Jordan sighed. “You’re right, of course. Rowen is always good for at least one questionable joke or song.”
Catrina adjusted her skirts, and, scanning the crowd, announced to Jordan, “And there he is now. Speak of the devil.”
Rowen stood spotlighted by the wall sconces just inside the foyer, the glow of their renewed stormcells stroking the angles of his jaw and turning his normally golden hair into something otherworldly.
Jordan’s breath caught and silently she cursed her too-tight stays for the lack of air.
“Come now. We must make a grand entrance,” Catrina urged. She took Jordan’s hand and led her a few feet farther down the hall, to the item that first set the Astraea estate apart from all others on the Hill: the elevator.
When Jordan’s grandfather’s occasional limp had become pronounced one especially cold spring, he had hired a displaced craftsman with ties to Russian Empress Catherine and her remarkable shop of royal wonders. The eldest Astraea had the inventor re-create the lift originally designed for St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace. That lift carried him to his chambers on the house’s upper floor when his knees no longer managed the stunning marble stairs. That lift was the same glass and crystal-lined elevator, now refitted with brass and bronze and powered either by the ingenious screw mechanism invented for the frigid palace or by stormpower, that hung suspended like a giant diamond and carried his granddaughter and her closest friend to the guests gathered below.
The lift’s door slid open and the crowd clapped as Jordan and Catrina stepped out.
Rowen bowed with a dramatic sweep of his arm and crossed the broad hall, his hand raised, awaiting hers.
But her father was the first to greet her, slipping between Rowen and herself and grasping her waist to swing her out of the young man’s path. Lord Morgan Astraea pulled her near, setting his large, warm hands on either side of her face and saying, “Do nothing rash, daughter. Make no irreversible decisions on this eve.” He looked long and hard at Rowen before returning his gaze to his daughter. “Your rank is all you have.” He paused then, eyes scouring her face. “Your rank and your beauty.”
She glanced down, gaze pinned to the careful stitching of his close-fitted frock coat. He was the picture of perfection with his broad shoulders, manicured mustache, and bold eyebrows. His jaw had the same strength as that more commonly found in Rowen’s lower rank, but she thought him even more striking because of it. Here was the man who had dandled her on his knee when she was but a babe, the man who wanted nothing but the best for her.
The man warning her away from what Rowen might offer.
Jordan sighed. “I will make the appropriate choice if and when it is offered.”
“That’s my girl,” Lord Astraea proclaimed, dropping his hands to her arms. “You will make a fine match. To a fine fellow.” He leaned in and kissed her, his whiskers tickling her cheek so she smiled. “Now go, have a wondrous time!”
Rowen stood statue still, hand yet extended waiting for her.
With a swallow, she got her racing heart under control.
“My lady,” Rowen whispered, his eyes snaring hers as he caught and raised her hand, his lips skimming the top of her knuckles. A tremble ran the length of her arm.
Her dress was too tight—it was obviously cutting off circulation to her arm and causing it to shake.
“Don’t you look dashing,” Catrina said, raising her hand for Rowen.
He released Jordan’s hand long enough to pick up Catrina’s, give it a cursory kiss, and drop it again to retrieve Jordan’s. “Come, my lady,” he said, guiding her past his parents, her parents, and many of the gathering guests.
Catrina trailed behind them.
Everyone had arrived as expected. Although the Astraeas were Fifth of the Nine, their parties were touted in the papers as events to be seen at. The entertainment was always first-rate as no expense was spared.
If you weren’t known for your rank, you had to be known for something. The Astraeas chose to be known for their hospitality.
Jordan, knowing her limitations, chose to be known for her beauty.
Such as it was.
Both seemed to work in the family’s favor, lower-ranked guests curtseying to Jordan and Rowen as they passed by and offering hearty compliments on her hair, her visage, her grace … as higher-ranked guests inclined their heads ever so slightly and murmured quiet words of praise for what promised once again to be a memorable event.
“So how long have you been here?” Jordan asked, adjusting her arm to drape more comfortably across Rowen’s. It was not hard to be comfortable with Rowen. He was well-shaped enough by the muscles he’d developed fencing, hunting, and horse riding but still a little soft from imbibing on his evenings spent socializing with his fellow gentlemen. Potentially tending toward a slight jowliness like his father, Rowen was still quite pleasant to look upon now.
Jordan tipped up her chin. Considering her well-proportioned features and appropriate bone structure, and respectable rank, she could choose nearly any man of like rank she wanted.
Still, here was Rowen. Already attained. Safe, bright enough for pleasant conversation, and good enough looking to provide her with a suitable escort to events. And—she looked him up and down from beneath her eyelashes—the man knew how to dress. If nothing else could be said of Rowen, he at least cut a sharp figure in trousers, vest, and coat.
Catrina cleared her throat.
“Oh. Yes, Catrina made a gift of this dress for me.”
Rowen raised his eyes to Catrina for a moment. “It’s lovely. French lace and metallic thread from the Orient, yes?”
“You’re so perceptive, Rowen.”
His eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Catrina.”
A seventeenth birthday celebration was one of the sweetest events of a young person’s life, so sweets were showcased in quiet recognition of a person’s escape from a most ominous possibility—that of being a Witch. And their caterer, an ex-slave named Thomas Dorsey, had proven to the Philadelphia elite that events he catered were quite sweet!
A fountain burbling with wine stood in the center of the main hall so guests coming in could quickly imbibe the intoxicant of choice. On a central table jumbles smelling of lemon were stacked beside a jiggling velvet cream molded in the shape of the old Independence Bell. Small chocolate custards topped with Caledonian cream peeked out of porcelain dishes, ladyfingers lined a silver tray, and dainty French cakes sporting tiny spots of champagne jelly vied for guests’ attention among German puffs and gold and silver puddings aplenty.
Not far beyond the buffet of delicacies stood several young gentlemen (some Rowen’s friends) who called on Jordan occasionally. Rowen guided her away from them, smirking. Also nearby were cages filled with all manner of exotic bird and beast, making for a colorful menagerie.
Closer, though, someone glimmered in the light beneath the main chandelier, and Jordan could not help but stare.
Catrina leaned in, whispering, “Well
Jordan glanced from her best friend to the boy she had always adored—the boy everyone adored. The black sheep of his conservative family, Micah Vanmoer dressed in the clothes of a mourner and had poetic and musical leanings of a nearly riotous sort, and that was precisely what Jordan adored most about him. Micah was a younger (sober) Edgar Allan Poe.
While she was often mute, young Micah was an orator of the most expressive sort. If his new choice in adornment was yet another reflection of his personal taste, then more power to him.
Rowen watched her reaction before clearing his throat and patting the hand she rested on his arm. “Let us go greet our friend, Micah.” He led her so it appeared it was not
