Chapter 40
Forty
Sorcha
Isat down at the conference table across from four short, bearded, well-dressed men, representatives from an Ironmoot mining consortium with a peryton infestation that needed dealing with.
“We have a good reference for you from Andrew Merrick,” said one of them—Albert Caldwell—black hair and beard, fair skin, blue eyes, marginally older than the others.
“Glad to hear it,” I said, taking the files Ansel handed me without breaking eye contact.
“We liked your father,” said another, this one named Matthew Eckert, sandy-blond hair, tan skin, and shorter beard.
“Then you should like her,” Ansel said drolly. “She’s got all of Cormac’s more admirable qualities but smokes far less and is just argumentative enough to be a good time.”
“Speaking of arguments,” I said, opening the folder Ansel had given me, “you have a peryton problem. And you don’t want us on your land.”
“That about covers it,” Matthew said.
“See, I don’t care how you get rid of this particular herd of giant, suicidally idiotic, flying deer.
But I do need you to get rid of them. Efficiently,” I said.
“Infestations are heavily correlated with accident risk, and populations too close to human habitation up disease incidence as well. If you know what to do and feel confident it won’t interfere with any of the human settlements near your mining operation?
Fantastic. If not—we can discuss options. ”
The four Ironmoot men exchanged a glance.
“Options might be good,” one admitted, Timothy Paxton, the youngest by a significant margin.
“It really depends on your confidence level and also your budget,” I said.
“Budget?” Albert asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who said anything about a budget?”
“You did,” I said. “Implicitly. When you refused to let us handle the problem on our terms. So now either we can send you with materials on how to deal with our flying ungulate problem or send you a consultant—who’s not to step onto your official land allotment—to field questions in person.
Fee schedule is on the sheet Ansel gave you before we started our meeting. ”
And I simply leaned back in my chair and waited, trying very hard not to look smug.
The four men murmured amongst themselves and exchanged a couple of pointed glances.
“Consultant please,” Caldwell said.
“Fantastic,” I replied. “I’ll have someone bring paperwork over tomorrow morning for you to sign. Anything else?”
A long moment passed in silence.
“In that case I hope you have a lovely day. Address is at the bottom of our contract in case you need us,” I said, letting Ansel help me up and following him to the door.
“Were you expecting her to play hardball?” I heard Paxton murmur under his breath.
“I was expecting a young, pregnant, scared little housewife,” Caldwell replied. “I got Cormac Wilson with ten times the balls.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“Are we entirely certain I have to go?” I asked for what must have been the fifth time.
I sat slouched in my office, nursing my third cup of tea that day. Neal perched on the desk, hand absently tracing circles on my knee. Ansel leaned back against the windowsill, the picture of confidence.
“Yes,” Ansel repeated, “you do have to go.”
“But what am I doing there?” I asked.
“Having tea,” Ansel said.
“And what? Signing a treaty? Negotiating a trade deal? Why do I have to be there?” I pressed.
“Because aristocratic women are nosy and bored,” Ansel said, “and you have already created more than your share of scandal by marrying your Steward, disappearing without a trace, and then showing up across the country, nearly five months pregnant.”
“And how many of those actions were your idea?” I challenged.
“That does not matter,” Ansel replied. “What matters is you have to show up. Or it will seem like you’re hiding, and hiding undermines confidence.”
“None of my new dresses are done.” I was fairly certain that argument wouldn’t help, but I had to try.
“I promise the one you are wearing will be fine,” Neal assured me.
“Pin up your hair. Put on a hat. I will walk you over and pick you up in exactly ninety minutes. Alright? We have an out. And when you’re done, we can go spend as many hours as you want looking at obscure ancient language texts at the library. Deal?”
“Fine,” I muttered. “But I am doing my hair myself. Zebrowska keeps trying to help and I hate it when people touch my head.”
“I touch your head all the time, Sorcha,” Neal countered.
“You’re not people,” I replied, pushing past Ansel and heading up to our room.
Tea was worse than I could have in any way imagined.
I sat with three Inner Court aristocrats, women whose entire life revolved around socializing and keeping up appearances, all of whom were eyeing me like sharks.
There was Lady Fiona of Glenhurst—well over three hundred, from one of the richest families in the aristocracy.
They owned a huge tract of land in southeastern Prussia and had some tertiary connection to the Inner Court’s original building and construction.
Fiona radiated superiority. Then there was Lady Olivette, a small, dimple-faced woman well past her five hundredth birthday.
She’d already touched my belly four times.
And worst of all, perhaps, was Lady Olivette’s granddaughter, Mathilda.
Nearly my own age at twenty-five but seemingly entirely sheltered and primarily educated in social graces and ballroom etiquette.
“How are you feeling, High Lady Wilson?” Fiona asked as we settled into her gilt-and-pastel parlor.
“Do you have children?” I countered.
“Me?” Fiona put a hand to her bosom. “Heavens no.”
I made a noncommittal sound then continued. “What about you, Mathilda?”
“Certainly not yet!” she squealed, then clamped a hand over her mouth, panic flashing across her features.
I set down my tea and brought both hands down to my belly.
“I’m unconventionally young,” I said. “I’ll give you that.”
“And so delicate.” Olivette laid a hand on my arm. “You’re like a beautiful little bird. Oh heavens, I hope that servant boy you married is taking good care of you. Goodness knows. Nonaristocratic blood. Big baby. More strain. Poor dear.”
“You mean Neal?” I fought to keep my voice even. “My Steward. Who to the best of my knowledge has no abnormal predisposition to give me a larger than average baby? He’s taken fantastic care of me. Thank you for asking.”
I took a deep breath—in through my nose, out through my mouth—and took a sip of tea in the hopes it would steady my stomach.
I was scanning the spread of pastries and sandwiches looking for anything I was confident I could keep down.
Croissants and anything with frosting were an immediate no.
Meat was a wild card, so most sandwiches were out as well.
I picked up a scone that seemed to contain apples and cinnamon and took a bite to delay any further conversation by at least a few moments.
“Oh, High Lady Wilson—” Fiona began again, but I cut her off.
“I prefer Lady Sorcha or Mrs. MacCairn,” I put in. “Thank you.”
“Of course! Lady Sorcha,” Fiona replied, a sickly-sweet smile crossing her features, “I’ve heard Santa Fe has very few Elven residents. Do you find your education has been sufficient?”
“I primarily studied linguistics,” I said. “My father brought in books in any language I asked. I’m fluent in seven. Can make my way in a few dozen more if I have enough reference material.”
“Ah, but Elven subjects, darling,” Fiona replied. “What of those?”
“Well I’m conversational in High Elvish,” I said.
“I’ve read all the histories. My father had telepathy, not particularly strongly though.
But I didn’t inherit. My mother had animal magic, and I seem to have gotten that gift instead.
I summoned six bears to deescalate a gunfight a few weeks back in Virginia. ”
And for a moment the women just stared. I took another sip of my tea, another bite of my scone, and prayed the Outer Court building would catch on fire and give me an excuse to leave and tend to an emergency.
“Oh, Lady Sorcha,” Mathilda said excitedly, “will you and Mr. MacCairn be at the ball on Friday? Lady Fiona’s sister is hosting.”
“We plan to attend,” I said simply.
“And you have a dress?” Mathilda asked, eyes glancing over my well-fitted but notably plain blue-striped, linen day dress. All three of the noblewomen were in figured silk dresses with wide sleeves, lace collars and cuffs.
“I have one being made,” I said, I brought a hand to my belly again. “Didn’t really have much that fit. It’s due to be ready tomorrow afternoon.”
“And don’t you adore balls? Oh goodness, my first ball at sixteen. One of the best days of my life,” Mathilda gushed.
“I’ve not been to one, not much opportunity,” I replied.
And then suddenly all three of the nobles were moving, speaking. Mathilda went to pour more tea. Fiona excused herself to check on something in the kitchen. Olivette put a hand on my back, suddenly deeply interested in discussing my birth plans.
And then—blessedly—the doorbell rang.
“I believe that’s my husband here to pick me up,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thank you all so much for having me. And we will—of course—look for you on Friday evening.”