Lin glanced over at the Prince, who had not moved from his seat since she’d arrived. She’d wondered for a moment if he might come to greet her, but had dismissed the thought quickly enough. He was settled among his friends—a threesome whose names Mayesh had given her when they had entered the room. Falconet. Montfaucon. And Roverge.
Roverge. The family whose house and party this was; the family who had driven the Cabrols to dreams of revenge. She had thought it would not trouble her to stand in this house and know that the Roverges faced the destruction of some portion of their fleet, but she found it made her uneasy. And yet it was impossible for her to tell—and who would believe her, even if she did? Who was she? A little physician from the Sault.
She was no one. There was no reason for the Prince to go out of his way to speak to her, either. Not wanting to betray that she had even thought of it, she looked at him only out of the corner of her eye. He did stand out: Among all the bright rainbow of colors, he wore gold and silver, the shades of metal. Like a steel blade, she thought, laid among a display of colorful flowers.
“It is hard to pity a prince,” Lin said, and she might have said more—that the Prince himself had told her he was not to be pitied, that instead she should pity his intended—but at that moment, the Prince’s ginger-haired companion—Roverge, son of the House—jumped down from the divan he’d been perched on and strode toward the center of the room.
There was a screen there, painted with a design of herons in flight. As the young Roverge approached, the screen slid back, revealing the musicians who had been playing through the evening. Beside them stood two rows of what Lin could only guess were singers, their hands folded. They wore gold slippers and what Lin at first thought was smooth gold cloth. She realized, as the firelight flickered over them, concealing and revealing with its touch, that it was not cloth at all, but paint. They were naked, men and women both, painted head-to-toe with gold paint that mimicked, on their skin, the clinging folds of silk.
A murmur ran around the room. Guests craned their heads to get a better look at the entertainment. Vienne d’Este pulled the little Princess, Luisa, closer to her side, her mouth a thin line of annoyance.
It was quiet now, everyone watching; Charlon Roverge made a flourishing gesture, and the gold-painted vocalists burst into song.
It was a low tune, and sweet. An auba, a song meant to evoke lovers parting at dawn.
“Well,” Kel said, in a low voice, “at least they can sing decently.”
“Would anyone have noticed if they couldn’t?” Lin whispered back.
Kel smiled a little but said, “You’d be surprised. It takes a great deal to shock this bunch—or even to intrigue them.”
“I see,” Lin said. She stole another glance at the Prince, sideways. He was looking at the singers but—indeed—without a great deal of interest. “That’s—rather sad.”
The song ended. There was a smattering of light applause. Charlon Roverge cast a glance across the room; he was looking at his father, Benedict, who seemed to be observing the entertainment with a peculiar intensity. They both had an unpleasant look about them, she thought, and recalled her grandfather saying that even the other nobles of the Hill mistrusted them.
“Tonight,” Charlon said, loudly enough for his voice to ring off the walls, “we herald the dawn of a new alliance. Between Castellane and her closest neighbor, the honorable land of Sarthe.”
The hairs on the back of Kel’s neck prickled. He could not have said why, precisely, but he did not like this—did not like Charlon giving the welcome address, instead of Benedict. Did not like the tone of his voice when he spoke. The words were polite enough—Kel would have bet Prosper Beck’s ten thousand crowns that Benedict had forced his son to memorize them—but there was an expression on Charlon’s face Kel knew, and disliked. A sort of gloating look.
“Indeed,” Charlon went on, “the haste and eagerness of Sarthe to cement this union, which has surprised us all, must certainly lie with the many advantages that will accrue to both our lands when we are joined in political matrimony. Sarthe, for instance, will have access now to a harbor. And we . . .”
He let his voice hang. There were a few titters; Kel could see the Sarthian Ambassadors, some distance away, glaring daggers.
“Did he just imply there’s no advantage to Castellane in this marriage?” Lin murmured.
Kel wondered for a moment if he should run at Charlon, knock him over. He could plead terrible inebriation. He would garner some sympathy; he doubted there was anyone at this party who hadn’t wanted to hit Charlon at some point or another.
But it would not stop things, he knew. Conor was the only one who could prevent this, and he was stonily silent, arms extended along the divan behind him, staring straight ahead.
“Well,” Charlon smiled, “we will have the opportunity to learn more of the arts and culture of Sarthe. Who among us has not admired their music, their poetry?”
There was a confused murmur. If this was an insult, it was a poor one. Even Senex Domizio looked more puzzled than enraged.
“In that spirit,” Charlon said, “please approach, Princess Luisa d’Eon.”
Luisa looked up at Vienne; she had clearly recognized her name, and realized that somehow what was going on now was about her. Vienne said something to her softly, and together they came up to Charlon, in the center of the room. Luisa dropped a curtsy, her hair ribbons bobbing.
“Princess,” Charlon said, in very stilted Sarthian, “a gift for you,” and took from the inside of his jacket a thin gold box. He handed it to Luisa, who looked uncertain.
“We had all heard, for instance,” said Charlon, as Luisa fumbled the box open, “that the Princess of Sarthe, Aimada d’Eon, was a skilled dancer. While she is not here, we have been assured by the good Ambassadors from Sarthe that her sister Luisa is just as skilled in every area as she is. In fact, we have been assured, they are as good as interchangeable.”
“Gray hell,” Kel muttered. Luisa had opened the box, and taken out what was inside. Frowning, she unfolded a black lace fan with a gold-lacquered grip.
“I believe your sister has one like it,” Charlon said, not bothering with Sarthian now as he looked down at the girl. “Surely, then, you must know what to do.” He stepped back. “Dance for your Court, Princess.”
“He must be joking,” Lin whispered. “She’s just a girl, and she’s shy—”
“He’s not,” Kel said, grimly, just as the musicians began to play. As the tune rose up, rapid and sweet, the room exploded with the chant: “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Luisa looked around uncertainly. The guests must have appeared a blur to her, Kel thought, of bright coats and dresses, rapid gestures and hungry faces. He could see Antonetta among the crowd; she had her hand over her mouth, as if she were stunned.
Kel looked at Conor. He had not moved, only Kel could see his hand curled against his side, and thought of what he had said in the carriage: If Sarthe insists that Luisa remain in Castellane for all this time, they might as well understand the world she will inhabit, and the people she will know.