A Rational Arrangement, page 26
The shorter, older woman heaved a sigh. One of the attendants re-positioned Wisteria’s arms at her sides instead of straight out, which was a relief as they’d started to ache from holding the heavy fabric up. “But you’re such a clever girl,” Mrs. Vasilver said. “I don’t see why this is so difficult for you.” I don’t even see how it’s possible for anyone else, Wisteria thought. “You unbent enough to flirt a little with Lord Nikola the other day, it seems you—”
“Wait, how is that? When did I flirt with him?”
“Why, when he called, of course. The day he invited you to the Ball – Thursday last, was it?”
“I was flirting?” Wisteria’s understanding of the word ‘flirt’ was purely intellectual. It was one of those things that other humans did with each other involving looks and gestures that she could not hope to interpret.
“A little. You might have been warmer – if you could only smile a bit, Wisteria—”
“What was I doing that was flirting?”
“Oh, you know.” Her mother waved a hand vaguely. “You needn’t be defensive, dear, there’s nothing wrong with—”
“I don’t know, Mother, or I wouldn’t ask.” Wisteria fluttered her fingers, excited, and clasped them together before her mother could comment. “Please, do you remember what, exactly?”
“Gracious, child, just the sorts of things young people say. Like when he said – what was it – that he was better for seeing you? And then you quoted it back to him when he asked how you were. And the two of you bantered about something or other inconsequential. The weather. You know. Flirting.”
“Oh my. Is that what flirting is? I was only trying to be pleasant and show an interest, and perhaps amuse,” Wisteria said. Next to her, Mrs. Lamille coughed politely and tugged at an ornate sleeve. Wisteria dropped her hands to her sides again so they could finish fussing at the dress.
“Dear, what would you think flirting is other than those things?”
Wisteria considered this. “It always sounded more arcane when people talk about it.”
Mrs. Vasilver laughed, and even the seamstresses suppressed smiles. “What strange notions you have, Wisteria.”
“And he was flirting with me?” Wisteria was still marvelling over the whole idea that she could actually do this strange thing and never notice. On the one hand, usually her obliviousness didn’t extend to her own actions, so this was something of a new low. On the other, perhaps flirtation wasn’t as impossible as she thought, if one could engage in it with just words and not significant looks and meaningful gestures. Whatever those were.
“Well, yes. Not that I would ascribe too much to it – some men are terrible flirts and from everything I hear Lord Nikola is one such – but , you know, I do think there’s some potential for you there if you’d just make an effort.”
For the first time, it struck Wisteria that Lord Nikola’s statement of ‘I am not interested in marriage at this time’ did not necessarily mean that, whenever he became interested, it would not be in her. Granted, that was the most likely outcome – at twenty-six, Wisteria was already old for a bride, and why trouble himself to tell her if he did not mean to discourage her? And yet… “I will, Mother,” Wisteria said, surprising a smile out of her parent. Probably not the way you’d want me to. But I’ll try.
At Vasilver Manor on Saturday afternoon, Helen was arranging Wisteria’s hair for Ascension when Byron’s voice yelled through the door to her suite, “Teeri! Thought you said your lordling was broke?!”
Wisteria raised her voice to call in return, “Certainly, you may come in, Byron.” Whatever he wanted to talk about, she wasn’t going to holler it through closed doors.
Her brother stepped through the suite door and then into her dressing room, saying, “Told me…he…was…”
Wisteria stood fully dressed before the mirror stand as Helen tucked jewel-tipped hair pins into the elaborate coif she’d crafted. Wisteria couldn’t move without disturbing the work of her lady’s maid, but she did glance to the mirror to catch her brother’s reflection. His jaw hung open, as if he planned to say more, but no sound emerged. Wisteria took the silence for her cue. “First, if I may presume we are speaking of Lord Nikola: he is neither mine, nor a lordling. Second, I never said Lord Nikola was broke; I described his assets as largely illiquid. That you choose to interpret this statement imprecisely is not a factor within my control. Whatever is the matter, Byron?”
Byron closed his mouth at last, then opened it again, and closed it again. Wisteria had no idea what to make of this performance: Byron was rarely at a loss for words. Helen made a clucking noise Wisteria had learned to interpret as disapproval, and stepped back to make final adjustments to the gown. At length, her brother said, “That’s a beautiful dress.”
“Thank you, Byron, that’s very kind.” Wisteria was surprised; Byron seldom paid any attention to what she wore.
A chambermaid came into the room and stopped behind Byron with a quick curtsey. “Oh miss, sir, oh, you must see the carriage come for you, miss!”
“Of course I will. Lord Nikola is arrived, then?”
“Yes,” said the maid.
At the same time, Byron said, “No. I mean, yes, he’s here, but you have to see this carriage. Now.”
“Why?”
“Just…have a look, will you?”
Helen clucked again, but the older woman had stood back and no longer fussed at her attire, so Wisteria let her brother lead her to a window seat that overlooked the drive. “Oh my.”
“You said he was poor,” Byron repeated.
“Is that made of glass? Whatever keeps it from breaking?” Wisteria asked.
“Abandon me if I know.”
The carriage in Vasilver’s semi-circular drive sparkled in the winter sunlight, a gilt framework holding hundreds of large, faceted, clear panes in place to form the body. The interior appeared to have gilt seats padded in velvet, though the view was distorted by multi-colored refractions from the carriage walls. Even the axles and suspension were picked out in gold leaf. The whole was drawn by two pure white greatcats matched in height, length, and powerful builds. They looked regal and dignified in their gilt harness. Wisteria wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anything more ostentatious outside of a royal wedding, which was quite the statement given the gown she wore. The vehicle was wholly unlike Lord Nikola.
“Can’t tell me that’s a family heirloom. Or part of an entailment,” Byron said, leaning over her to study it with her.
“I don’t believe any of my sources mentioned it, no.” Wisteria rose from the window seat. “Excuse me, brother, but Lord Nikola is waiting on me.”
The first time he went to the Ascension Ball, six years ago now, Nik had been excited. Even the second and third times had held a certain magic. This was his seventh, and by now he was accustomed to the simple truth that the most prestigious gathering of the year was, underneath all the ceremony and pageantry, still only a party. A party for nearly two thousand people, titled or accompanied by an individual with a title: the Ascension Ball was one of the few remaining bastions of rank and every titled individual in Newlant, from royal family down to the poorest Blessed with a courtesy title, was invited. Most of them, Nikola barely knew. As a rule, the best thing about it was that Justin was always there, and the worst thing was that Justin was mobbed by admirers and friends.
Today, Nik was if anything relieved by that last fact, as he still hadn’t figured out how to deal with Justin. “Do whatever he asks of me and hate myself” is not a long-term strategy, he thought wryly, and wondered at what point he would need the Savior to fix the addled mess of his head. Experimentally, he reached for the Savior’s aid. Golden warmth cascaded through him, with a sense of his god’s love, tinged by both sorrow and hope, as if to say Sorry I can’t do this for you, but I’m sure you can handle it on your own, beloved one. It did make him feel better, as long as he didn’t dwell on his angst.
No, the main thing he looked forward to tonight was speaking with Miss Vasilver. It had been over a week and Nik keenly anticipated seeing her again, so much so that he was impatient with the wait in Vasilver’s too-ornate parlor. Instead of sitting in one of the brocade chairs, he paced. He examined the room’s paintings and the curios in the display cabinets, the antemarkavian marble sculptures of elegant stylized figures, without attending to any of them. At least he was spared her parents’ company – the entire household would be readying for Ascension events of their own. When he recognized Miss Vasilver’s footsteps down the hall, he turned in relief to the parlor entranceway. “Good evening, Miss Vasilver,” was on his lips as she appeared, and he managed to get that much out before the rest of his greeting was wiped from his mind.
As Newlant’s foremost annual social event, Ascension Ball attire was an order of magnitude more elaborate than anything one wore in the ordinary course of life. Many of the poorer lords and ladies, those with courtesy titles or impoverished estates, declined the invitation because they could not afford the required standard of dress. Nik’s parents ordered new outfits for this occasion every year, despite the extravagant cost. Nik himself was wearing the same Ascension suit he had worn for the last four balls, because that was the last year he had let his parents bully him into buying a new one. It was in Fireholt’s colors of orange and black, which Nik seldom wore because if he was going to use holding colors he prefered Anverlee’s blue and silver. But in the ornate style of Ascension the former served well, with embroidered orange flames leaping and dancing against a midnight-velvet backdrop on the jacket, the flames accented by dozens of glittering faceted orange garnets. The jacket was cut high in front, revealing an orange waistcoat, but long in back, flaring down to mid-calf, with heavy epaulets dangling gold chains and studded by semi-precious stones. The gold chain of his Blessing, with its onyx pendant that marked him as a healer of minds, draped over one shoulder and across his chest – he never wore it unless required, but at this event it was. Black breeches laced up the sides with gold chain. Even the shoes were ostentatious, gleaming black leather with gold buckles and gemstone studs.
Dress at this event was spectacle, which Nikola knew well. He’d expected Miss Vasilver to be part of it – her taste in clothing had always been appropriate – but he was not prepared for the vision she presented.
Her gown fitted snugly from high collar to just above the knees, where it blossomed in a wide ruffled skirt. The body was white, with a ruffle of translucent orange-red that twined like a flame about the skirt and torso, then fell from one shoulder to trail behind her in a flowing cape. The shoulders were sheer at first, blending into solid sleeves that fell in a long graceful drape from elbow to wrist. The whole sparkled with hundreds if not thousands of tiny jewels, sending pinpricks of light dancing around the room as she moved. Her dark hair had been piled atop her head and pinned with fiery rubies, like sparks caught in her net. The effect was so magnificent it ought to have dwarfed the woman within, overwhelmed her. But Miss Vasilver did not recede: she wore this artwork as if it were any ordinary garment: an accessory serving a worthy purpose, nothing more. The white gown with its fiery accents complimented her pale brown complexion, long snug lines making the most of her tall slender build.
“My lord?” Miss Vasilver said, and Nik realized he’d been staring at her for half a minute, that she’d said something and he had no idea what, that she was ravishingly beautiful, that he was in imminent danger of embarrassing himself further.
He swept her a low bow. “Miss Vasilver. You are – beyond magnificent. Words fail me.” She accepted the compliment with a gracious thanks, betraying neither humility nor vanity. He kissed her hand and offered his arm. They paused to retrieve her wrap and his frock coat before he escorted her to the waiting carriage with a stupefied grin on his face.
Fel Hughbrant, one of his snow-white draycats for the evening, stepped out of the harness to open the carriage door with one paw and a deep bow. Miss Vasilver paused before Nik handed her in. “What is this made of, may I ask, my lord?”
Nik laughed, having wholly forgotten the ridiculous vehicle he’d arrived in. “Do you know, I’m not sure?” He looked to the draycat by the carriage door. “Fel Hughbrant?”
“Steelglass. A new composite created by Blessed, m’lord, m’lady,” the greatcat answered. “It’s very sturdy. Scratch-proof, too.” He raked a casual paw over one of the clear plates, claws leaving the surface unmarked. “The frame’s gold-plated steel.”
“Remarkable.” Miss Vasilver touched one of the smooth panes. “I did not know even the Blessed could make steel transparent.”
“It’s not made with actual steel,” the other greatcat with Hughbrant said, watching them from her place in the traces. “Or glass, for that matter. The manufacturers just thought ‘steelglass’ had a good sound to it. It’s a tailored resin cured by a particular process.”
“Fel Hughbrant, Felis Northholt – Miss Vasilver is my companion this evening. If she needs your assistance with anything when I am not about, please oblige her,” Nik added, as Miss Vasilver nodded to the greatcat’s explanation. “Let me take your wrap, miss – it’s warm inside the box.”
As he followed her into the carriage, Nik tossed his outer coat and her fur-lined cloak onto the seat opposite before settling on the comfortable padded velvet seat beside Miss Vasilver. The edges of the carriage door were padded and sealed snugly when closed; while the day outside was cold and windy, it was almost too warm inside the glass coach. He smiled down at her, still giddy. “It’s not mine, you know,” he felt compelled to confess.
“My lord?”
“This…” He gestured to the gold and crystal surrounding them, sparkling in the late afternoon sun. “…contraption.”
“I am afraid my brother will be disappointed to hear that. He was terribly impressed when he saw it.” Miss Vasilver did not sound impressed herself. “You are borrowing it from a friend, then?”
“From a petitioner, actually. There’s rather a story behind it, if you’re curious.”
“I am, my lord. I’ve never seen anything like it. A transparent carriage?” She tapped one foot against a translucent floor panel, making a faint clinking with the sole of her jeweled slipper. “It seems so impractical.” The underside, which had been almost spotless when it arrived for Nik, was already dusty from the road.
“It does,” Nik agreed. “But for the story – a bit over two years ago now, I treated a greatkitten for developmental issues. Her grandfather, Fel Carthian, owned a carriage service, and he wanted to provide me transportation for life as gift in return. Which of course I couldn’t accept—”
“Why not, my lord?”
“The Code prohibits daily or frequent services,” Nik explained. Miss Vasilver still had her head tilted at him, so he added, “It’s akin to slavery, to accept an ongoing and constant service like that. I know, it’s not the same when he’s paying others to render the service for him, but the Code nonetheless prohibits such a gift. In any case, he amended the offer to ‘occasional services’ and begged me to call on him for removes or events. I decided to ask him that year for a carriage to the Ascension Ball. Which absolutely everyone thought was a terrible idea – even Lord Comfrey made sport of me over it: ‘You’ll attend the grandest event in Newlant in a common delivery coach?’ – but I was in a snit with my parents over some triviality and refused to go with them.”
Wisteria glanced about at the crystal carriage surrounding them. “But I gather you did not travel in a common delivery coach, either?”
“Not at all! Though it was not this contraption. These greatcats, however. Dyed black that year – they’re bleached white this year, Felis Northholt told me. That year was an elegant and cozy two-seater, in black and silver. Fel Carthian told me later that he’d thought to extend his service from delivery and passenger coaches to rentals for special events. My father thought no one would be interested in such thing, because only an undignified fool like me would do something so gauche as to attend Ascension in a rental. So of course I had to do it again the next year.”
“Of course,” Miss Vasilver agreed, deadpan. “One could scarcely do anything else.”
“And Fel Carthian had decided the elegant two-seater was too understated, and sent Felis Northholt and Fel Hughbrant to pull this extraordinarily grand carriage of sky blue, adorned in silver-leaf scrollwork, with concealed wheels so that it appeared to float on a white cloud.”
“Oh, I recall seeing a carriage like that about town. I did not know to whom it belonged.”
Nik inclined his head. “Just so. I understand Fel Carthian’s new division has been doing well since then. And of course this year brought…” He waved one hand and smiled, self-deprecating. “My life is a bizarre mix of absurd extravagances and humbling retrenchments, I’m afraid. I think I am the only person who arrives at Ascension in the same suit but a new carriage every year.”
“That does sound unique.” Miss Vasilver tilted her head at him. “Do you exercise any control over the gifts you receive? You cannot be the only Blessed with this issue.”
“By no means. My staff does nudge petitioners to contribute cash, and many of the gifts that are not, we sell. But.” Nikola watched Gracehaven roll by through the thick glittering panes. “I know many petitioners want to do something unique and special in answer to a healing, in a way that marks cannot be. Sometimes I want to accept a gift for what it is, instead of what I think I need most that day. Does that make sense?”
Miss Vasilver considered for a moment before she replied in her usual grave way, “I believe it does, my lord. Marks don’t remind you of that little greatkitten you helped two years ago, but this carriage ride does, doesn’t it? Of why it’s work worth doing.”
Nikola turned to her again, smiling. “Yes! Exactly so.” His eye was caught anew by the sparkle of jewels in her dark twists of hair, the quiet calm of her face. He laughed suddenly.
Miss Vasilver tilted her head at him. “My lord?”
