Chris laughed around another cake. Between him and Souris, they were very nearly all gone.
“It isn’t as though the minor nobility won’t come calling,” she said. “But it’s rather early for them to show interest without looking desperate.”
“How does a girl from a small country village know all of these things?” I asked. I didn’t think she was lying, but I was curious why she spoke so confidently about a society of which she was not part.
“My parents own the only inn for miles, and people talk when they’re deep in their cups,” she said. “And I’ve been in Trianon for months now – none of this is secret, it’s free for the knowing to those who bother to listen.”
“A well-made point,” I murmured, impressed. “So whose invitation should I accept?”
“Monsieur Bouchard’s,” Sabine said without hesitation. “He’s a banker – not the wealthiest, but he has six daughters. And,” she continued, “it isn’t just a dinner invitation – it’s a party. One that’s been months in the planning. There will be any number of important people there.”
I was only vaguely familiar with banking as a profession, but I had no intention of admitting it. “Done.” Going over to the massive desk, I carefully penned my reply to Monsieur Bouchard and my regrets to the others. “Have these sent off,” I said, handing them to Chris, assuming he would know how that was to be accomplished. “And have them send up something else to eat – I’m famished. And you–” I rounded on Sabine. “I need you to tell me everything you know.”
Forty
Tristan
Our hired hansom cab whisked us swiftly through the lamp-lit streets, the air chill and sparkling with frozen crystals. Chris sat across from me, both of us polished within an inch of our lives and twitching with nerves. Our plan was for me to spend the next several nights immersing myself in Trianon society, and then to begin my pursuit of Cécile. Until then, I wouldn’t see her at all, and I hated that.
“How will I know what I’m supposed to do?” Chris asked for the seventh time. “What if I make a mistake?”
“As long as you don’t say anything you shouldn’t, you’ll be fine,” I replied for the seventh time. “Do whatever all the other men are doing, which is likely nothing that resembles work. Be sociable, but not so much that you draw undue attention to yourself. We’ve gone through our backstory, so all you need to do is stick with that.” The advice was as much for me as it was for him.
“I’m going to make a mistake,” Chris groaned. “Sabine would have been better for this.”
“Indeed she would have,” I said, refraining from mentioning that I’d asked her to do exactly that. “But I’m bound by your peculiar human social conventions in this, so I have to settle for you. People would talk if I showed up with a ladyservant.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chris retorted.
“It means in Trollus, it wouldn’t matter. We don’t have separate rules for men and women. Power and blood are all that matters.”
Chris examined the polish of his boots, mind momentarily taken off his nerves. “What about the oath we take then – that no human man can touch a troll woman. Why isn’t it just that no human can touch a troll?”
“For physiological reasons.”
Chris blinked.
I sighed. “If a human man consorts with a troll woman, he can leave without taking responsibility for the consequences. If a human woman cavorts with a troll man and becomes pregnant, she will be physically incapable of leaving Trollus until the child is born. For the most part, that’s motivation enough for them to turn aside any advances. But frankly,” I said, “it’s not a rule that’s particularly well enforced. Half-bloods have always been a valuable commodity, and a blind eye is often turned to the introduction of new blood.”
“Makes sense.”
“Imagine that.” It was a relief when the carriage ground to a halt. “I think we’re here.”
As the footman approached to open the door, I examined the home we’d stopped in front of. It was a relatively large, square, two-story affair made of brick, the windows bright with a yellow glow that far outshone that of the half moon above. Music trickled out to greet me as I stepped onto the walkway lining the street.
“Monsieur de Montigny?” The footman inquired.
“Yes.” It was strange to be called such.
“Monsieur Bouchard is expecting you.”