I told her about Abree’s wounded forehead, an injury she had acquired after tripping off the practice stage during her rehearsal. Instead of calling the physician, Cartier had allowed Ciri and me to stitch our friend’s wound, walking us through the motions as he looked over our shoulders and Abree had remained—amazingly—calm.
“Ah, Ciri has told me the same story,” Monique said, and I felt my face warm. I hadn’t thought to check my story against Ciri’s. “How wonderful, that the two of you could work together to mend your friend.”
Ciri was trying not to stare at me, but she had heard my duplicate story and Monique’s response. The air crackled with tension, and there was only one way I could think to smooth it.
“Yes, indeed, Mistress Monique. But Ciri is far more skilled than I with needles. We compared our stitches afterward, and mine were not as cleanly placed as hers.”
Monique smiled sadly, knowing what I was doing, that I was withdrawing myself from her contention. That she should choose Ciri, and not me.
A shadow tumbled over my skirts as I realized the young bearded patron had come to stand at my side. He was dressed in clean-cut black and silver; he smelled of cardamom and peppermint as he extended a pale, manicured hand to me.
“Might I steal you now?”
“Yes, Master Brice,” I responded, thanking Monique for her time as I let my fingers rest in his, as I let him draw me up from the divan.
I could not remember the last time I had touched the opposite sex.
No, wait, I did remember. The autumn my grandpapa had surrendered me to Magnalia, seven years ago. He had hugged me, kissed my cheek. But since that moment, the only affection I had ever felt had come from my arden-sisters, when we laced fingers or hugged or danced.
I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as Brice continued to hold my hand, leading me over to a quieter corner of the tent where two chairs were arranged in tender candlelight.
I sat and resisted the urge to wipe my palm on my skirts as he brought me a tumbler of cordial. That was when I saw Cartier had finally returned to the tent. He had taken Brice’s abandoned seat and was talking to the red-haired patron, my master appearing at ease as he crossed his legs.
“I hear you are quite the historian,” Brice stated, settling into the chair at my side.
I withdrew my eyes from Cartier and said, “May I ask how you came to know such, Master Brice?”
“Ciri said such of you,” he answered. I tried to guess his age, casting him in his early thirties. He was attractive, his eyes bright and friendly; his voice was polished, as if he had only attended the nicest of schools, ate at the richest of tables, danced with the loveliest of women. “Which, I confess, interests me because I am a historian myself.”
Ciri had called me one. As had Cartier, who had confessed that he aligned himself with this branch, even though he had chosen to teach. Helplessly, my eyes drifted to Cartier again.
He was already looking at me, regarding me with absolutely no expression in his face as I sat in this corner with Brice Mathieu. It was as if I was a stranger to Cartier, until I realized that auburn-haired Nicolas was saying something, and Cartier didn’t hear a word of it.
Brice was saying something to me as well.
I turned back to the patron, my skin soaking in the heat of the night. “Forgive me, Master Brice. I did not hear what you said.”
“Oh.” He blinked. He was not accustomed to being ignored, I could tell. “I asked if you would like to talk of your favorite lineage. I am currently employed by the royal scribes, ensuring their historical records are accurate. And I need an assistant, one who is just as sharp and keen as me, who knows genealogy as the lines on her palm.”
Another partnership.
This interested me. And so I pretended like Cartier was not in that tent, and smiled at Brice Mathieu.
“Of course, Master. I am fond of Edmond Fabre’s lineage.”
So we began to talk of Edmond Fabre and his three sons, who in turn had had three more sons. I was keeping up well, despite the sweat that began to trace down my back, despite the corset that ate all my comfort, despite the way Cartier’s gaze continued to touch me.
But then I misspoke. I didn’t even realize I had said the wrong name until I watched Brice Mathieu frown, as if he had smelled something distasteful.
“Surely you mean Frederique, not Jacques.”
I hung in that moment, trying to reconcile what I had said to what he was saying. “No, Master Brice. I believe it was Jacques.”
“No, no, it was Frederique,” Brice countered. “Jacques was not born until two generations later.”
Had I honestly skipped generations? But, more important, did I honestly care?
My memory went limp, and I chose to laugh, to cover it up. “Of course, I misspoke.” I drained the cordial before I could make a further fool of myself.
I was saved by the entrance of a servant, who announced dinner was now being served in the grand central tent.
I rose on shaky legs, my nerves strung so tight I seriously considered bolting back to the house until the third patron arrived at my side, his lean, great height nearly brushing the wisp of tent.
“Might I escort you to dinner, Brienna?” the auburn-haired master asked. His voice was very soft and delicate, but I was not fooled; there was steel in this one. I recognized it, because Cartier was very similar.
“Yes, Master Nicolas. I would be honored.”
He offered me his arm and I took it, once more feeling hesitant about touching a strange man. But he was older, perhaps the age my father would be. So this touch felt proper, not as dangerous as holding Brice Mathieu’s hand.
We left before the others, heading for the central tent.
There were three round tables, nine chairs per circle, and no seating chart. A dinner intended to let the passions mingle, I thought with renewed dread as Nicolas chose a place for us to sit. I eased into my chair, my gaze roaming the tent as my arden-sisters, their patrons, and their arials wandered in.
The tables were draped with white linens, their centers blossomed with candles and wreaths of roses and glossy leaves. The plates, flatware, and chalices were all spun from the finest silver, set in wait to be touched, gleaming as a dragon’s hoard. Above us, lanterns hung, their panels fashioned from delicately pierced tin, and the light cascaded on us as little stars.
Nicolas did not speak a word to me, not until the rest of our table was filled and introductions had been exchanged. Ciri, naturally, had chosen not to sit at my table. She had drawn Monique with her, and Brice Mathieu had decided to be sociable and sit among the cluster of dramatics. My table was filled by Sibylle (which reassured me as she could keep the conversation flowing), two of her patrons, Mistress Evelina, Mistress Therese (to my dismay), a patron of art, and a patron of music. An odd, mismatched table, I thought as the wine was poured and the first course set down.
“Your master speaks very highly of you, Brienna,” Nicolas said, his voice so muted I could hardly hear him over Sibylle’s chatter.
“Master Cartier has been a very good instructor,” I responded, and realized I had no idea where he was.
My eyes flickered about the other two tables, and found him almost instantly, as if a channel had been forged between us.