Luca held her arms out for a flourish. She wore a Qazāli formal black tunic that stopped below her hips, stiff enough to hold the sharp lines but supple enough for comfort. The buttons were pure gold. She stepped aside and gestured toward Touraine, who took the hint and stepped forward with a bow. The soldier wore a pale cotton blouse and a black vest with a standing collar and ornate gold trim, modeled after the Qazāli’s hooded vests. A gold sash streaked with black swirls and dangling with small, flat gold circles and black beads wrapped halfway around her hips like a skirt to hang down behind loose black trousers. Madame Abdelnour said the sashes were common accoutrements among the Qazāli dancers and throughout the old Shālan Empire, and Luca had to admit that Touraine looked striking in it.
Another shimmer of raised glasses while the mademoiselle curtsied. The guests clapped on cue. She scanned for the less enthusiastic. The real test was coming.
“Thank you. I confess myself a stranger here, in a conflicted land, but I hope to change that—both my strangeness and the conflict. My strangeness is my own burden, which only study and friendship can cure. The conflict, however, will require us to work together, Qazāli and Balladairan alike. Let the boundaries between us fall. Allies must be open and honest with each other, about their fears, their hopes, and their needs. They must hear when the other speaks. May every citizen here know that my ears are open.
“As proof of that, I offer the Qazāli a token of Balladaire’s goodwill, a hope for our unified future: at my invitation and under my own purse, fifty Qazāli children will attend the Citadel, the finest Balladairan school in Qazāl.”
Across the room, Gil’s mouth opened in surprise before he sealed his lips. It was the first gesture she would offer the Qazāli, an incentive to work with her instead of against her.
This time, Luca raised her glass high. “Enjoy yourselves together. To your health.” She drained the last of her glass and lowered herself into her chair, heart racing.
The music started again, and people claimed their partners for the first dance. Instead of joining them, Luca sat while guests paid their respects, bowing over her hand and commenting on which book they’d brought for her host gift.
One of the first to approach her was LeRoche de Beau-Sang, practically pushing the previous person out of the way. He was surrounded by youths: two women she recognized and a young man she’d never seen. Beau-Sang bowed elegantly before eyeing Touraine and smiling as if he had won a bet. Luca fought the urge to look behind her.
“May I present to you my daughter, Aliez?” Beau-Sang guided the blond woman forward. “And her friend, Mademoiselle Bel-Jadot?”
Luca smiled tightly, acknowledging the young women as they curtsied. “We’ve met before. At the bookshop in the New Medina. Welcome.”
She had recognized the Bel-Jadot girl, but she hadn’t realized at the time that the other girl making fun of her that day was Beau-Sang’s daughter. She might leverage that better in the future, as well. Not now, however. Tonight was about peace. And the pieces on the board. Luca turned to the young man in the group.
“And this is my son, Paul-Sebastien.” Beau-Sang touched Paul-Sebastien’s shoulder with a tender hand.
The young man wasn’t as broad as his father, but he wasn’t frail, either. He wore his blond hair pulled back in a queue and had to tuck loose strands behind his ears. He wore spectacles, too. His entire mien was awkward and nervous, and Luca couldn’t tell if it was endearing or off-putting.
Beau-Sang’s smile widened. “I also see that you’ve taken my advice. They’re a fine investment, aren’t they?” He nodded behind her.
This time, Luca allowed herself to look. Those thick dark brows. The cold glare into the middle distance. That square, clenched jaw.
“That’s one of Cantic’s, is that right? The lieutenant.”
As if Touraine were a prize hound she’d purchased to race against his Richard.
（Had Luca not purchased Touraine? Was Touraine not useful?）
Touraine couldn’t keep her mask on in the face of Beau-Sang’s needling. Her nose flared in a flash of anger as she scoffed.
Beau-Sang’s smile at Touraine showed teeth. “Unfortunately, it seems like her manners are not so refined as I remember.”
Sky above and earth below. Luca wanted to hide her face with her palm.
Instead, she cleared her throat sharply and nodded in dismissal. “Monsieur le comte. Mesdemoiselles. Thank you.”
As the others left, Paul-Sebastien hung back, nervously watching Aliez and Bel-Jadot as each sorted herself with a dancing partner. When his father gestured sharply for him to follow, Paul-Sebastien held him off with a sharp shake of the head.