“Which House?” she asked.
“Fleurenze.”
Fleurenze. They were shopkeepers when House Mederos had its downfall. Alinesse would not have deigned to nod to Mrs Fleurenze in the street six years ago. They had no cause to be welcoming to the daughter of House Mederos. On the other hand, even though the Fleurenzes were too newly risen in status to draw the best families, another plan was forming. “Keep an eye on who attends. It’ll be good to know who the second-tier merchants are and how powerful they’re becoming.” It was entirely possible the Guild was becoming complacent. If enough rising Houses grew disgruntled at being thrown only the scraps of money, prestige, and power, it may be a rift House Mederos could exploit.
“Agreed,” Tesara said. “Now, into your nightgown and get some sleep. You looked ready to fall over at the table tonight.”
As wearied as Yvienne was, she was now too keyed up to sleep right away and the more she tried, the more she failed. She had to sleep now – she was going out again tonight after all. She couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste. When she did manage to doze, her sleep was flitting and light, and her dreams half-waking.
It was only when she woke with a start, and saw that it was full dark and Tesara and the dress were both gone, that she knew she had slept at all.
It was time for the other Yvienne to make her move.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
One good thing about the Fleurenze ball, Tesara thought, was that there was hardly a chance that Guildmaster Trune or his cronies would attend. She stood in the darkness outside the colonnaded edifice the Fleurenzes called home. The mansion took up an entire city block along Torchier Row. The family must have bought up all the houses along the block when they made their money. The house stretched the entire length of the street, different facades all melded together, and all of them lit up with sweet-smelling camphene oil.
It was not hard to identify the entrance – it took up the entire face of one townhouse. Torches and lamplight blazed out from the door, and hacks drew up and disgorged passengers, all in full voice, laughing and excited. Many a young person was already a few sheets to the wind, she noted; one young lady was extracted from a cab and carried up the stairs over the shoulder of a gentleman. The flood of people never stopped coming. Tesara was getting a bit chilled in her rose silk with only her shawl, when she saw the familiar silhouettes of Mirandine and Jone step out of a well-sprung coach. Even in the faint light she could make out the Saint Frey crest on the back. She bounded forward and caught up to them.
“Hullo,” she said, and then faltered, because for an instant she wasn’t sure that she had accosted the right pair.
“Good. You’re here,” Mirandine’s voice emanated from the tall, magnificent stranger. She wore a long white domino over her gown and a mask made of feathers and paste jewels, towering over her head. Jone was more simply attired in his gray coat and trousers, and his mask was to suit – a simple black scarf with eyeholes.
“Quick, put on your mask.” Mirandine drew out the green mask and with deft fingers tied the ribbons in back. “Perfect. Follow me.”
They paraded up to the front door. There was no one to greet them in a receiving line. Instead, the place was jammed with people. If the Fleurenzes liked a crowd, they got what they wanted. Men and women, even children, some masked, all merry, milled around, shouting and calling to each other. A dance band on a raised platform played rowdy music, and the dancing was to suit. Tesara was immediately pressed into Jone and Mirandine as they struggled to get through the throng. She felt her mask slipping and clutched it with alarm. She would have to find a quiet space and re-tie everything or she would be exposed to the world in five minutes.
“Ermie!” Mirandine squealed. A man in a fashionable suit swam upstream through the crowd toward them. His black suit was of a fashionable cut, he had alarming whiskers over a round face and a thinning pate, though he was young. His mask hung around his neck like an extra cravat. He grabbed Mirandine and gave her a big smacking kiss on both cheeks, then grabbed her waist in a very forward way.
“Mira! What are you doing here? You naughty girl! You must be punished, you bad girl you. Crashing old mam’s party.” Every word he spoke was exhaled on a cloud of spirits and tobacco, and another herb she could not identify.
Tesara and Jone glanced at each other. Jone rolled his eyes behind his mask while Tesara’s misgivings deepened.
“Ermie, darling, you don’t mean that. Look, I brought you a present.” She waved a hand at Jone. Ermie, however, fixated on Tesara. He wobbled and bowed over-elaborately, taking her hand though she had not offered it, and began planting kisses up her long, old-fashioned glove. Tesara yanked her hand back before he could start nibbling at the buttons.
“Any friend of Mira’s, etc, etc,” he said, pronouncing it ect. “Let me introduce you to Mam.”
He pulled Mirandine, who pulled Tesara, who pulled Jone, through the crowd. The din grew louder. Tesara threaded her way sideways, and soon gave up begging pardon for the toes stepped on, or the inadvertent elbow. When they finally made it through to the center of the ballroom, there was the Fleurenze clan. All of the Fleurenzes were round-faced, dark-haired, very loud, and very drunk. Tesara was surrounded by a jolly group of young people. One young man handed her a glass of very strong punch, a forthright young woman invited her to arm wrestle, and an undetermined personage wearing a long domino
