Passion Play (4 page)

The young woman paused. Her gaze dropped to the old woman’s.

And within her grandmother’s thoughts, Therez felt a shock of recognition. I know her.

“Therez!”

Therez jerked her head up. Isolde Zhalina stood in the doorway. Her face was hard to read in the dim light, but her stance was rigid, her voice anxious. Behind her flitted the shadow of a maid—Lisl or Mina. “Therez, what are you doing here?” her mother said. “It’s late.”

Only now did Therez hear the bells ringing—much louder than before. The air in the room had turned chill—the fire had died—and there came to her the scent of cold ashes, overlaid by a stronger, greener scent. An hour had vanished without her knowing it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot about the time. I—”

“Never mind. Dress and come downstairs as soon as you can. I’ll talk to your father.”

Therez brushed a hand over her grandmother’s forehead. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the berry-stained flagstones, the wash of pale sunlight over the walls, which were as white as a snowdrift. Then she was running to her own rooms, stumbling because her legs were cramped and stiff.
Hurry, hurry, hurry. Do not give my father an excuse for anger.

Four maids waited there, along with her mother’s senior maid. As soon as she appeared, Asta called out orders to everyone, including Therez, urging them all through the preparations: The scented bath. The powder applied to Therez’s skin and then dusted off. The layers of clothes, from the stockings and linen undershift to the silken gown that fell in pleats from the high ribboned waist. Therez felt more like a puppet than a girl as she obeyed polite requests to tilt her head this way and that, or to hold perfectly, perfectly still while a maid stitched an errant pearl back onto the lace of Therez’s overgown. Another maid applied perfume and the merest dab of color to her lips. All the while, her veins buzzed with excitement.

Or was that the magic?

“Nearly ready, Mistress Therez. Margrit, I need— Ah, good, you have them.”

Asta plucked a long shimmering ribbon from the hands of a waiting girl. Deftly she wound it through Therez Zhalina’s loosely bound hair, while another maid slid the dancing slippers on Therez’s feet. The air smelled of lightly spiced perfume, of fresh wildflowers, and a cloud of steam lingered from the bathwater. One of the maids hummed softly as she tidied up.

“Another length of ribbon, Margrit. Eva, set out the pearls.”

Asta swiftly fastened the pearls into Therez’s hair. “All ready.”

Therez stood, ready to run downstairs, but Asta stopped her with a gesture. “Stop,” she cried. “Take one look before you go. For good luck.”

Therez paused and blinked at the long mirror. At first she saw only a swath of colors—the silken gown the color of ripe apricots, the pale golden lace of her overgown, her long black hair gathered back with ribbons that matched her gown. Pearls glinted in the lamplight when she moved her head. Only when she blinked again did she see herself clearly. A small slim figure, very much like her mother in that, if nothing else. Everything else belonged to her father—her dark eyes, canted above full cheekbones, the same coppery-brown complexion of the borderlands of Veraene and Károví. She felt the brush of cool air against her cheek, though her rooms were warm and close, and a rippling sensation beneath her skin that excited and unsettled her at the same time. Magic, lingering in her blood.

“You look like a shining jewel, Mistress,” Asta said softly.

I look like a gift, wrapped and tied with decorations.

But she only murmured a thank-you for the compliment and hurried from her rooms. Immediately, she ran into her brother, who took her hand. “What took you so long?” he said. “He’s waiting.”

“Is he angry?” she asked

Ehren hesitated. “Anxious.”

Which meant he was more than angry.

They sped down the stairs and through the public salles. Streamers bedecked the galleries; the woodwork and tiles gleamed from polishing. Paschke and his musicians stood together in a corner, tuning their strings to their song pipes. A singer stood apart, eyes closed, doing her breathing exercises. Therez wished she could stop to speak with Paschke, but her brother beckoned impatiently. She tore herself away, hoping that her father did not blame her mother.

Too late. They arrived at the entry hall to find Petr Zhalina standing close to their mother, delivering a swift intent lecture in undertones. Therez could not hear his words, but she saw her mother’s blank face, the footman with his gaze averted. She hurried forward ahead of Ehren. “Papa, I’m sorry—”

Her father broke off his lecture. He turned abruptly around to face Therez. She shrank back, but he said nothing more than “Thank you for your promptness, Therez.”

He would say more later,
she thought. He always did.

To her relief, the bells began to ring the hour. Ehren went to his father’s side. Therez took her position by her mother. A quick touch of fingertip to fingertip brought a brief smile to her mother’s face. Then the footman was opening the doors to admit their first guest—old Count Hartl, whose mansion stood opposite theirs. Soon after came an official from the silk guild, followed by Klara’s father and mother, along with Klara herself and her several brothers. Klara took Therez’s hands in hers and leaned close to whisper, “I have some news to share. It was just decided today, and my father says—”

“Klara,” said her mother. “Save your gossip for another time, please.”

“Find me later,” Therez whispered back.

Isolde Zhalina led these first arrivals into the salon. Over the next half hour, dozens more arrived, and between the many polite greetings, Therez found she could breathe more easily. It would be a good evening, a successful one. Her father would be pleased. There would be no obstacle to Ehren returning to his studies, or her spending the year in Duenne. No whispered accusations to their mother.

“Baron Mann,” said the footman.

Baron Mann sauntered into the entry hall. “Maester Zhalina,” he said. “Young Ehren.” He turned toward Therez, just as she rose from her curtsy. She had a swift impression of jewels and silks and darkly handsome looks. “Maester Zhalina’s beautiful daughter. Greetings.” He caught hold of her hand and kissed it.

“My lord,” said Petr Zhalina. “We are honored.”

Mann smiled blandly. “Indeed.”

A dry chuckle caught Therez’s attention. A newcomer stood in the doorway, a stocky man of medium height and dark hair, frosted with silver. Therez recognized him immediately—Baron Rudolfus Eckard, once a member of the King’s Council. A cool breeze accompanied the baron’s entrance, penetrating the thin silk layers of her dress. She shivered.

Father must have promised the world to lure this man into our house.

Petr Zhalina bowed. “Baron Eckard.”

Eckard smiled pleasantly. “Maester Zhalina. Thank you for the kind invitation. You’ve rescued an old man from a dreary evening alone.”

“Liar,” Mann said, with evident amusement. “Your house is never empty, Rudolfus. But come, shall we join the others?” He relinquished Therez’s hand and gestured toward the next rooms.

“Gladly.” Eckard turned toward Ehren Zhalina. “Maester Ehren, would you join us in the salon? I hear you spent last year in Duenne. I’d be grateful for any recent news.”

Mann grinned. “He wants a more dignified report than mine.”

Baron Eckard mildly observed that they were blocking the entry hall. He and Mann departed with Ehren Zhalina for the salon, with Mann immediately embarking upon a story about recent court doings. Therez was wondering why an influential baron would ask Ehren’s opinion, when the outer doors opened again, and the footman announced, “Maester Theodr Galt.”

Theodr Galt, the newly elected head of the shipping guild, strode inside. Like Mann, he was dark, but tall and powerfully built, with his long black hair tied into a loose braid, such as the more conservative nobles wore. He wore a suit of wine-red silk, patterned in subtle diamonds. When he moved through the light, the cloth seemed to shimmer and change. He was a rich and influential man, destined to become even richer and more influential with his new position and his approaching marriage. But for all his advantages, Therez thought he appeared dissatisfied as he made his bows to her father.

“Maester Zhalina. How fares your business?”

“Never so good that I could not wish it better. Perhaps we could discuss matters after dinner.”

“Perhaps.”

They exchanged guarded looks, then Petr Zhalina motioned to Therez. “Therez, please escort Maester Galt into the salon. Tell your mother that I shall stay here to greet the last of our guests.”

Galt offered his arm to Therez, who laid her hand on his sleeve. He smiled, and covered her hand with his. As soon as he did, a strange prickling ran up Therez’s arm and down her spine, and she felt a sudden tightness all along her skin. Within came the sensation of a string drawn to its limit, a barely subdued fury. Without thinking, Therez recoiled from his touch.

“Is something amiss?” Galt asked in a cool voice.

“I—” She gulped down a breath. Her pulse was thrumming in her ears, and she caught a whiff of an intense green scent, as though someone had crushed a handful of grass under her nose.
It’s just my imagination,
she told herself. She managed a weak smile to Galt and her father. “My apologies, Maester Galt. Nothing is wrong, just a moment of faintness. Please, let me escort you inside.”

To her relief, the sense of overwhelming tension faded. She escorted Galt through the doors to join the other guests.

The salon was crowded with all of Melnek’s richest and most influential families. Merchants and guild masters, City Council members, and minor nobility. A group of older merchants had gathered in one corner; Therez turned in that direction, thinking Maester Galt would like their company.

“No.”

With a slight pressure of his hand, Galt steered her between the many guests, toward the center of the room. Several younger couples played word links. Near the musicians, she spotted Klara next to her cousin Lev Bartov. Another, older group of men were talking politics. Rumors of war. More troops sent to northern garrisons in Ournes to quash the faction demanding a separation from Veraene. Talk about closing the border in Morauvín and the next province over, even though that would mean a disruption of trade for Melnek and the other big trade cities. So the rumors were true, she thought. And after her father had worked to establish a new liaison with those Károvín merchants.

“What are you thinking?”

“War,” she said.

“An odd subject for a young woman.”

She smiled and felt renewed pressure of his hand over hers.

“Why are you smiling?”

Therez glanced up, then down. His gaze unsettled her. “No reason.”

“No?”

It was going badly. She could think of nothing to say to this man, and she knew she must not displease him. Therez glanced anxiously from side to side, looking for someone Galt might find acceptable. She sighted her brother near the windows, still engaged in conversation with Baron Mann and Baron Eckard. Galt followed the direction of her gaze. An odd expression flickered across his face. “Do you know them? Those men with your brother?”

“We’ve been introduced,” she said cautiously.

He nodded. Taking that as a request to join them, Therez gratefully led him toward the barons and Ehren.

Baron Mann saw them first and greeted Therez with a smile. “Ah, Mistress Therez. You’ve already abandoned me for another. Have you come to make amends?” His eyes brightened with interest when Therez gave Galt’s name, and his smile took on a curious tension, though his manner was utterly polite as he exchanged greetings.

Therez allowed herself a silent sigh of relief. The musicians had not yet begun their next piece, and she could just hear the word-linking game above the general murmur of conversation. Word. Letter. Love letter. Marriage. A predictable sequence, but the players evidently found it amusing. Then she saw Klara emerging from behind the Leffler family. She was heading toward Therez with look of barely suppressed excitement.

Ehren leaned close. “Go and talk with Klara. I’ll take care of our guests.”

She smiled in thanks and hurried toward her friend. Even before they met, Klara was already speaking swiftly. “You will never guess, Therez. Never, never. My father— Wait, let me recover.” She made a show of fanning her face. “So. My news. I am going to Duenne next summer.”

“Duenne? Next summer?”

Klara laughed. “Now you sound like my pet mynah. Yes, Duenne. Yes, next summer. My brother is going to university a year early, to study magical jurisprudence, whatever that might be. Imre explained the terms to me a hundred times, but they still make no sense. Anyway, the important thing is that our beloved father believes the connection will help our business. And because he is going, it was merely a question of convincing my mother, who convinced my father I would learn better manners by accompanying Imre to the capital. Of course I did not disabuse either of them of the notion.”