His voice dropped so low it was nothing but a growl to me. I made my feet move forward, as silently as I could, praying they did not hear me pass the doors.
Through the glimmer of the bay windows, I could see the white tents of the solstice on the lawn. I watched the servants circulating with platters of drinks, heard the laughter floating amid the night. I caught a glimpse of Sibylle’s green dress as she meandered beside a patron, her beauty warbled by the mullioned windows when she moved. I was almost to the threshold, a threshold scattered with herbs to welcome the new season.
But I didn’t walk through the back doors.
I turned to the right, to the safe shadows of the library.
Gently, as if my bones might break, I sat in the chair in which I had withstood all of Cartier’s lessons. And I thought about what I had just overheard, wishing that I had not stopped to listen.
At Magnalia, there was never supposed to be two ardens of one passion. There was only supposed to be one of each, and now I understood why the Dowager had structured her house this way. We weren’t supposed to compete, but how could we not? The arials were not supposed to favor one over the other, but what if they did?
Should I say something to Ciri?
Should I leave Ciri be?
Should I avoid Cartier?
Should I confront Cartier?
I sat there, letting those four questions pick at my thoughts until I felt the urgency of the night. I could not continue to sit there as a coward.
Rising in a swell of silk, I left the library; I passed through the terrace doors, trembling until I glanced up. The night sky was ruled by a golden sickle moon, welcoming stars and dreams. One of those constellations would soon become mine.
I walked mindfully, my dress swallowing the last of my childhood as it whispered over the grass.
I had prepared years for this one night, I thought, and breathed in the fragrance of summer.
Where had time gone?
There was no answer as I welcomed the solstice.
EIGHT
THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
There were six tents in all—a large one billowed from the center, surrounded by five smaller tents that resembled the white petals on a rose. Every timber beam dripped with ivy; every passageway was crowned with boughs of blushing peonies, creamy hydrangeas, and wreaths of lavender. Silver lanterns bobbed on strings, hovering as fireflies, their candles filling the night with scents of honeysuckle and rosemary.
I came to a stop on the lawn, hesitant, the grass crinkling beneath my slippers until I heard the slow, seductive plucking of Merei’s lute. Her music drew me to the first tent, invited me to part and enter the fluttering white cambric as if I were slipping into a stranger’s bed.
Rugs had been laid down over the grass, divans and chairs arranged to facilitate conversations. But this was wholly for Merei, I soon realized, for her instruments were scattered about—her gleaming harpsichord, her violin, her reed flute all waited their turn to feel her touch. She sat on a cushioned bench, playing her lute for two women and one man. Her three patrons.
I kept to the mouth of the tent, where the night could trickle in and the shadows could hold me. But there, off to the right, was Merei’s mistress, Evelina. The arial of music stood where she could observe quietly, her eyes lined with the silver of tears as she listened to Merei play.
The song was rich and slow; it made me want to shed my heavy dress for a lighter one, to dance in the pastures, to swim in the river, to taste every piece of fruit, drink every stream of moonlight. It made me feel old and young, wise and na?ve, curious and satisfied.
Her music had always been such to me, something that had filled me to overflowing. There had been countless evenings when she had played for me in our room, when I was weary and discouraged, when I felt as if I didn’t belong and would never belong.
Her music was like bread and wine . . . nourishing, emboldening.
I found that I too was wiping tears from my eyes.
My movement must have attracted her gaze. Merei looked up and saw me; her song never faltered, no, rather her song seemed to find a new chorus and she smiled. I hoped that I inspired her as much as she did me.
And so I slipped from her tent to the next, following the ivy and the flowers, feeling as if I were stepping into the honeycomb of a dream.
This tent was also laid with rugs and fitted with chairs and divans. But there were three easels, each displaying a magnificent oil painting. I walked about the edge of the tent, once more keeping to the shadows as I admired Oriana’s masterpieces.
She stood in a dark red dress, her black hair swept off her neck by a net of hammered gold, a patron on each side as she told them about her work. They were talking of oils. . . . What was her recipe for ultramarine, for umber? And I passed quietly into the next tent, smiling as I knew my prediction would come true: the patrons were bound to fight over Oriana.
This third tent was Sibylle’s. There was a table set in the center of the rugs, where Sibylle sat in her emerald taffeta gown, playing a game of cards with her three potential patrons. Her laughter was like the tinkling of a bell as she engaged her guests in nimble conversation.
Wit was the one passion I had, honestly, despised. I was poor at debate, intimidated by speeches, and a lousy conversationalist. Struggling through that year as an arden had made me realize that I preferred quiet spaces and books over a room full of people.
“What are you doing here?”
I turned to look at Mistress Therese, who had snuck up on me as a wraith. And that was the other reason why I had been so miserable as an arden of wit. Therese had never warmed to me as her student.
“You should be in your own tent,” she hissed, snapping out a delicate lace fan. Sweat was pouring down her face, making her muddy blond hair stick to her forehead as if she had been splattered with grease.
I didn’t waste words on her. I didn’t even waste a curtsy.
I moved into the next tent, which was Abree’s. There was a shallow, octagonal stage in the heart of the tent, low-lit lanterns and a ring of smoke that made it seem as if I were in the middle of a cloud. But there was my Abree, her hair red as flame, standing among her three patrons and Master Xavier. I was happy to see her laughing and carrying on, completely at ease, even in so uncomfortable a dress.
But the dramatics were always friendly; their company was lively and fun. If they caught sight of me lurking, they would undoubtedly call me over to their gathering, and I knew I was short on time.
I slipped out to the slender patch of grass between tents, grateful for the night breeze that lifted the hot curtain of my hair. I stood and breathed, my hands pressed to the bodice of my gown, watching the fabric door of the tent ripple with invitation, like foam on a current.