She couldn’t shatter. Too many people depended on her, Sophie, Richard, Tulip . . . Speaking of Sophie, where had she gone?
Charlotte turned and saw a group of young people, all on the cusp of adulthood, surrounding a blueblood in a dark green doublet. He was tall, blond, and strikingly beautiful. He was telling some sort of story, and his face wore the comfortable expression of a practiced speaker. His audience hung on his every word.
Charlotte drifted closer, analyzing his gestures. Not just blood, old blood. Not Adrianglian, definitely a Louisianan bend—he’d raised his hand in an elegant gesture, palm up, index finger almost parallel to the floor, three others bent slightly—a clear tell. Louisianan court etiquette dictated that when the Emperor was present, the nobles carried a token, a small silver coin engraved with his likeness, worn on a chain wound around the fingers. The gesture was designed to display the coin and was so ingrained in the manners of the older families, they made it unconsciously when they presented a point during an argument or acknowledged someone’s else’s point.
She’d drifted close enough to hear him.
“. . . After all, as Ferrah states, excelling in the service of the multitude is the highest calling. The ego can attain its pinnacle only when laboring for the greater good of the majority.”
There were nods and sounds of agreement. He really had them entranced.
“But doesn’t Ferrah also say that compromising one’s ethics is the ultimate betrayal of self,” Sophie’s voice sounded from the back. The group of young people parted, and Charlotte saw her. “And since he defines ethics as the ultimate expression of individuality, his arguments are contradictory and suspect.”
The blueblood looked at her with genuine interest. “The contradiction is present at first glance, yet it disappears if one assumes the moral code of the individual is aligned with the goals of the multitude.”
“But does not the multitude consist of individuals with wildly conflicting moral codes?”
“It does.” The blueblood smiled, clearly enjoying the argument. “But the attitudes of the multitude are aimed at self-preservation; therefore, we have the emergence of common laws: don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal. It is that commonality that prompted Ferrah to embark on the examination of multitude and self.”
Sophie frowned. “I was under the impression that Ferrah embarked on the examination of multitude and self because he desired his sister sexually and was upset that society wouldn’t permit him to marry her?”
The young people gasped. The noble laughed. “Whose treasure are you, child?”
“Mine,” Charlotte said.
The noble turned to her and executed a flawless bow. “My lady, my highest compliments. It is rare to see a well-read child in this day and age. May I have the pleasure of your name?”
“Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran.”
The noble straightened. “An ancient name, my lady. I’m Sebastian Lafayette, Comte de Belidor. And this is?”
“Sophie.”
The noble smiled at Sophie. “We must speak more, Sophie.”
Sophie curtsied with perfect grace. “You honor me, my lord.”
“I hope she didn’t upset you, Lord Belidor,” Charlotte said.
The noble turned to her. “Sebastian, please. On the contrary. I often become frustrated at the lack of mettle among the younger generation. It seems that we had . . . not a better education, per se, but perhaps more incentive to use it. They learn, but they hardly think.”
Behind Sebastian, Sophie mouthed something silently.
A woman in the dark blue uniform of the castle staff approached them and bowed, holding a small card out to Charlotte. “Lady de Ney al-te Ran.”
“Excuse me,” Charlotte smiled at Sebastian and took the card. “Thank you.”
On the card beautiful calligraphy letters said, “His Highness Lord Robert Brennan cordially requests the pleasure of your company for the Rioga Dance.”
Charlotte blinked. The Rioga Dance was an old tradition. The floor was cleared, and a single pair—one of whom was of royal blood but never the reigning monarch—danced alone. It was the official start of the ball, and a privilege most women here would kill for, quite literally.
“It’s seems I’m to dance the Rioga,” she said.
“Congratulations.” Sebastian bowed his head. “What an honor.”
Before he straightened, Sophie mouthed something again. What was she trying to say?
“Give way to the Grand Thane!” the crier barked.
Charlotte curtsied. As one, the nobles around her bowed.
A procession spilled out of the doors, led by the Grand Thane, a huge bear of a man, his mane of hair completely silver. The Marchesa of Louisiana, his future bride, who walked next to him, seemed tiny in comparison. She was only five years younger, but she moved with the grace of a much younger woman. Her dress, a shimmering gown of pale cream sparked with tiny lights, as if studded with stars.
Behind them, the immediate members of both families strode side by side. Charlotte glimpsed Brennan directly behind the Grand Thane. He looked positively splendid in a formfitting jacket, its red tone so dark, it was almost black. You terrible bloody bastard.
The procession swept through the gathering. The Grand Thane led the Marchesa to a pair of thronelike chairs. She sat.
The women in the audience rose, Charlotte with them. The Grand Thane took his seat, and the men rose as well.
Brennan stepped forward.
“It’s time, my lady,” the woman who had delivered her invitation said.
Sophie was smiling. There was something deeply disturbing about her smile.
In the circle, Brennan nodded to Charlotte.
“My lady, it’s time,” the woman prompted again.
Sophie’s lips moved again.
Spider.
Sebastian was Spider. Dawn Mother. I am leaving Sophie standing next to Spider.
The opening notes of the Rioga floated on the breeze. Charlotte had no time to stop. All she could do was step forward.