They knew each other, Gavar realized, the back of his neck prickling. Wherever Aunt Euterpe had been all these years, Silyen had been there too.
A few of Mother’s invited guests were openly weeping. There was Lord Thurnby, who’d been a great friend of her parents, elderly now but his face full of wonder that he’d lived long enough to see this. Cecilie Muxloe, a childhood playmate of both girls, was staring at her old friend as if she was a child’s beloved toy, misplaced then retrieved long after it was believed lost.
Euterpe was struggling to sit up, and the Chancellor did rise from his seat, then. He sank into the yielding whiteness of the bed and put both arms around her. Everyone in the room saw the fleeting, electrifying moment when the Skill coursed from him to her, strengthening and reviving. It was the most intimate act there was.
‘I think we’ve all seen quite enough,’ someone said loudly. ‘We should leave them to it.’
It was only when Father turned, his face purpling, that Gavar realized the speaker was him.
Father’s mood had revived by the time of the afternoon meeting. No Skill was required to pep up Lord Whittam, just the prospect of conflict – and victory. All through his childhood, Gavar had thought that fights and arguments just happened around Father. It had taken him this long to realize that the man created them: one face-off after another, after another, because he knew he would win every single time.
He was going to win this one, too.
The study’s glittering windows looked out across the Long Walk. But by ten to four, it was impossible to admire the view because the room was packed with people. All the usual suspects were there. Father’s favoured cronies, Gavar’s soon-to-be wife and humongous father-in-law, their perpetual hanger-on Lord Rix and Bouda’s little clique. All five of those who had been present at Aunt Euterpe’s awakening were there too. Several more besides. Father had been a busy bee.
Gavar rested his backside against the heavy leather-topped desk and made some calculations. By his reckoning, the people gathered here were enough to carry with them the necessary two thirds of parliament.
Father was going to pull it off.
Gavar foreswore the Laphroaig that night – he wanted a clear head for what tomorrow would bring – though he did have a few more lessons for the new heiress. Rowena, wasn’t it? Or Morwenna?
Then all too soon, he awoke to his last day as a free man.
The din in the Long Gallery at breakfast was even louder than before. Equals were in high spirits, talking of an afternoon to be spent horse-riding, shooting or fishing after the Proposal had been quickly quashed. Gavar wondered how long Father’s ‘any other business’ would take.
Father was there at the head of the table, and Mother at the foot. He was magnificent; she was exquisite.
The Jardines – first among Equals.
Gavar kissed his mother’s cheek, nodded acknowledgement to his father, and drew out a chair in the middle of the table. The three of them remained in place until the very last parliamentarian had eaten and departed, some two hours later.
The Third Debate was held in the East Wing, one of Kyneston’s two immense glass flanks built by Cadmus the Pure-in-Heart. The West Wing was domestic. Jenner had filled much of it with an orangery. Mother liked sitting in there to read or do needlework, while Silyen had an array of telescopes assembled. But the East was used solely for social events – chiefly, the annual debate and the Proposal Ball that followed.
And tomorrow’s rather special one-off: the heir’s wedding.
Gavar’s thoughts shied away from the occasion. As he walked in, he was relieved to see that it wasn’t tarted up with flowers and white ribbons already. The slaves had worked for hours erecting tiers of seating to match the configuration within the House of Light. The message was quite clear: this, also, was parliament.
Under the household roof of the Jardines.
The glass chamber was mostly empty as Gavar took his place next to his father’s seat, front and centre, directly opposite the Chancellor’s Chair. The great carved chair was brought to Kyneston each year, though never to Grendelsham or Esterby.
Gavar had heard all the jokes about the Jardines’ favourite seat in the House. What would it feel like to sit here and see Father enthroned in it before him once again? His chest felt tight, as if his waistcoat had become two sizes too small for him overnight.
All around, Equals filed in and took their places. Here came Bouda, his not-so-blushing bride, arm in arm with her father just as she would be tomorrow. Gavar closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.