so kindly showed her how to paint her lips and eyes in the newest way, and even sold to Malta some of her own powders and skin paints. The woman could not have been kinder. ‘To have it exactly as I dreamed of is well worth every coin,’ Malta told her, and gladly gave over to her the pouch of gold that her father had provided. That had been but two days before the Harvest Ball.
It had been a feat both of nerve and creativity to smuggle the paper-wrapped gown home and successfully conceal it not only from Mama but from Nana, too. That old woman didn’t have enough to do any more. Now that Selden was old enough for tutors and didn’t need watching every minute, Nana seemed to be constantly spying on Malta. All of the ‘tidying’ she did in Malta’s chambers was no more than an excuse for going through her things. Nana was constantly asking her questions that were none of the old servant’s business. ‘Where did you get that scent? Does your mother know that you wore those earrings into town?’
In the end the solution had been simple. She directed Rache to store the wrapped gown, jewellery and slippers in her own quarters. Her grandmother had recently granted Rache a whole cottage to herself, one that gave onto the pond garden. She did not know what Rache had done to deserve this private space, but Malta found it useful that she had. No one thought anything of her spending time with Rache. After all, was not the slave woman teaching her dance-steps and body-carriage and etiquette? It was only too funny, of course, that a slave should know such things. Delo and Malta giggled about it often in the brief times they had together. Delo, of course, now thought that she was too old and womanly to be spending time with a mere girl like Malta. Well, that would change as soon as Malta presented herself at the Harvest Offering Ball.
Rache had also been the one to assist her with her dressing on the night of the Ball. Malta had not informed her ahead of time. That would have given the slave woman too much time to ponder things and then run and tattle to her grandmother or mother. Instead she had simply gone down to Rache’s cottage and asked her for the package. She had told Rache to help her dress, and the woman had complied, an odd smile on her face. Malta could see now the complete usefulness of an obedient slave. When she was fastened into the gown, she sat down before Rache’s own small mirror to don her jewellery a piece at a time, and then to carefully paint her lips and eyes. As the seamstress had shown her, she traced the outer edges of her ears and ear-lobes in the same colour as her eyelids. The effect was both exotic and alluring. The slave woman seemed completely amazed at what she was doing. She was probably astonished that Malta had such womanly skills as these.
When the shimshay that Malta had arranged earlier arrived at her door, Rache seemed only mildly alarmed. And where was her young lady off to? An evening at Kitten Shuyev’s house, Malta told her. Kitten’s mother and father had arranged a puppeteer to come and amuse her and her younger brother while they went to the Harvest Ball. It was well known that Kitten’s ankle was still quite painful since her pony had thrown her. Malta was going to go over and cheer her up. As they both had to miss the Harvest Ball, they might as well do it together.
Malta had had complete confidence in her own casual lies. Rache had been taken in completely, nodding and smiling and saying that she did not doubt at all that Kitten would be well amused. The only discomfort was the dark winter cloak that Malta had to wear over her gown on the way to the Ball. It did not go with such a fine dress. But it would not do to have dust from the street soil her dress, nor did she wish to have anyone see her before she made her entrance into the gathering. A shimshay was not exactly the traditional way to arrive at the Ball. Everyone else would be taking their carriages there, or riding their flashiest mounts. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Her flashiest mount was the fat pony that she and Selden shared. She had begged in vain for a horse of her own. As usual, her mother had said no, that if she wanted to take the time to learn to ride properly, she could learn on her mother’s own mare. Her mother’s mare was older than Malta. Even if she had wanted to use the nag, there would be no getting a riding horse out of the stables at this hour without her mother hearing of it. Besides. Given the fluttering nature of her skirts, she did not think horseback would be seemly.
But despite it all, despite the heavy winter cloak that misted her face with perspiration on this mild night, despite the rude little song the shimshay driver seemed to think was humorous, despite the fact that she knew her mother was going to be furious afterwards, it was all terribly exciting. ‘I’m doing it. I’m really doing it,’ she breathed to herself over and over. It gave her a heady sense of power to have finally stepped forward and taken control of her own life. She did not realize how tired she had grown of staying home and being her mother’s child. Her mother was so staid and matronly and settled. She never did anything that people did not expect of her. For the last year, while Grandfather was dying, the house had been the most boring place on earth. Not that it had ever been exciting. Not like other people’s homes. Other Trader families held gatherings at their homes, and not just of Trader folk. Some welcomed the newcomers and their families. The Beckerts once had a whole evening of fun with a troupe of jugglers that some newcomer family had hired. Polia Beckert had told her all about it the next day, how the young boys in the troupe had worn little more than a wrap of cloth about their loins, and how they had juggled fire and knives and glass balls. There was never anything like that in the Vestrit home. Grandmother used to have some of the old lady Traders over, but all they did was sit in a room and embroider together and sip wine and talk of how much better everything used to be. But even they had not come for a long time. When Grandfather’s illness became severe, Grandmother stopped inviting anyone over to the house. All had been quiet and dullness and dimmed rooms for almost a year. Mother even stopped playing her harp in the evenings — not that Malta had missed it. Whenever Mama played, she tried to teach Malta the notes as well. Sitting about plucking harpstrings was not Malta’s idea of an interesting evening.
‘Stop here!’ she hissed at the shimshay driver, and then louder, ‘No. Here. Stop here! I’ll walk up to the door. I said, I’ll walk, you idiot!’
He was nearly in the circle of light that the torches threw off before he stopped. And he had the effrontery to laugh at her anger. She gave him exactly what she owed him for the trip and not a penny more. Let him laugh about that. He avenged himself by not presenting her his hand to dismount. Well, she didn’t need his hand, she was young and lively, not some crippled up old woman. She stepped a little bit on the hem of her gown as she clambered down, but she did not stumble or tear it. ‘Come back for me at midnight,’ she commanded him imperiously. That was an early end to Harvest Ball, but, little as she cared to admit it, she did not wish to push her mother too far. Too far, and Grandmother’s authority might be angered as well. Besides, the presentation was always done shortly after midnight, and Malta had never cared for that part of the Harvest Ball. It was simply too creepy. One year, when Malta was only seven, the representative from the Rain Wilds had unmasked for the presentation. Malta had been dumbfounded at his body. It was as if a child had begun as a human, but in growing had somehow outgrown the human body, putting out odd bones, unusual height, flesh that might have pouched organs unknown to a human’s body. She had been in awe when her grandfather touched hands with him and called him ‘brother’. Her grandfather had put their family’s presentation into the Rain Wild man’s hands himself. For many nights afterwards, when the image of the Rain Wilder had given her nightmares, she had taken comfort in knowing how brave her grandfather was. She need fear no such monsters. Still: ‘Midnight sharp,’ she repeated.
The driver looked down meaningfully at the few coins in his hand. ‘Oh, without doubt, young mistress,’ he said sarcastically. He started his horse and as the nag’s hoofbeats faded into the night, Malta had a moment’s uneasiness. What if he did not return? She could not imagine walking all the way home in the dark, least of all in a long gown and soft slippers. Resolutely she pushed the thought away. Nothing, she would let nothing stand between her and her enjoyment of this night.
Carriages were pulling up to the Traders’ Concourse. Malta had been here before, many times, but tonight the hall seemed larger and more imposing. The glows of the torches made the marble shine with an almost amber tone. From each carriage Traders were alighting, in couples
