He nodded at Trey. “Pleasant evening to you, Lord St. Ash.” His voice was deep and gravelly, in contrast to his small stature.
That was all the admittance he needed. Trey didn’t even have to make a show of searching for the card he’d misplaced weeks ago; he strolled right in, while less exalted persons clutched their own gilt-edged vouchers and watched enviously.
There was a glimmer next to him, tingling against his skin. Arabella pressed close as they entered the foyer, flooded with light, reeking of perfume, and amplifying tenfold the chatter and rustle of the highborn.
Wards crackled against his skin. Trey noted the runes worked into the gilt decorations and brocade wall-hangings. Mirrors set into the ceiling duplicated the chamber below, one triangular section at a time.
Mirrors were used in powerful magic, both white and black. They could also show the unseen. Trey’s eyes narrowed and he glanced at Arabella. She had gone so transparent, he could barely make out her form. Only her eyes were dark and wide, like holes into the Shadow Lands.
She noticed him looking and offered a slight smile. Her eyes were normal, and he shook his head to clear away the unnerving fancy.
Divested off his outerwear by Grimm’s efficient underlings, Trey joined a short queue to greet one of Merrimack’s influential patronesses. Lady Kirkland raised her thin eyebrows at him. “This is unexpected,” she said bluntly, as he bowed.
“According to my family, I have obligations.” Trey felt no need to pretend pleasure. Lady Kirkland’s hawkish features and no-nonsense style had earned her a reputation for disagreeableness, but Trey preferred her to the other patronesses. She didn’t expect him to charm or flirt, nor was she fazed by his occasional brusqueness.
“Since when have those been a concern to you? Still, seeing you here will be heartening. You know how nervous people are before Holy Week.”
“Much as I’m flattered by this assessment,” said Trey, “you’d be far better off breaking those mirrors.” He nodded towards the offending decorations. “It wasn’t so long ago that you had to have special permission to own one—and for good reason.”
“I know.” Lady Kirkland’s lips puckered. “But I was outnumbered by the others.” She shrugged her bony shoulders.
Her mother, Trey recalled, had been from Ruthenia, that vast snow-bound country to the west, poised over Vaeland like a glittering wave in a slate-grey sea. Ruthenia revered their phantasmists, understandably so. Lady Kirkland would know the stories. She and the Viscount St. Ash were only acquaintances, but in some small way, they understood each other.
“Keep trying,” he advised her. “You may use my name.” He grinned. “Though that may have the opposite effect.”
She snorted. “It probably will.” And with that, Lady Kirkland turned to the next guest. Trey strolled away, Arabella full of suppressed questions beside him. In the light, she was so faint he was afraid he’d lose sight of her. Two ladies passed by; Trey tugged Arabella’s arm to prevent a dance card from slicing through her back.
There were too many people here, and anyone could have a touch of the sight, amplified by those blasted mirrors. Fortunately, good manners required elementalists to leave their companions at home. “Go to the Lilac Room and wait there,” he told Arabella.
She nodded, but before she could speak, a voice, speaking in a rich drawl called out, “There you are, Trey, old fellow.”
At over six feet, Beau Whitfield stood out above the crowd. In his inimitable way, he had cleared the space around him. There was no chance of anyone stumbling into him and wrinkling his coat or spilling claret on his snowy-white stockings.
“Go,” Trey muttered to Arabella and gave his cousin a rueful smile that acknowledged the other’s magnetism. Whit might be a leader of fashion, with his exquisitely-arranged cravat and elegant clothing, but he was also a fine sportsman. His coat was molded to his broad shoulders, showing off an excellent physique.
Whit had always been poised and well-dressed, much to the chagrin of his sister Barbara. Perhaps her outlandish attire, in part, was a rebellion against her older brother’s effortless charm.
Whit examined his cousin rather more critically. “You’ll do,” he finally said.
“It was your man, after all,” Trey pointed out.
“Indeed. How much did you make Briggs cry this time?”
“Only about a pint. I was in a tractable mood.” Trey watched Arabella’s ghostly form flit through the foyer and into the dancing room. He frowned, but he could hardly call out to her.
She probably just wanted a look. It’d be her bad luck—and his—if she happened to run into Winter.
Whit was still talking, but Trey missed most of it. “What?”
Whit followed Trey’s look. “Didn’t think she was your type, coz.” It took Trey a moment to register that the languid Miss Price, dressed in white, had entered the dancing room after Arabella.
“She isn’t,” he said shortly. “What about my father?”
“I asked if my esteemed uncle would be here tonight,” said Whit, with no ironic inflection on the esteemed bit.
“How should I know?” said Trey.
“He is your father,” Whit explained with exaggerated patience.
“I’m not in my father’s counsels. I’d be surprised if he were here. He doesn’t come to Lumen much anymore.”
“And you avoid going home to Whitecross,” said Whit. His tone was neutral, but it still grated.
“I’m not a gentleman of leisure, Whit. I work here.” Trey’s eyebrows drew together as he gave the Beau a suspicious look. “Why the sudden interest in my relationship with my father?”
“I think,” said Whit somberly, “your family’s been fractured too much already for the two of you to be at such odds.”
“We aren’t at odds, Whit. Rest assured that my sire and I get along very well indeed—at a distance.” This state of affairs was nothing new. For as long as Trey could remember it had always been him and his mother, and Damien and his father. It was the way their magical gifts had manifested. Damien had inherited their father’s ferromental ability, while Trey took after their mother.
