“Well, Jone Saint Frey,” she said out loud, “you asked for it.”
She walked out of the shadows, across the drive, and up to the front steps, her skirt gathered up in her gloved hands, hoping that her hair stayed in place.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Tesara Ange DeBarri Mederos, of House Mederos,” she announced to the butler. The doors opened onto the long gallery, and it was vivid with light, guests, laughter, music, air. The butler hesitated. The world stopped. Everyone inside turned to look at who was holding up the reception line. Tesara kept a slight smile, wondering when she would be turned away. Then the buzz of conversation rose fore and aft, and there was a slight commotion as Jone himself pushed through the crowd toward the door.
“My dear Tesara,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his own, his happy smile transforming his odd face into a handsome one. “You came! You have made me very happy.”
She curtseyed, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves and steel herself.
“I am very glad and thank you for your invitation. I hope you don’t mind that I came after all.”
“Nonsense. I invited you and you kindly came. Come inside, come, come. I know you will want to freshen up – all the ladies do – so I’ll leave you in the hands of the attendants. We will talk later, and perhaps dance, hmmm?”
She could barely find her voice so she curtseyed again.
“Your wrap, miss?” said an attendant. Tesara handed it over and the maid draped it over her arm. She led Tesara to a room off to the side. It had been outfitted with chairs and tables, with candelabra shedding glowing light over the proceedings, and several large mirrors. Several young women and their mamas were at work, fluffing dresses and poofing their faces with powder. They looked up at Tesara. Silence fell.
“Good evening, everyone,” she said. She tugged off her gloves and set down her fan and her small evening bag, ducking to look into the mirror.
“What is she doing here?” someone stage-whispered and someone else shushed her, but still whispers rose up around her. Tesara ignored them as much as possible. She smoothed back her hair and then took it down. It was too wild; she would have to start over. At least she had light and a looking glass to work with. She laid her pins aside carefully, because she could not stand to lose a single one.
She concentrated on piling and twisting her hair into a sleek chignon, pinning each step of the way. The pins in her mouth skewed her expression, but she had to admit, she looked rather handsome. Her cheeks were flushed red but she was cooling off from her walk, and her face was paling again. Her eyes were very bright. There. Done. She pulled a few wisps of hair to form curls around her ears, positioned the beaded headband, and regarded herself again.
Her hair and eyes were darker than usual even in the unnaturally bright light, giving her a slightly dangerous and exotic air. It was the rose pink of the old gown, she thought. It was a good color for her. She busied herself with smoothing her gown and all the while she shot furtive glances at the gawking girls behind her. Tesara recognized no one and felt a little pang. Fallen woman though she was, she was here, and it might have been nice to have seen the Sansieris. Maybe Jone was right and they wouldn’t have cut her dead.
“Excuse me,” a girl next to her said, and Tesara turned toward her. She was about Tesara’s age, and a deal taller and quite imposing. She wore a dark red dress trimmed with dyed feathers, its sleeves and waist proclaiming it to be of the latest fashion. She cocked her head and looked at Tesara. “That dress – who is your modiste?”
“I don’t have one,” Tesara said, wondering a little at the girl’s slightly demanding tone.
The girl clucked. “Well, you must have done at some time. The dress is old to be sure, but it is absolutely lovely. I wish I had the courage to wear the old stuff.”
“Mirandine!” another girl squealed in shock and avid excitement. The other girls broke out giggling, but Tesara knew that it wasn’t meant to be a cut.
“I’ll ask my mother who made it,” she said. She held out her hand. “Tesara Mederos. But you knew that.”
The girl gave her a rueful acknowledgement. “Mirandine Depressis. And I did.” She grasped Tesara’s hand and tucked it under her elbow. “Under the rules of a gathering such as this, we shouldn’t be seen together, me in my red and you in your pink. But I think that’s exactly what is going to make this such fun.”
Tesara laughed, a slightly startled peal. “I’m ready if you are.”
As they left the astonished ladies behind them, she thought, Goodness, who would have guessed? I’ve made a friend.
The Depressis family hailed from Ravenne. They were among the lesser merchant Houses, those that rose within the ranks of clerks and bankers. It was not astonishing that Tesara didn’t know her, as she had hardly been out in society as a twelve year-old.
Mirandine led her through the gallery, bowing graciously to everyone as if she were a duenna and Tesara her charge. In five minutes, Tesara had been introduced to several dozen people, from the old men wearing their naval uniforms with resplendent medals and braid, to the young men who brazenly eyed them. Mirandine turned her backs on the young men and studiously talked with old Mr Torinal, while Tesara pretended great interest in their conversation and looked around casually as if she weren’t desperately bored.
To her great relief, she lighted upon Jone at the same time he caught a glimpse of her. He hastened
