And beneath it all were the not-so-distant lapping waves breaking against the docks and the cries of the sun gulls as they squabbled over fish scraps.
It was hard to know where to look. The cobbled streets were crowded. The buildings huddled together as well. Made of wood and brick and solid gray stone rather than the green-veined granite of the palace, they were oddly foreign. Suddenly the large presence of the lieutenant seemed comforting rather than annoying, his arm reassuringly solid beneath hers and the leather and wool smell of his uniform a touch of familiarity as he moved them smoothly through the crowd and across the street to their destination.
Madame de Montesse’s store was larger than Sophie had expected, clean and airy as far as an elderly narrow Portholme building could be. As she took in the rows of jars, bottles, and pouches that lined the shelves, she realized she didn’t recognize what half of them held despite all her years of lessons. Which meant they were used for things other than the earth magic she was being taught. Which could be entirely illegal.
Battle magic didn’t require any supplies and the Arts of Air only a few. Of course, in Illvya, they also practiced the fourth art. Water magic. Magic strictly forbidden here in Anglion, involving as it did, demons and darker things declared forbidden by the goddess. She moved closer to the nearest shelf, intrigued. Was Madame de Montesse truly brave enough to sell such things? Or was it just that Sophie was looking at supplies used for other purposes? Medicines and such. Supplies for seed witches and midwives and the healers without magic. Or earth magic that hadn’t been included in her lessons.
“Lieutenant Mackenzie, what a surprise.”
“Madame de Montesse, your health.”
Sophie turned quickly, just in time to see the lieutenant bow, a gesture as precisely polite as his greeting. The woman he bowed to smiled broadly, her bright green gown, cut even lower than Sophie’s, rustling as she bobbed an answering curtsy.
Sophie didn’t follow the lieutenant’s example. No one was entirely sure of the truth of Chloe de Montesse’s background. She claimed to be a widow, though Sophie had heard rumors that that was merely a fabrication, designed to sway some sympathy in Madame de Montesse’s direction when she had first come to Anglion as a refugee. That seemed more like court gossip and spite than anything else to Sophie. But she was sure of one thing. As a member of the court, she outranked the woman. She wasn’t bowing first.
Madame de Montesse laughed. “So formal, Lieutenant? Such a pity.” Her voice was airy and amused, her Anglish underscored ever so faintly with the accent of her former country. “And who have you brought to my humble establishment?” Her dark eyes flicked briefly to Sophie and then returned to the lieutenant.
“May I present Lady Sophia Kendall?” He made another shallow bow. Sophie moved closer to them out of politeness and, she had to admit, a certain degree of curiosity.
“Ah,” Madame de Montesse said, smiling again as she bobbed another curtsy. “The one we hear so much speculation about.” She laughed and loosed a stream of questions in the liquid syllables of her native Illvyan at the lieutenant.
Sophie returned the curtsy with a version of her own that was even shallower, more interested in following the conversation. But the speed of the exchange was too much for her—far quicker than her Illvyan tutor had ever spoken to her, though the lieutenant seemed to have no difficulty. She made out only a few words. “Flower” and “the game.” The lieutenant’s reply was short, causing Madame to break into another peal of laughter as she spoke again. The word for “prize” was about all Sophie could decipher this time.
Sophie bristled. “I am not a prize, Madame.” She didn’t know exactly how old the Illvyan woman was—her skin was smooth, but she was definitely older than Sophie. Older than the princess, too, perhaps. Near thirty. Maybe more. One also heard rumors of Illvyan women being able to stay young beyond their years.
“You speak Illvyan?” Madame de Montesse asked, looking completely unperturbed that Sophie had understood her.
“Some,” Sophie replied, trying for the same air of unconcern. All Anglion nobles learned Illvyan to some degree. The official reason given was the maintenance of the tightly controlled trade agreements. Privately Sophie thought that it was more a case of knowing one’s enemy.
Illvya’s use of the fourth art meant that they now controlled most of their continent. But the demons the Illvyan wizards summoned couldn’t cross salt water. So Anglion, protected by the ocean that surrounded it, was still free. But no one believed the Illvyans wouldn’t try again to add Anglion to their empire.
“Court ladies. So . . . accomplished.” The nose beneath those amused dark eyes wrinkled despite the seeming compliment, and Sophie felt an unwilling admiration for the woman.
Chloe de Montesse was no Anglion. Though, as an Illvyan refugee, she seemed to follow the rules of her adopted country. The pearls dangling from gold wires threaded through her earlobes testified to that.