I might have been considered merely an oddity who was not worth cultivating. However, my gauchery was not the reason—or not the whole reason—the first half year in Vorbold’s House was very lonely.
That was occasioned by the arrival, soon after my own, of Dedrina-Lucir, daughter of a Demesne I must have passed closely in approaching Chimmerdong Forest. It lay just east of the Tits (which were called, according to Dedrina-Lucir, Mother Massif) and a little north of the route I had taken. I had never heard of it before. Daggerhawk Demesne, it was called. Its device was a flitchhawk impaled by a blade. The manner of my arrival came to Dedrina-Lucir’s attention early—I had some reason to suppose that she had arrived already aware of it—and she remarked that in Daggerhawk they saw fit to make flitchhawks the prey rather than the other way ‘round. “Rather than be dangled like a dead bunwit,” were her exact words. This led to some interesting nicknames for me, ending at last in the one everyone adopted, “Dangle-wit”. My place of origin was called “Dangle-wit Demesne”, and my betrothed’s place was known as “Dangle-fire Demesne”.
Needless to say, Dedrina-Lucir never put a foot wrong. She knew instinctively what utensil to use at table, which wine to praise and which to deprecate—or, if she did not, everyone preferred what Dedrina preferred, so it made no difference. What Dedrina wore became the fashion, and what Dedrina said became the rule. Dedrina, I soon learned to my anger and confusion, had ruled that Jinian was to be the butt of all their little jokes and pranks. Jinian was the enemy. They were “us”, and Jinian was “her”.
It was more or less the same kind of treatment I’d had at home, but that didn’t stop my crying into my pillow. Thank all the gods old and new that Vorbold’s House set a premium on privacy and we all had rooms of our own. My room had no visitors; it was mine alone. I preferred it that way, and as I settled into it and became quieter in my mind, I realized Dedrina was making it necessary for me to do what I should have done anyhow: follow Murzy’s advice and become truly invisible.
To go about one’s business, Murzy had said, in such a manner that no one notices.
Simply not to hear the nicknames and hawk calls. Simply not to notice the mimicking behind the back, the faces and sneers. Simply not to react …
To dress so that no one notices. To arrange one’s hair so that no one notices. To study the classroom matter so that every answer could be calm, correct, and without any excitement whatsoever. To show the Gamesmistresses precisely the right shade of deference to prevent resentment without one jot more to provoke fondness. To eat whatever was offered, without comment. I could hear Cat Candleshy reading off the recipe for invisibility, her low, calm voice going on and on, repeating; never tiring, never moving as she spoke. I could see Bets Battereye’s hands gesticulating, her rubbery face showing me proper facial expressions as she told me how, when, under what conditions to wear each one. I could hear Murzy saying, “There, there, chile. ‘Tis only a time, and a time. Nothing permanent.”
And I worked at it. The first month or two were very hard, for there were falsities presented as truths and idiocies got up in the guise of facts, both by the girls and by the Gamesmistresses. I kept wanting to shout or argue or bite someone, but as I worked at it more and more intensely, it became easier. Not only easier, but fascinating. There were shades to it, like shades of green and blue and gray in water, shifting, none one could put name to. So there were shades to my invisibility, nameless shades, varying states of unnoticeability. And success, as well.
I knew the first success one day at midday meal. We were always seated with some ceremony at the daised tables in the great hall in order to learn to eat gracefully in public, since most of us would have to do that in our future lives as hostesses to some Demesne or other. I was looking across the room with a pleasant, meaningless expression on my face, one that would attract no eye, evoke no response from anyone. There was a tight feeling at the back of my neck, and I looked up to catch Dedrina-Lucir’s eyes fixed on me, her face blind with fury. Not merely ill-temper or the spitefulness I had noticed among many of the girls. No. Fury. Rage.
I had done nothing to her to occasion such anger; therefore she had brought it with her when she came. Later that evening, I asked one of the Gamesmistresses, casually, as though it didn’t matter, if Dedrina-Lucir were not related to Porvius Bloster. Oh yes, I was told. Dedrina was his sister’s daughter. His thalan.
“Daggerhawk Demesne, then,” I said, “is Bloster’s place?”
Oh, yes, yes, indeed it was.
So. Mendost had slipped the Game of Dedrina’s thalan, Bloster. Then the girl had come prepared to fight me, but through acting invisible, I was slipping her Game. Or more accurately, I had slipped her Game thus far. I wondered how far this magic of invisibility would take me and was not
