner?
“Who we court and whose proposal we accept are the freedoms we have left. Miss Celastra is claiming hers. The only opinion that matters is, quite frankly, her own. If you disagree with her choices, make different ones. Do not ridicule her into regret.”
Both girls flushed, looking away. Liora appeared unmoved, but Sabine could read the minuscule tension at the corners of her eyes, the faintest line marring her perfect brow.
Her sister was furious.
She could sit in that anger, for all Sabine cared. She would not regret speaking up because it upset her sister’s fragile ecosystem.
“We’re sorry, Miss Almarien,” Miss Novaris finally said. “We should choose our words more carefully. If you don’t mind, we will take our leave now.”
Liora waited longer than Sabine had expected before unleashing her anger. “How could you?”
Sabine pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m in no mood to fight with you, Lili.”
Liora’s voice quivered. “That’s all you ever do, Bine.
You fight me, you fight them, you fight the world—it’s exhausting.
You could make this so easy, for both of us, if you’d just stop.
” Her breath caught, and for a moment Sabine thought she might weep, but instead Liora frowned. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”
Sabine wanted to laugh, or scream, or perhaps simply vanish. Instead, she stared at the pale blue weave of the carpet. “I’m not trying to make things hard. With the Singular title yours, your future is secured, and I just want to decide my own, for once.”
“Then decide the color of your gowns, or the furnishing of your new home, or what balls and soirees to host. All the things a lady is supposed to decide.”
Sabine felt sick. Truly, deeply, sick. Not once, in all her cycles, had she worried about a single one of those things.
She’d selected which crops to rotate to maximize the valenhold’s profits, made the difficult decisions of firing staff she could no longer afford.
And no matter how hard things had been, at least the choices had been hers to make.
She wouldn’t simply stop now because the Registry had decreed a match that might not even happen.
“You know all too well that is not who I am, Lili.”
Liora’s lips twisted. “I took tea with the Duchess of Marethine, the other day. Did you know?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “She asked about you. When you plan to take your vow, if Lord Vaelros is to take over the valenhold, if you are to spend more time in society…”
Sabine shivered. “I don’t see why any of those things should happen, even if we were to be vowed.”
Liora threw her arms in the air. “The Blackwells are a very traditional family, Bine! I don’t believe their son will propose until they’re sure you have settled, and that your… reputation… will not tarnish theirs.”
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Sabine’s chest ached—a tight, cold knot, impossible to loosen. “I’m sorry, then, that my mere existence is ruining your chances.”
Liora clutched her reticule, throwing Sabine a glare. “Me too, sister.” Then, she stormed out.
Sabine held her breath for five seconds—she counted them—before collapsing onto the fainting couch, her forehead in her hand, heat crawling under her skin. The whole encounter felt unreal, a fever-fueled delirium.
The promise she’d made pressed against her chest like a boulder, making it difficult to breathe, to move, to think .
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad to become quieter, smaller, more proper.
Just another sacrifice, another line in the ledger of things she’d done to provide Liora the life she deserved.
Her childhood. Her weaving. Her freedom.
Her identity.
After all, she’d made a vow.
When the privacy screen rustled, Sabine startled upright. And found herself face-to-face with Virelle Celastra.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Her pale golden skirts wrinkled where she must have fisted them too hard.
They did not speak. Virelle gave a single, regal nod, then walked out of the retiring room with her head held high.