Sophie whispered.
Charlotte’s knees trembled. She collapsed into a chair.
GEORGE watched as Brennan emerged onto the landing and marched to the roster. His face wore a look of intense concentration. He stopped before the roster and stared at it for a long moment.
His room number and Charlotte’s differed by exactly one digit. Hers read 322 and his 522. It had taken a great deal of manipulation on Kaldar’s part to arrange this. Any significant difference between the numbers, and Brennan would’ve smelled a rat.
The man shook his head and started up the stairs. George stepped away from the column, back out of Brennan’s view, and walked away quickly, staying close to the wall. He turned the corner just as Brennan stepped onto the fourth-floor landing.
DINNER was served on one of the massive terraces and consisted of light appetizers.
“I’m hungry,” Sophie murmured.
“It’s expected that after the ball we’ll have a late dinner in our rooms,” Charlotte murmured, and adjusted the strap on Sophie’s left shoulder. This dress, a beautiful variation of blue-gray with a metallic sheen, was a collaboration between her and the dressmaker. Two thin shoulder straps held up a modest linear bodice that hugged Sophie’s slender figure. Thin leaves of pale and darker blue overlapped on the bodice, built from the left side and spreading in a fan to the right. Two gathered lengths of fabric draped over Sophie’s hips, tight enough to accentuate the modest flare of her hips but loose enough to still be appropriate. Past the draped fabric, a wide skirt built from layers of chiffon streamed down to the floor.
It was a refreshing dress, youthful and light, and its style matched Charlotte’s own gown. She’d chosen a blue-green chiffon. Two leaves of silvery fabric served as her sleeves. The pattern continued along her sides, the leaves stretching to hug her, underscoring her waist and the curve of her hips. Tiny silvery dots, each slightly less shiny than the leaves, traced a delicate pattern over her chest and stomach, until finally her skirt flared into layers and layers of weightless chiffon.
Sophie looked beautiful. She herself looked elegant and every inch a blueblood, which is exactly what Charlotte was trying to project. The music was getting louder. Soon the dancing would start. She wasn’t expected to dance but once or twice, but Sophie would enjoy it. And likely cause a stir. Charlotte had asked her to demonstrate a couple of dances, and her footwork was exquisite.
She felt the pressure of someone’s gaze, scanned the gathering, and ran into Richard’s face. He stood across the terrace, in the shadow of a column, and he was looking at her with shock and longing, as if he were thunderstruck. It hurt. It hurt so much to stand there across from him and know that she couldn’t walk over there, she couldn’t touch him or go away with him. Charlotte looked away.
No matter what happened around her, deep inside she always remembered that either of them, or both of them, might not survive this. They were in constant danger, and a happy outcome wasn’t guaranteed. That knowledge pressed on her like an ever-present, crushing burden. She awoke with it, and she went to bed with it. It haunted her through the day. Occasionally, she would get distracted and forget, but inevitably she would remember, and when she did, the fear and anxiety hit her like a punch to the stomach. Her throat closed up, her eyes watered, and her chest hurt. For a few moments, she would hover on the verge of tears and have to talk herself off the cliff.
She missed Richard. She worried about him more than she worried about herself.
She wasn’t made for this, she realized. Some might revel in danger and intrigue, but she just wanted everything to be done. She wanted it to be over. The stress and the pressure chipped at her, and she felt herself cracking under their chisel. The harder the pressure ground, the more she wanted to escape. Last night, she’d dreamed about walking up to Brennan, killing him, and throwing herself from the balcony. In the morning she had been horrified—not by the suicidal fantasy, but because for a brief moment before she returned to reality, she felt relief.
She couldn’t shatter. Too many people depended on her, Sophie, Richard, Tulip . . . Speaking of Sophie, where had she gone?
Charlotte turned and saw a group of young people, all on the cusp of adulthood, surrounding a blueblood in a dark green doublet. He was tall, blond, and strikingly beautiful. He was telling some sort of story, and his face wore the comfortable expression of a practiced speaker. His audience hung on his every word.
Charlotte drifted closer, analyzing his gestures. Not just blood, old blood. Not Adrianglian, definitely a Louisianan bend—he’d raised his hand in an elegant gesture, palm up, index finger almost parallel to the floor, three others bent slightly—a clear tell. Louisianan court etiquette dictated that when the Emperor was present, the nobles carried a token, a small silver coin engraved with his likeness, worn on a chain wound around the fingers. The gesture was designed to display the coin and was so ingrained in the manners of the older families, they made it unconsciously when they presented a point during an argument or acknowledged someone’s else’s point.
She’d drifted close enough to hear him.
“. . . After all, as Ferrah states, excelling in the service of the multitude is the highest calling. The ego can attain its pinnacle only when laboring for the greater good of the majority.”
There were nods and sounds of agreement. He really had them entranced.
“But doesn’t Ferrah also say that compromising one’s ethics is the ultimate betrayal of self,” Sophie’s voice sounded from the back. The group of young people parted, and Charlotte saw her. “And since he defines ethics as the ultimate expression of individuality, his arguments are contradictory and suspect.”
The blueblood looked at her with genuine interest. “The contradiction is present at first glance, yet it disappears if one assumes the moral code of the individual is aligned with the goals of the multitude.”
“But does not the multitude consist of individuals with wildly conflicting moral codes?”
“It does.” The blueblood smiled, clearly enjoying the argument. “But the attitudes of the multitude are aimed at self-preservation; therefore, we have the emergence of common laws: don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal. It is that commonality that prompted Ferrah to embark on the examination of multitude and self.”
Sophie frowned. “I was under the impression that Ferrah embarked on the examination of multitude and self because he desired his sister sexually and was upset that society wouldn’t permit him to marry her?”
The young people gasped. The noble laughed. “Whose treasure are you, child?”
“Mine,” Charlotte said.
The noble turned to her and executed a flawless bow. “My lady, my highest compliments. It is rare to see a well-read child in this day and age. May I have the pleasure of your name?”
“Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran.”
The noble straightened. “An ancient name, my lady. I’m Sebastian Lafayette,
“Sophie.”
The noble smiled at Sophie. “We must speak more, Sophie.”
Sophie curtsied with perfect grace. “You honor me, my lord.”
“I hope she didn’t upset you, Lord Belidor,” Charlotte said.
The noble turned to her. “Sebastian, please. On the contrary. I often become frustrated at the lack of mettle among the younger generation. It seems that we had . . . not a better education, per se, but perhaps more incentive to use it. They learn, but they hardly think.”
Behind Sebastian, Sophie mouthed something silently.
A woman in the dark blue uniform of the castle staff approached them and bowed, holding a small card out to Charlotte. “Lady de Ney al-te Ran.”
“Excuse me,” Charlotte smiled at Sebastian and took the card. “Thank you.”
On the card beautiful calligraphy letters said,
Charlotte blinked. The Rioga Dance was an old tradition. The floor was cleared, and a single pair—one of whom was of royal blood but never the reigning monarch—danced alone. It was the official start of the ball, and a privilege most women here would kill for, quite literally.
“It’s seems I’m to dance the Rioga,” she said.
“Congratulations.” Sebastian bowed his head. “What an honor.”
