Tess’s mind wandered during the ceremony, especially when Lord Jacomo read from the scriptures; she wasn’t sure what kind of student he was, but he’d mastered the “droning monotonously” part. Top marks for that. Maybe he was a natural talent. When he finally finished, the chapel disgorged everyone into the great hall, where servants had set up long tables for feasting and a merry band already played in the gallery.
Later, Tess barely remembered the feast, except that there was wine and that wine came as a relief, extinguishing the fires inside her. As soon as the guests finished eating, an army of servants dismantled the tables and cleared the room for dancing. Tess was a decent dancer, in fact, and her body merrily went through the motions, though her mind was disengaged. The room whirled around; the candles shone. It was pleasant, but she did not like being present.
In her vagary, she nearly ran into Countess Margarethe. “Steady on,” said the countess, hat plumes bobbing, holding her goblet out of range so it wouldn’t drip on her dress. “You’re Tess Dombegh, are you not?”
“Yes, milady,” said Tess, carefully giving full courtesy, pleased to have attracted the unexpected attention of such a highborn and fashionable personage. Countess Margarethe was equal in rank to Count Pesavolta, the ruler of Ninys, so she was practically a princess in Goreddi terms. Considering that Pesavolta had exiled or executed most Ninysh nobles over the rank of baronet, Margarethe was a rare bird indeed.
The plumed hat had obscured the view from above, but now at close range Tess saw that the countess kept her tightly curled hair very short and that it was the color of a copper coin, a shade lighter than her skin. Her gaze was unsettlingly frank and intelligent, and she stood with one foot slightly extended as if to show off her boots, which were highly polished and devastatingly pointy.
“I’m told you’ve studied a bit of natural philosophy,” said the countess incongruously.
“I’m sorry—what?” said Tess, who had not anticipated this line of conversation at all.
“And that you were particularly keen on megafauna,” the countess persisted.
Saying megafauna, though Countess Margarethe could not have known, was tantamount to slapping Tess’s face. Her cheeks grew red as if she’d truly been hit. “What are you getting at?” Tess said shakily.
“I’m mounting an expedition through the Archipelagos and as near the Antarctic as we can manage,” said the countess. “Departing as soon as the spring thaw reaches Mardou and we can sail.”
When Tess did not respond to this information, Margarethe smiled up at her confidentially. “I’m inviting you to come with us, Tess.”
Tess felt a kind of vertigo, as if the floor had been pulled out from under her.
“My uncle’s ship is large,” the countess continued, clearly unaware that the person in front of her was hurtling down a mental hole. “You won’t be in the way. There would be plenty of work you could assist with, to say nothing of new skills to learn—cartography, navigation, languages, zoology. Seraphina says you’re a clever girl, and that—”
“Seraphina made you invite me,” said Tess, apprehending the truth, or leaping to a conclusion, at least.
“She’s not in a position to make me do anything,” said Countess Margarethe, bristling. “But we discussed you, yes. She despairs that you’ve been painted into a corner, left with only two choices in life, governess or nun. That’s nonsense, of course. There are always more options, but sometimes we need a hand up. I’m offering you a place on my ship because I can.”
Seraphina had undoubtedly told the countess why Tess had only two options, laying Tess’s shame out bare, and now the woman pitied her. Sickness and rage rose in Tess’s chest. “I don’t need your charity,” she muttered.
Countess Margarethe scowled deeply. “What charity? I intend to make you work.”
But Tess was hardly listening. She was glaring across the crowded room at Seraphina, seated in a tall chair beside Queen Glisselda, laughing and chatting. The prince consort returned from a refreshment quest with a goblet for the Queen and a tumbler of barley water for Seraphina. The Queen gestured adamantly and Prince Lucian nodded. Seraphina seemed to demur, but that didn’t stop the prince from surreptitiously rubbing her back.
Countess Margarethe swirled the wine in her glass. “Would you like some time to think about it?”
It was going to be hard to say the words as if she meant them, but Tess brought all her stubbornness to bear. She had a duty. She loved her sister. “I can’t go. I want to stay here for Jeanne’s sake. She needs me.”
Countess Margarethe’s scornful expression cut her. “That’s a grand ambition.”
“That’s virtue. And responsibility. Some of us have a strong sense of both, and don’t go gallivanting after every selfish whim,” said Tess, her face livid, her heart breaking.
The countess didn’t say another word. She turned on the heel of her fine boot and stalked off.
Tess had other horrible things to say; she was nearly bursting with them, like a kettle left on the boil with a cork in its spout, ready to scald whoever came too near. At the same time, she was appalled at herself. She should scurry after the countess and apologize—but how could she face it? Anyway, it was Seraphina’s fault for trying to fix the unfixable. She should know better than to meddle.
Tess wandered off in search of more wine and found it easily, found lots of it, found that it doused the fire to embers, dulled the kettle’s shrilling whistle to a low, self-pitying whine.
There was no escaping the party until late. At least it wasn’t the usual Goreddi nightfest; Tess was not going to last all night. This was all done Samsamese-style, in deference to Duchess Elga—the noonday service, followed by feasting and dancing and the happy couple “going upstairs” after sundown (Tess laughed at the euphemism). The party would continue until about midnight, with the showing of the bridal sheets, a barbarous custom to Tess’s mind, but not as barbarous as the Samsamese rite they were omitting, the Breidigswaching.
Jeanne had been so horrified when Duchess Elga had described it—and her fear last night…Tess had been cruel where she should have been sympathetic. She knew that fear. She should apologize. Her shame was running very deep tonight indeed.
Through a fog of alcohol, Tess spotted the hulking form of Richard’s youngest brother at the edge of the dance floor, and he distracted her from her purpose. She chuckled, remembering how Richard had volunteered “Jackie” in absentia for Heinrigh’s Breidigswaching and made a lewd joke about it. It was funny because priests were celibate—or some were. Depended on the order. Tess had half a drunken notion to go up and tell Jacomo the story; he was so priggish that the story would surely horrify him, and that would give her some gross approximation of joy.
Priggish, or piggish? He was lucky to be so tall, so his fat could spread out evenly and pretend to be nothing but soft edges all around.
As she was making her way toward Jacomo, he was joined by Heinrigh, and the two stood conversing with their heads together. Tess was struck by an even more hilarious idea: if Jacomo’s nickname was “Jackie,” what must they call Heinrigh? “Heinie”? It had to be; it was a law of nomenclature. This gave her the giggles, which forced her to slow her steps until she could regain her composure.
She was near enough the brothers to overhear them talking. “Look, I don’t want to dance with her, either, but people will talk if we don’t,” Heinrigh was saying.
“Let them,” drawled Jacomo. “I care not a fig. Anyway, surely I have some kind of priestly exemption.”
“Not yet, you don’t,” said Heinrigh laughingly. “Anyway, priests dance all the time, even in Samsam, so Mother couldn’t fault you—and she could fault a newborn kitten.”
“I didn’t mean exemption from dancing,” said Jacomo, sneering down at his older but shorter brother. “I meant a moral exemption. She’s not a nice girl.”
“She drinks a lot, I noticed,” said Heinrigh, shaking his pumpkin head.