Dimity herself was milling around in a white dress with royal-blue trim. It was cut on elegant lines and not overly fluffy, making the most of her figure rather than trying to emphasize what she didn’t have. She had ribbon rosettes of blue and white in her honey-colored hair, which was dressed fashionably but without fuss. She wore one expensive-looking diamond bangle and no other jewelry at all. The diamonds were fake, of course, but you’d never know without close inspection.
Preshea was wearing a lovely black gown with gray lace ruffles and wine trim. It was more modern and stylish than Sophronia could afford, but certainly to her taste. Preshea had fashioned a dog-shaped reticule, which she wore slung crosswise across her body. She was chatting companionably with one of the teachers. Am I really such a goody-goody, as well as a flirt? wondered Sophronia. Or is Preshea mocking me?
Bumbersnoot, the real Bumbersnoot, was slouching about the cloakroom. Knowing her little dog mechanimal was a dead giveaway that she was not obeying the identity shift protocols, Sophronia had smuggled him in under Agatha’s fur cape. She certainly wasn’t going to loan him to Preshea, of all people!
Agatha twirled past in the arms of some handsome young buck.
Sophronia was pleased. “I think she’s doing very well.”
Pillover subsided into glumness, slouching forward and putting his elbows onto his knees and his chin into his hands. It was a shockingly lower-class way to sit, as though he were in a public park, or worse, the House of Commons.
“Go cut in,” suggested Sophronia quietly. It was a non-Agatha suggestion, so she did her best to deliver it in an Agatha tone.
Pillover didn’t move. “I never,” he objected to the floor.
“You must act as if Agatha is your sister, or you won’t get anywhere.”
“That is a disgusting suggestion.”
Sophronia sighed. “No, I mean, treat her as you would a young lady of your sister’s type.”
“Dimity is a type? You mean, there may be others?” Pillover was horrified out of his moroseness.
“Do shove off, Pillover. How can I be a proper shrinking olive tree with you here? Shrinking olives are solitary creatures. Oh, and don’t forget,” she hissed, “we have to throw each other over at some point. I can’t afford to stay indefinitely engaged to you.”
Pillover looked a mite less glum at the prospect of a broken engagement. Accordingly, he stood and mooched away. He could be a bit of a wet blanket, but one had to admire a boy who followed instructions.
Sophronia continued to sit, watching her classmates employ each other’s personalities as weapons against the young men around them. It was almost pretty.
Dimity was twirled to a stop by a tall young man with unfortunate ears who looked most interested in further twirls. Dimity delivered what was clearly a barb about some other girl, and the young man laughed appreciatively. Dimity looked upset with herself, but soldiered gamely on into Preshea’s sour temper.
The tall boy was not alone, for as soon as she sat, Dimity was surrounded by interested parties. Sophronia was willing to wager her friend’s dance card was full. Dimity sent various admirers off in pursuit of nibbles and punch, much as Preshea would have, leaving herself accompanied by only the two most persistent. Through the cleared masses, Sophronia caught her eye.
Dimity gave the chin-tap fan signal of important information to impart.
Sophronia flicked open her own fan. It was her filigree bladed one, safely capped for the evening with a leather guard, and delicate enough to pass for a normal fan.
What? she fluttered at Dimity.
Dimity flicked hers open and gave the swirl and dip for enemy among us. Then she tilted her head, as if flirting with a pale-haired boy to her left, but really pointing Sophronia’s attention to that side of the room.
A woman had entered the ballroom. Her hair was dressed in the high curls of maturity that Geraldine’s girls were permitted to practice but not wear in public, so she was no student. She faced away from Sophronia, talking to Lady Linette. Even from the back, Sophronia’s training told her many things. The woman’s bearing marked her as an aristocrat, or at least trained to the correct posture to pass as one. Her hair was naturally blonde, and her dress was certainly Parisian—snow white with rose-pink ruffles, and silk roses sewn into the drapes of the overskirt and clustered at the puff of the daringly short sleeves. A coronet of roses, real, not silk, which meant hothouse, perched atop her hair, an amazing expense for a provincial school ball. Instead of a necklace, the stranger wore a lace ruff tied about her neck, likely to disguise the fact that she had vampire bite marks.
Sophronia knew who it was before she turned.
Monique de Pelouse.
INVASIONS AT A BALL