To my surprise, a carriage delivered us not to Phira’s house, but to a grand palace at the end of the Boulevard of the Divine. The grand palace.
The winter residence of the Queen of Usti sprawled across a rise on Hesten’s largest island. Row upon row of windows glinted down into a lavish courtyard, where carriages discharged guests in fine clothes. It was snowing lightly but every walkway was clear, and golden dragonfly lanterns spilled light over the heads of the guests as they streamed towards a pair of huge, double doors.
I let Demery help me down from the carriage and stood to the side as Grant climbed out. My skirts were widened with proper panniers tonight, cages instead of the thick pads I normally wore, and they sat heavy with the weight of my gown.
The garment was a rich ocean blue with white embroidery and a black, deeply hooded cloak. The bodice was low in the current fashion, sturdy stays and a lack of a kerchief ensuring the swell of my breasts was well on display. One curtsy too deep, one reach too far, and the rest of them would tumble merrily out.
Below this rather impractical feature, my embroidered stomacher depicted a hundred tiny ships, tangled in gusts of wind and artful waves in shades of indigo, turquoise and cerulean. My skirts were long enough to conceal the toes of my black leather shoes—or rather, my boots. They were my one victory in this ensemble, painstakingly switched in the short break between Widderow putting the final pin in my bodice and coming back to pile my hair. Whatever tonight brought, I wouldn’t be tripped by my own feet.
Demery took my right arm, Grant my left, and we entered the palace. Candlelight poured from elaborate chandeliers and sconces, guiding us down a grand hallway and into a ballroom. Here, side tables overflowed with food and wine, each attended by pairs of immaculately dressed servants in burgundy who dealt out bows with each goblet of wine or plate of delicacies. The ceiling was magnificently painted, from a battle at sea to deep, evergreen wolds.
Guests swirled across the chamber, filling the air with a pleasant rumble of voices. Jewels glittered on gesticulating hands, at smooth-skinned throats and in ladies’ hair, which was stacked and curled and pinned with everything from feathers to miniature ships. The clothing was equally as rich, velvets and silks turning the company into a sea of high Usti fashion.
And the scent. The room smelled of beeswax candles, pine garland, warm cinnamon, and a hundred perfumes. I took a deep breath, grateful for the bulwark of Demery and Grant on my arms, and searched the crowd for Rosser.
I spied Phira instead. The crowd parted as she came forward and extended her gloved hand to Demery.
He slipped his arm from mine and took her fingers in a gentle grip. He bowed over them, low and straight, with one hand on the gilted, basket hilt of his ornamental sword. “Madam Phira, you do me such honor.”
I instinctively curtsied, and Grant bowed.
“Yes,” she agreed, withdrawing her hand and scanning the three of us. “Do not cause any trouble, my son, or I shall have you thrown into the snow.”
“I’d expect nothing else,” Demery said with a low nod. His tone was somber, but as Phira turned away, he grinned. And I hadn’t missed the way her eyes flicked over him—cursory, but familiar, and somehow… maternal?
“Son?” I murmured as Demery returned to my side.
“My godmother,” he said, voice low. He didn’t take my arm again, his focus entirely on the crowd. “Though she disapproves of all that I am and has made that fact clear on many occasions.”
I peered at him, baffled. “But you’re Aeadine.”
He shrugged. “My accent is.”
Before I could ask more, the room hushed. Phira moved to the center of the floor, and, on the other side of the huge chamber, another woman appeared under the escort of a dozen female soldiers.
“The Queen’s Guard,” Demery murmured, eyeing the women in admiration.
Their coats were long and pale blue, fitted to the waist and flaring over their hips in a way that made no attempt to mask their gender. They wore loose trousers and high boots, and each was armed with a sword, a parrying dagger and a long Usti rifle. They all wore their hair in double braids tucked tightly into their caps. The style might have looked girlish, if each guard hadn’t also looked prepared to eviscerate anyone who neared their queen.
Queen Inara was no less intimidating, despite her lack of armament. She wore a deceptively simple emerald gown with a cluster of real black roses instead of a stomacher. Her skin was the mild brown of many far northerners, and her eyes were a pale, nondescript blue. Her black hair, rather than being piled high, was twisted and worked into an elaborate knot at the back of her head.
The floor cleared, her guard spread out, and Queen Inara joined Phira in the center of the room. She began to speak in Usti. I couldn’t understand, but her spare smile and body language communicated gravitas and greeting.
“Why is the queen hosting Phira’s party?” I whispered to Demery.
“Phira,” Demery leaned down to reply, his eyes still on the monarch, “is the queen’s sister.”
“Pardon me? Oh…” Understanding sunk in. “That’s why Mallan’s in her household. He’s her nephew, if the rumors are true.”
Grant, on my other side, caught Mallan’s name and leaned in. “What’s that?”
“And you.” I ignored Grant, a sudden frown stealing across my face. “Captain, the queen is your aunt.”
“Not by blood.” Demery waved the words away with false modesty. “All I did was return to Phira something that she’d lost, when I was young. She started feeding me, we got attached, and here I am.”
“Like a stray cat,” Grant observed.
Demery’s smile was quick and genuine. “Like a stray cat,” he affirmed.
Inara’s speech ended in a chorus of trumpets, which flowed into the first waltz. Phira and the queen, arm in arm, drifted away with the Guard at their flanks.
Demery cleared his throat and surveyed the room. “Now, I’m off to waylay some very bored, very rich jarls. I suggest the two of you make polite conversation and stay out of trouble. But join me in the study at eleven bells.”
With that the captain left us. Grant and I moved off to the side, making way for more guests as they entered the dance floor. A servant brought us flutes of sweet wines, thick with bubbles and fresh berries.
“Who should we talk to first?” I sipped at my wine, eyeing the crowd. I noticed a woman with a particularly large headdress, made to look like a morgory’s plume. “That lady looks wealthy. And unorthodox.”
“Talk to whoever you please. Aeadine will be very common in a crowd like this,” Grant replied. His flute was already empty, save the berries, and he spun it dangerously between two fingers. “I’m off to find Mallan and some proper entertainment.”
“You’re abandoning me to gamble?” In truth, this was good—I didn’t want him around when I found Rosser—but I still felt slighted.
“Well, do you want to come?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Then yes, I’m abandoning you.” Grant held out his glass until I took it. “Do be careful when the dancing starts, the Usti are known for being rather free with their hands, and you look beautiful tonight.”