This was mine and Ciri’s tent; this was where I should have been an hour ago.
And if I bent just a little bit, defying my corset, I could see into the tent, see the rugs laid on the ground and the foot of one of the patrons . . . a spit-polished boot . . . and I could hear the low hum of conversation. Ciri was speaking, saying something about the weather. . . .
“You are late.”
Cartier’s voice made me startle. I straightened and whirled about to find him standing behind me on the grass, his arms crossed.
“The night is still young,” I responded, but a traitorous blush nipped my cheeks. “And you should know better than to startle me like that.”
I resumed my clandestine observation, hesitant to part the linen and enter. It was even worse now that he was here, witnessing my qualm.
“Where have you been?” Cartier stepped closer to me; I felt his leg brush my skirts. “I was beginning to think you had called a coach and fled.”
I gave him a wry smile, although the thought of fleeing was horribly tempting at that moment. “Honestly, Master . . .”
I was going to say more, but the words faded when my eyes caught on his clothes. I had never seen him dressed so elegantly. He wore knee-high boots, velvet breeches, a black doublet studded with fancy buckles and silver-stitched trim. His sleeves were long and loose and white, his hair slicked back in his usual queue, his face freshly shaven and golden in the lantern light. His passion cloak faithfully guarded his back, a captive piece of blue sky.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you have never seen me wear proper clothes.”
I snorted, like he was being ridiculous. But thankfully, a server passed by right at that moment, bearing a tray of cordial. I reached for one, a blessed distraction, holding the glass tumbler with a tremor in my fingers, and took a gulp, then another.
Maybe it was the cordial, or maybe it was the dress, or the fact that he was standing far too close to me. But I met his gaze, the glass rim brushing my lip, and murmured, “You don’t have to hold my hand all evening.”
His eyes darkened at my words. “I am not planning to hold your hand, Brienna,” he said tartly. “And you know what I think of eavesdropping.”
“Yes, I know very well,” I responded with a lilt of a smile. “What will it be tonight? The hangman’s noose, or the stocks for two days?”
“I will mercifully pardon you tonight,” Cartier said and took the tumbler from my fingers. “And let’s do away with cordial for now, until you have eaten.”
“That is fine. I shall get another,” I stated as my hands rushed down my dress, wiping the perspiration away. It was a warm evening; I could feel every bit of underclothing swelter against my skin. “Why did you have to pick such a heavy dress?”
He drank the remainder of my cordial before responding. “All I chose was the color. And your flowers . . . and that your hair remain down.”
I decided not to answer, and my pause provoked him to look at me. I felt his blue gaze touch the crown of my head, my flowers, then along my jaw, down my neck to my aching waist. I imagined he thought me beautiful and then reprimanded myself for entertaining such an absurd fancy.
“Now then,” Cartier said, his eyes returning to mine. “Are you going to stand out here with me all night, or find yourself a patron?”
I glared at him before I finally mustered the courage to step into the tent, leaving him behind to the night.
I felt four sets of eyes rest on me and my sudden entrance. There was Ciri, sitting in a navy gown, her hair curled into ringlets with a wreath of red flowers crowning her head, her cheeks romantically flushed from her high spirits. Beside her sat a woman, dark-skinned and handsomely middle-aged, dressed in a splendid array of yellow silk. And opposite them sat two men in chairs, cordial sparkling in their hands. One was older, his auburn hair streaked through with silver, his nose and chin pointedly sharp as if he had been chiseled from pale marble. The other was younger, with a dark beard, ruddy skin, and jaunty posture.
Ciri rose to greet me. “Brienna, let me introduce you to our guests. This is Mistress Monique Lavoie.” The woman in yellow smiled. “And then we have Master Brice Mathieu.” The haughty bearded man stood and raised his cordial with a half bow. “And Master Nicolas Babineaux.” The stoic, auburn-haired man also stood with a curt bow. All three of the patrons had blue cloaks fastened at their collars; all three of them were passions of knowledge.
“A pleasure,” I said, giving them my deepest curtsy. Despite Ciri’s seamless introductions, I felt like my bones had come out of their sockets, that I was an imposter in this silk gown.
“Perhaps I might steal you first,” Monique Lavoie said to me.
“Of course,” Ciri responded, but I saw the reservation in her eyes as she stepped away so I could take her place on the divan. This was the patron she wanted. And so I decided that I would tread gently.
I sat beside Monique as Ciri stood between the two masters, engaging them in a conversation that had them both chuckling.
“So, Brienna,” Monique began, and I let all other noise fade to the background. “Tell me about yourself.”
I had several points of introductory conversation prepared. One was my dual citizenship, one was learning beneath Master Cartier, one was the splendor of Magnalia. I decided to choose the first thread.
“I am an arden of knowledge, Mistress. My father is Maevan, my mother Valenian. I was raised in Colbert’s orphanage until I was brought here my tenth summer. . . .” And so my words flowed, short and pinched as if I could not draw a proper breath. But she was kind, her eyes interested in all that I said, encouraging me to tell her more of my lessons, of Magnalia, of my favorite branch of knowledge.
Finally, after what felt like days of me rambling about myself, she opened up.
“I am a physician on the island of Bascune,” Monique said, accepting a fresh glass of cordial from a server. “I grew up on the island, but I passioned when I was eighteen and became an assistant to a physician. I have had my own infirmary and apothecary for ten years now, and I am seeking to gain a new aide.”
So she belonged to the physician branch of knowledge, and she was seeking a passion to assist her. She was offering a partnership. And no sooner did I let her offer tempt me than I felt Ciri’s concerned gaze drift to us.
“Perhaps I should ask you first how you respond to blood,” Monique said, sipping her cordial with a smile. “For I see it quite often.”
“Blood does not affect me, thankfully,” I responded, and here was my chance to integrate my story, as Cartier had told me to do.