too little. Falling from grace, like anything else, had its protocol and its expectations. And, provided one didn’t fall too far, so did returning to court.
Allies would announce themselves by their invitations. The staunchest might invite the unfortunate soul in need of rescue to a dinner party or hold a luncheon in their name, but that was boldness that bordered on the rash. The more cautious might include the recently fallen into a sewing circle or private tea casual enough that the guests sat wherever they pleased. Even a nod or a smile in the street could be noticed by others and commented upon.
Clara’s misfortune, she knew, would be difficult to parse. Her husband, whom all in court knew she’d loved deeply and sincerely, had led the rebellion against the Lord Regent and been slaughtered. Attempted regicide should have been too dark a stain to recover from, but there were Jorey and Vicarian. Even, in her grudging way, Elisia. Each of them had kept some distance from the tragedy, and Geder Palliako had even kept Jorey in the court. Clara’s position, then, became something of a cipher. She was without precedent, and even the most experienced etiquette master might be permitted to confess puzzlement at how best to approach her.
The common sentiment appeared to be that sending a servant to her boarding house was a bit too sordid, and so slowly, as the groaning mechanisms of social play took their positions, notes began to arrive at Lord Skestinin’s small manor. Not invitations, because that would be almost a statement of allegiance, but mentions of small gatherings. Most were ostensibly for Sabiha with the understanding that she might choose to bring a guest. But there were a few addressed to Clara herself.
Lady Tilliaken’s gardens spilled out from her family’s manor house in an artful display of carelessness. To an untrained eye, the ivies and spoke-roses that curled around the stone walkways might have looked wild, but it was a tended wildness. The bright green runners never found their way into any inconvenient place. The buds of the flowers all came, as if by chance, into positions that would show their petals to the best effect. The finches and butterflies that found their way there hadn’t been drawn by any obvious caches of seed or sweet water. The style was called Hallskari, though Clara’s understanding was that real gardens in Hallskar were much more spare and put greater importance on the bitter herbs that Haaverkin seemed to prefer. The servant girl, a young Cinnae with hair as pale as daylight and eyes the color of ice, led Clara directly to the garden tables without bringing her through the house. The other women were already there, and it took Clara less than five long breaths together to assess the situation.
Lady Enga Tilliaken, at the head of the table, rose to greet Clara with kisses on both cheeks, which taken with the invitation put her as Clara’s ally. Merian Caot, second daughter of the Baron of Dannick, looked pleased and amused in equal measure much the way Clara’s own daughter might have done when she was young and going to inappropriate garden parties in order to play at rebellion. Lady Nikayla Essian, seeing Clara, gave a little coo of concern and rose to her feet, her eyes the perfect image of sympathy. She had come to gloat.
“Don’t get up on my account,” Clara said with a smile. “I don’t intend to stand for long. I’m too old for it.”
“You will take some tea, though, won’t you?” Lady Tilliaken said. “I’ve discovered this fascinating blend from that merchant from the Free Cities. What was his name?”
“Not the Timzinae!” Essian said.
“Of course not. The Jasuru woman.”
“Nufuz, you mean?” Clara said, and Tilliaken clapped her hands together.
“Yes, her.”
“If she recommended it, I can hardly refuse,” Clara said, taking a seat at the little stone table. A wasp hissed by her ear, gold and green as a gem in the sunlight. “I haven’t seen her in an age.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t have,” Essian said, touching Clara’s wrist. It promised to be a long and unpleasant afternoon.
It was necessary, of course. And more than that, it was expected. Dawson had thrown everything about her into question. The role she had played at court her whole life had been made uncertain, and now those who were willing to accept her company would be watching, testing, to see who and what she was. Did she show remorse, and if she did was it for her husband’s death or his actions? Did she speak harshly, or was she kind? In a hundred small ways, the Clara Kalliam they had all known was dead, and this new woman with her face and voice had stepped in. If she were ever to be reintegrated at court, they would need to know who this new woman was.
And, for that matter, so would she.
The tea was lovely—smoky and rich with a brightness that came from adding rose hips—and the cakes seemed to be made entirely of butter and honey with only enough flour to give them shape. The smell of turned earth from where Tilliaken’s servants were preparing the beds floated through the air like perfume, and the soft warmth of the spring sun slowly undid the stays at the necks of their dresses. Clara listened and spoke, doing the best imitation she could of the woman she had been only a year before, except she didn’t smoke. She’d run out of money for tobacco, and she would not allow herself to ask for it.
“Oh, did I tell you about my son’s new commission?” Essian said. “It’s very exciting. His first command.”
“Command?” Clara said. “Is he joining the forces in Sarakal?”
Essian’s cheeks pinked slightly, and not, Clara thought, from pride. That was interesting.
“No, it’s a smaller force. Bound for Lyoneia. Fifty men, he said.”
Clara felt something deep within her wake, tilt its ears forward, narrow its eyes.
“It’s a great honor,” Essian said, almost petulantly.
“Command is always an important thing,” Caot said with a thin smile. Why was it that the young were so adept at being cruel? “It’s only a pity he’s being sent so far south when Sarakal’s to the east. He must be disappointed.”
“I don’t see why he would be,” Clara said. “If the Lord Regent’s sending him so far, it does imply a certain trust, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, trust,” Essian said, leaping at the word. “The Lord Regent trusts him.”
“Sending him as far as Lyoneia,” Clara said. “And I have to assume that it’s a matter of some importance. Surely we wouldn’t be sending men away in wartime unless the matter were critical.”
Essian sipped her tea, but didn’t answer. Either it was something trivial or else she didn’t know what the errand was. Clara wished she could think of some way to draw the woman out. Better to be patient and not be seen to ask. Better to seem to be what they thought she was. Clara suppressed a small and frustrated growl.
“So,” she said, “since I have been somewhat away from the center of things, you must tell me about the dresses at the opening of the season. Did Ana Pyrellin wear that impressive fur of hers again?”
“The one with the heads still on?” the young Caot girl said, laughing. “She did, and worse. You won’t believe it.”
Clara let the conversation drift into safer waters. The afternoon was brief enough. Had she remained until twilight, it would have been taken quite differently in court. Small steps would get her where she wanted to be more swiftly than great strides. They spoke of Geder Palliako’s decision to inspect the troops in Sarakal, of the rise in status of Fallon Broot, of the great debate about whether to replace the chairs in the Fraternity of the Great Bear. Clara listened and offered perhaps a bit less comment than she would have before. She felt the two different versions of herself sitting together, one hurt and shamed and cast out from her home, the other listening carefully for scraps of information that might give her advantage. When the time arrived, Caot and Essian left together, but Lady Tilliaken kept Clara back, inviting her to a small niche for a moment. She was still not welcome in the house even so far as a withdrawing room, but that Tilliaken wished a moment alone was interesting. Clara sat on the wooden bench while the lady of the house disappeared for a moment. She reached for her pipe before remembering that she couldn’t make use of it.
“Clara,” Lady Tilliaken said, stepping into the niche. She carried a folded cloth of yellow cream. “I wanted to ask if you had any need of this. It’s perfectly serviceable, but I’m afraid it doesn’t fit me any longer.”
The dress spilled forth from her hands, flowing like water. Clara felt herself go cold. It was a pretty enough piece of sewing, strong at the seams and the lacework well crafted. That wasn’t at issue. It was the offer itself. The fact—for it was now a fact—that the Baroness of Osterling Fells had become the sort of woman one offered secondhand clothes to. She wished now that she’d asked for the tobacco. If she had descended to charity, there
