Standing there, watching people flutter by, George felt a peculiar sense of detachment, as if he were in a dream. The end of spring was an ancient celebration, born in a more violent time, when starvation decimated the population, war was frequent, and human life cheap. The people who’d begun it wore simple clothes and carried savage weapons. They gave thanks to their gods for surviving to summer. Now their descendants floated on, dressed in fine gowns and tailored jackets, aware but unwilling to acknowledge the tradition of blood that gave the festival its roots. But they were still just as brutal as their ancestors. If a threat were to appear, the entire gathering would spark with bursts of lightning as their magic sliced it to pieces.
The George Camarine side of him reminded him of the commonly known facts about each familiar face, while the Mirror agent side served up their secrets. Here came Lady Olla in a beautiful gown of sea-foam green, a white flower in her red hair. She had a penchant for collecting crystal figurines of dragons and a severe addiction to sumah. He knew the names of her suppliers and where they could be found. Lord Ronkor, a former logistics officer and now a transportation supervisor in the Department of the Interior, broad-shouldered, confident, exuded an air of masculine swagger as he took wide strides across the floor. Lord Ronkor enjoyed being spanked by young women and was notoriously quick in bed, according to the prostitutes he frequented. His wife hadn’t noticed—she was carrying on a decade-long affair with her best friend’s sister. Yes, hello, how are you? How’s your cousin, the one working in Kamen Port Authority? Is he still taking bribes? What a delightful scamp.
A small hand rested on his shoulder. “You look distant, my dear.”
He bowed his head slightly. “Apologies, Your Grace.”
The woman next to him frowned with her eyes. Her face remained perfectly pleasant. Her Grace Olivia Camarine wore a gown of deep regal purple. The theme of the festival was nature and rebirth, a celebration of spring, and the hue of her dress precisely matched the clusters of widow’s tear flowers spilling from the planters. Her dark hair was put away into a tasteful arrangement. In her late fifties, she looked twenty years younger, and despite her age and a life that was more than trying, she remained beautiful. She was Declan’s mother, and she had stepped into the role of George’s grandmother as soon as Jack and he arrived in the Edge. That role had been officially chiseled into stone when Declan and Rose formally adopted him and Jack.
“Don’t let them trouble you,” she said.
“They don’t.” He felt a rush of gratitude. Many of the people gathered here would never let him forget that he came from the Edge. Very few of them dared to recall that Her Grace’s mother was an Edge rat just like him. She was above reproach by virtue of her position and success, but he was still a fair target. “I know their secrets.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Gloating?”
“Only a little.”
“See that it doesn’t go to your head.”
He bent toward her and smiled. “Too late.”
“George, you are a terrible scoundrel.”
“Lady Virai wouldn’t have me otherwise.”
“That is, sadly, true.”
The fact that his direct supervisor and the woman in charge of the Mirror was Her Grace’s best friend occasionally made his life complicated, but he’d learned to deal with it.
Lady Olivia’s dark eyes sparked. “Shall we start our little game?”
“As you wish.”
Her Grace slipped the bracelet off and slid it onto her right wrist. Immediately, the current of the crowd changed. Small eddies formed as the nearest lords and ladies found graceful ways to disengage from their conversations in favor of greeting the Duchess of the Southern Provinces.
Lady Olivia hid her amusement in a placid half smile. He hadn’t been present when she met Charlotte, but since then he’d had plenty of chances to observe the two of them. Lady Olivia had liked Charlotte instantly. It was very clear that they were two birds of a feather—neither was born into a blueblood line and both had attained the pinnacle of social achievement. They were astute, adept, and intelligent, and listening to them he had felt slightly out of his depth.
People approached. He uttered pleasantries, making them sound as if he meant them. About ten minutes later, with the crowd at its peak, Lady Olivia turned to him.
“George, have you seen her yet?”
“No, my lady.” He could see the question form on the faces around them.
“She did say she intended to attend?”
“Yes, my lady. You made it very clear to her that she would suffer your wrath otherwise.”
Lady Olivia heaved a martyred sigh. “I’m really not that frightening.”
Nobody laughed. History was a required subject for anyone hoping to achieve any significant position in Adrianglia, and every person within earshot knew about the massacre that ended the Ten Day War between the Dukedom of Louisiana and Adrianglia and who was responsible for it.
“Do check on her for me,” Her Grace prompted.
George bowed his head. A falcon shot upward from its post on the nearest column and streaked away, in the direction of front gate. He concentrated, looking through the bird’s eyes at the string of phaetons. There, latest model, delicate ornamentation, Sophie’s face in the window.
He left the bird soaring. “Your Grace, they are about to arrive. Ten minutes at most.”
“Delightful. Thank you, my boy.”
He slid back into his affectation of boredom, surveying the faces, noting the minute details, as people pulled on polite masks, frantically trying to figure out who was the subject of their conversation. A tall, dark-haired man paused on the periphery of the gathering. Lord Casside. A member of the Five. It didn’t seem like his type of affair. He must’ve gotten a personal invitation from someone he couldn’t ignore . . .
George caught himself. Not Casside. Richard.