Akilina said something that brought Beatrice’s laugh to the fore. Too easy, too easy; Beatrice laughed too easily, and in such free emotion there was, had always been, danger. Belinda’s grace was not in her singing voice, but in her laugh, as she had once told a dark-haired courtesan in Parna. Viktor would know that laugh, impossible as it was, and yet to choke it back was unthinkably rude. Belinda quieted it as best she could, leaving merriment in her eyes and trusting without fail that her gaze and smile would bury true emotion so deep no one but she would ever find it. Akilina smiled at her, an open predatory expression that Belinda knew too well, and this time it was she, not her assumed persona, who wanted to laugh, almost in despair. There was safety in being a serving girl. No one saw her as a servant, no one cared or noticed, no one bothered. Belinda kept her smile in place and coiled stillness around herself, reaching back to the first days of training and remembering Robert Drake riding away, his cloak golden in the sunlight. That cloak was a thing of protection, keeping her safe, making her untouchable.
Witchlight gathered in her mind, comforting, as if its presence had always been meant to be there, and now that it was, as if it were unthinkable that it might ever have been missing. It reached through candlelight and fire for the shadows, pulling them closer, darkness soft and comforting. The amber of Belinda’s gown seemed to fade and dim, and for a sweet moment Belinda felt panic bleed out of her. She had been raised to shadows, that was where servants belonged.
Serving girls did not make themselves part of burgeoning revolution.
The thought, sharp and clear, shattered the gathering witchlight and straightened Belinda’s spine. She reached for her wineglass too hastily, nearly knocked it over, and spat a curse in Aulunian that silenced the table.
This time she let a blush come, able to stop it but unable to command it to rise, and murmured an apology in Gallic. “I’ve forgotten my tongue. I beg of you, forgive me, my lords and ladies. I’m told appalling language is a Lanyarchan trait.”
“What did it mean?” Akilina asked after a moment, and laughter restored itself around the table as Belinda made a still-blushing confession to the mating habits of swine. She made a show of holding on to her wineglass too carefully from then on, earning amused looks and once, a mocking round of applause for managing to accept a newly poured cupful. None of the banter went beyond the surface, not only for Belinda, but at the table as a whole: it didn’t take the witchpower to see judgment beneath smiling eyes, or the thoughtful perusal of the high- born blood seating placement. Javier, at Akilina’s elbow, could easily be placed there as more than just a polite sop to a visiting guest; it could be read as potential, as a promise: the young prince might be wed to a powerful woman from the Khazarian empire, making an alliance there that would strengthen Gallin and alarm Aulun.
Unwilling to allow her body to betray herself again, Belinda didn’t shift positions at the idea, but memory of a thought stolen from Sacha rose: she intended to marry a king, not a prince. Belinda had thought he meant Eliza, but the possibility that the stocky young lord’s reach stretched beyond Gallin’s borders arose as she studied Akilina. There had been guilt and anger both in Asselin’s reaction to her pressure, and if his patron was making her way to Gallin, expecting results…the idea was intriguing.
From the distance down the table, even with her witchpower extended toward the black-haired Khazarian woman, Belinda caught no sense of plotting or turmoil. Nor should she, she thought; the fine meal and the company were intended for pleasure and the first forays into casual intimacy. That it also served to allow insight into some of Sandalia’s court alliances was inevitable, and that Akilina should pay attention to those alliances was only to be expected.
And it set Belinda herself firmly in her place: four or five men and women separated her from the head of the table and the guest of honour. Eliza was even farther down the table, and caught Belinda’s eye momentarily as Belinda looked over the gathering. They exchanged brief smiles, both aware of their positions literally and figuratively, and then Eliza turned her attention back to the heavily bearded Khazarian man beside her. He, like most of Akilina’s people, was a minor dignitary, part of an entourage that was intended as a show of support rather than any expectation that they would do anything. Belinda caught a murmur of Aria Magli from Eliza’s conversation, and turned to the man at her side, offering a smile of her own. “Do I understand that you travelled through Parna, then? You must have left Khazar early in the summer, to make so much travelling worthwhile.”
He stared at her as if she’d said something unpleasant, and stuffed a joint of lamb into his mouth, blood drooling down his beard. Belinda, repulsed and startled, drew back, earning Akilina’s laughter. “Forgive my men, Lady Irvine,” she said, loudly enough to be heard. “Their manners are cruder than even the worst tales of a Lanyarchan’s. I visited Aria Magli,” she acknowledged, “but only with a handful of retainers. This honour guard caught me on my journey east. It appears I was embarrassing my imperatrix by travelling as lightly as I did. Have you ever been to Aria Magli, Lady Irvine?”
“Lutetia is the farthest I’ve ever been from home.” Belinda let the Lanyarchan burr come through more strongly in her voice, then deliberately corrected it, trusting the show of provinciality to be considered charming. “I’ve heard that Aria Magli is the most beautiful city in Echon and the most vile. Is it possible that it could be both?”
“Oh, yes,” Akilina said without hesitation. “I think the smell would be appalling in the heat of summer, and yet the music on the canals and the life of the city is irresistible. And, of course, there are the courtesans, who may be the breaking point for villainousness or perfection, depending on your opinion of them. What is yours, Lady Irvine?”
Belinda dropped her eyes to hide a laugh, her evident shyness garnering amusement from Akilina. “Is that a terrible question to ask a young Ecumenic woman?” she asked without remorse. “Can you even imagine such a life, Lady Irvine? Trained in pleasure, educated on all manner of topics-is it freedom, do you think, or is it Hell?”
“I believe we should not be so bold as to define Hell as an earthly conceit,” Belinda murmured, and lifted her eyes. “Nor is freedom found in anything but walking God’s path and casting off our sins to be welcomed in Heaven at the end of our days. I cannot say that I approve of a woman selling her body for money, but I wouldn’t presume to say God had no reason for asking her to do so. My lady.”
Akilina’s dark eyebrows shot up and she leaned back to clap her hands together thrice, lazy staccato sounds. “The provincial has teeth,” she said with an edge of admiration. “I think I see why Your Majesty holds such fondness for the country of her first crown, now. Forgive me, Lady Irvine.” She leaned forward again to give Belinda a frank and appraising look. “I baited you, and you’ve set me in my place. Shall we be friends from here on out?”
Belinda smiled, an open and delighted expression, and thought that friendship was not made on words even as she murmured, “It would be an honour, my lady.” A near-commoner from Lanyarch did not refuse Khazarian nobility when the latter said, “Walk with me, Beatrice,” regardless of her feelings on the matter, or even the surreptitious glance given by her high-born lover. Javier nodded, one barely visible dip of his chin; Belinda thought she might not have seen it, had she not been looking to the prince for a cue. Dinner was over, sweet wine drunk by the bottleful after it, and the polite discussion that lingered was Akilina’s and Sandalia’s to end. The duchess watched Sandalia for weariness, and shortly after Belinda herself would have begged off, did so with grace and self-effacing apology. Sandalia granted the Khazarian contingent their leave, and only then did Akilina turn her hawk’s smile on Belinda and extend her invitation. The bells had run the first small hour of the morning a long time since, and Belinda, as much as anyone, longed for her bed. That Akilina knew it she had no doubt, but while the Khazarian countess might not dare put out a queen, she had no such qualms about inconveniencing Belinda.
“What do you think of us, Beatrice?” Akilina tucked her arm through Belinda’s and dawdled down the hall outside the dining chambers, in no more rush to sleep than the moon was.
“I think all those beards must itch,” Belinda said promptly, and earned a laugh for her efforts.
“Lanyarchan men wear beards, don’t they?”
“They do, so I have confidence that I’m right.” Belinda offered a smile and Akilina squeezed her arm with pleasure.
“What else do you think? I’ve never met a Lanyarchan, so I want to hear everything. It’s my small way of understanding the world, in seeing how others see us.” Akilina’s explanation was guileless, her expression open, and Belinda smiled again.
“Surely you’re not old enough to be so wise, my lady.”
“Surely you’re not old enough to be so skilled at flattery.” Akilina laughed again, more easily than even Beatrice did, and Belinda, walking so close to her, thought that there was no artifice to her humour. Witchpower
