Luisa looked up at Vienne; she had clearly recognized her name, and realized that somehow what was going on now was about her. Vienne said something to her softly, and together they came up to Charlon, in the center of the room. Luisa dropped a curtsy, her hair ribbons bobbing.
“Princess,” Charlon said, in very stilted Sarthian, “a gift for you,” and took from the inside of his jacket a thin gold box. He handed it to Luisa, who looked uncertain.
“We had all heard, for instance,” said Charlon, as Luisa fumbled the box open, “that the Princess of Sarthe, Aimada d’Eon, was a skilled dancer. While she is not here, we have been assured by the good Ambassadors from Sarthe that her sister Luisa is just as skilled in every area as she is. In fact, we have been assured, they are as good as interchangeable.”
“Gray hell,” Kel muttered. Luisa had opened the box, and taken out what was inside. Frowning, she unfolded a black lace fan with a gold-lacquered grip.
“I believe your sister has one like it,” Charlon said, not bothering with Sarthian now as he looked down at the girl. “Surely, then, you must know what to do.” He stepped back. “Dance for your Court, Princess.”
“He must be joking,” Lin whispered. “She’s just a girl, and she’s shy—”
“He’s not,” Kel said, grimly, just as the musicians began to play. As the tune rose up, rapid and sweet, the room exploded with the chant: “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Luisa looked around uncertainly. The guests must have appeared a blur to her, Kel thought, of bright coats and dresses, rapid gestures and hungry faces. He could see Antonetta among the crowd; she had her hand over her mouth, as if she were stunned.
Kel looked at Conor. He had not moved, only Kel could see his hand curled against his side, and thought of what he had said in the carriage: If Sarthe insists that Luisa remain in Castellane for all this time, they might as well understand the world she will inhabit, and the people she will know.
Vienne tried to pull Luisa toward her, but Sena Anessa, looking at her across the room, shook her head warningly. Vienne let her arms fall to her sides. Kel could imagine what they were thinking. It was just a dance, and to run forward now to intervene would only underline how much of a child Luisa was, how unsuited to this position and this place. And they were, after all, the ones who had put her here.
Luisa began to dance. It was uncertain, awkward: She turned in a circle, the fan clutched in her hands. She was not following the beat of the music at all, only moving blindly, and in the flicker of the firelight, Kel could see the brightness of tears on her cheeks.
He felt Lin, beside him, tense. A moment later she was stalking across the room, her skirts swirling around her; she pushed through the crowd to where Luisa stood, shaking, and put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice rising over the music. “This is ridiculous. Stop.”
The music stopped instantly. The sudden silence was like a shock of cold water; Lin felt herself suddenly incredibly exposed, the center of a room full of staring strangers. Where was Mayesh? She had been looking for him ever since Charlon Roverge had begun speaking, but she had not seen him among the crowd.
With a squeak, Luisa dropped the fan, pulled away from Lin, and ran over to the side of her guard, Vienne. Good, Lin thought. Let her go where she feels safe. She glanced over at Charlon, who was looking at her with an expression that reminded her of Oren Kandel—the sulky resentfulness of a boy whose game has been spoiled by a girl he had taken little note of before.
At least, Lin saw with relief, Vienne—accompanied by Kel, who was directing her—was hurrying Luisa out of the room. Whatever else happened, the girl would not be tormented further.
A mocking whistle cut through the silence. Lin looked to see dark-eyed Joss Falconet looking at her with amusement. “Charlon,” he said, “it seems the Counselor’s granddaughter thinks she has the right to interfere in the evening’s entertainment. Are you going to stand for that?”
He dropped a wink at Lin, as if to say: It’s all just amusement, just a game, you know.
She did not smile back. Of course he thought games were amusing; people like Falconet were the players of the game, not the pawns on the board.
Charlon looked over at his father, as if for help, but none seemed forthcoming. “No,” he said gruffly. “I . . .” He cleared his throat. “Counselor’s granddaughter,” he said. “You have deprived us of our entertainment this evening. How do you suggest it be replaced?”
Lin suddenly felt close to snapping at him. At everyone in the room. A bunch of terriers, deprived of the rat they were tearing to pieces. “I’ll take her place,” she said. “I’ll do the dance instead.”
A stir among the crowd. She heard someone laugh: Lord Montfaucon, she was nearly sure. She was glad Kel had left the room. He was the only one here likely to have regarded her with sympathy, and she did not think she could stand it.
“Really,” said Roverge, and as he looked at her, she could see the sneer on his face. “What do you know of Sarthian dancing, Ashkari . . . girl?”
“Let her do it.”
The room went still. Prince Conor was still leaning back among the cushions of his divan, as if utterly relaxed. In fact, he looked almost sleepy, his eyes half lidded. Silver and gold dust glittered on his light-brown skin, where the angular bones of his face caught the light.
“Let her do it,” he said, again. “It will be something to amuse us, at least.”
Lin stared at him. In that moment she could see nothing in him of the young man whose wounds she had tended, who had said to her bitterly, Ten thousand crowns. The cost of a Prince, it turns out. I realize I have been a fool; you need not tell me.
His face was blank, a wall; his eyes narrow silver crescents below silvery lids. Beside him, Falconet was looking at her with curiosity, anticipation. The Prince’s face did not show even that.
Charlon shrugged, as if to say, As the Prince requests. He signaled, and the musicians behind the screen began to play. The tune seemed to Lin to have changed: No longer pensive and playful, it was slow and dark, the occasional bright note lancing through like a shaft of light piercing the darkness of an unlit street.
Though perhaps it was only her own jangling nerves, Lin thought, as Charlon, having retrieved Luisa’s dropped fan, presented it to her with an exaggerated bow. He backed away, eyes narrowed. He was not pleased with her, Lin knew. She had spoiled his game.
Now he wanted her to give him another one. They all did. Her only allies—Kel, her grandfather—were not in the room. She could, she supposed, simply run away. Flee House Roverge. It was hardly as if they’d set the dogs on her.
But then they would win. The Hill, the Palace, would win. And she would have managed only a few hours in this rarefied air before being shamed and defeated.
Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)
Cassandra Clare's books
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