placed her hand on her heart, and bowed deeply. “And my life for yours.”
“What you ask for shall be given, though we must walk the Road of the Sun to get it.”
Everyone bowed to her now, even the littlest kids. Kaab looked around at them all, her people, old and young, women and men, some outlandishly dressed in Local clothing, but all with faces with the right expressions, skin the right color, eyes that knew her and welcomed her because she belonged to them.
She had to say something in response. But she was all out of words. She had been nearly ninety days at sea, and every day felt suddenly like a year.
“I would like . . .” Ixkaab Balam said. They nodded encouragingly at her, all smiles and welcome. She ought to ask to drink a welcome cup to toast them, or ask for prosperity on the house, or any number of things that meant nothing at all at the moment.
“I would like the longest, hottest, soapiest, scented bath it is within your power to provide.”
The sound of their laughter welcomed her at last.
• • •
All eyes were upon the Duchess Tremontaine as she entered Lady Galing’s drawing room. She was dressed in a marvelous confection of sea foam and lace that made her look like a water nymph, treading the land on little silver shoes, shoes with the smallest of bows and the sweetest curve of the heels. Instead of the elaborate jewelry of the other ladies, she wore a string of small pearls like bubbles of water, and bracelets of fine silver. Individual pearls peeked from her hair, upswept save for the few fair curls that tumbled down her neck, caught by a silver ribbon.
The men who were in attendance this afternoon—younger sons not called to sit in Council, older men who thought that they could skip a day this once—felt that something had changed in the room, that the air they were breathing was suddenly cooler, like wind off the water; the day more like one from childhood in the country, finding a patch of wild mint . . .
The ladies gasped at her splendor and audacity. Some sighed at Diane’s ability to pull off something they could not. Even those who recognized the green dress from its previous incarnation could not but admire the effect. Some smiled at the sheer pleasure of seeing their art so well done.
And some did not.
“She looks like a window shade,” Lady Davenant muttered to her friend Aurelia Halliday.
“She looks like a classical painting,” Aurelia murmured in return.
“Something from the walls of Tremontaine House? I hear they’re strapped for cash again. Maybe it’s an advertisement,” Lady Davenant said wickedly.
“Darling, everyone’s strapped for cash. The harvest was bad or something; my husband explained it to me, but it doesn’t really make sense. Why should a lack of grain mean I can’t have a new carriage? It’s not as though we sell the stuff!”
“But your tenants do. If they don’t make money, how can you?” Lady Aurelia paled. Her friend patted her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as all that. Ask him again.”
“You explain it much better than he does,” Amelia pouted.
“Oh, not about the flour. About the carriage. Wear a low-cut bodice. They can’t resist it.”
“Can you?”
“Darling, it is all I can do not to ravish you before the chocolate is served. But I do require some sustenance. Biscuits and barley water just will not do. I wonder what Clara is waiting for? Afternoon chocolate is a serious affair.”
Clara, Lady Galing, was seated in a carved chair of some magnificence, propped up with many cushions. Her skirts were quilted for more warmth, her head was wrapped in a turban of silk, pinned with an emerald ringed with diamonds, and around her shoulders were scarves in deep tones meant to make her color look less sickly and pallid. Lady Galing was indeed not well—in the less reputable gaming houses, bets were even being placed as to whether she would last out the year—but she took her position as wife to the Crescent Chancellor, head of the Council of Lords, very seriously, and gloried in her chance to be an important hostess whose parties everyone wished to attend. If the ladies had been so vulgar as to bet on another’s health, they would have bet that Lady Galing would drop dead presiding over one of her own musicales.
“My dear!” Lady Galing attempted to rise to greet the duchess. Her two manservants hurried to assist her, but before she could rise, Diane rushed to her hostess in a ripple of silk and took her hand.
“Lady Galing! How well you look! And how kind of you to provide us with delightful entertainment at this most dull season of the year.”
The guests were standing around the room, talking, admiring the view from the tall windows onto the garden, flirting and chatting. It wasn’t much of a view; the last of winter gripped the landscape, and much of the Galings’ fine topiary was still wrapped up in burlap. But watery sunlight broke through the clouds from time to time, and here and there at the bases of statues peeped an impertinent crocus.
“It is the least I can do,” Lady Galing said, twinkling, “when my husband keeps half your husbands locked up in the Council debating whatever urgent matter afflicts his mind today!”
“Indeed!” Diane laughed a musical laugh. “Without you, I don’t know what we would do for amusement.”
“Or for refreshment.” Lord Asper Lindley was suddenly at her side.
Diane assessed him carefully. Lindley was one of those delicate blond men, a spun-sugar confection, whose appeal was obvious. But such men’s beauty did not last. She thought he had very few years left before the delicacy began to sag.
“Ah! Asper!” Lady Galing turned to him with every appearance of delight. “I have been waiting chocolate on you. Now that you are here, we can begin.”
Lindley raised his perfect eyebrows. “You will give me too great an opinion of myself, dear Clara. For the Duchess Tremontaine”—he bowed to Diane—“one waits chocolate. For me”—and he shrugged well-tailored shoulders—“well, all I can say, dear Clara, is that I am deeply honored.”
It was a magnificent performance, thought the duchess, on both their parts. Poor Lady Galing! Asper and Lord Galing were having a spectacular affair—and the astute were aware that, throw as many parties as his lady pleased, the real way to the Crescent Chancellor’s power and good opinion was through Asper Lindley, now. Perhaps that was Lady Galing’s strategy, too?
Or perhaps she was one of those women who thought her dignity and status were best served, when faced with her husband’s infidelities, by behaving as if they did not exist?
Lady Galing clapped her hands; the footmen bowed and hurried out to bring in the chocolate.
As Lady Davenant had said, chocolate was a serious affair. It was usually the first thing to pass anyone’s lips as they lay in their great beds in the morning (or afternoon, if they were recovering from a particularly late-night ball or supper party or gambling or amorous adventure). Some people insisted on making it fresh themselves, but most were happy to be handed a pot of it by their maid or manservant, ready to pour into little china cups just the way they liked it.
But at an afternoon party, no noble would dream of drinking ready-made. Afternoon required the full regalia:
