"So was it wonderful?"
Imogene looked over at Chloe Matin, who was currently bouncing on Imogene's bed in a manner which would make Imogene's mama, should she walk into the room right now, tell them both they were acting like children. It was always strange to return to her parents’ home after the freedom of a mission. Being back under their roof, in the same bed she'd slept in since childhood, gave her an odd sense of being caught between her past and her future. Though Chloe, her best friend for many years, was always welcome wherever Imogene was.
"Stop bouncing and I might tell you. Better still, start passing me things out of that trunk." She waved her hand at the battered wood and iron trunk near the bed.
On Chloe's arrival, Imogen had shooed Dina, the Carvelles’ maid, away, preferring to talk in private. Dina had obeyed after removing all the clothes that required washing—which, after the long journey home, was most of the contents of the trunk. But some had survived Dina's inspection and deemed clean. Which left Imogene with the task of rehanging them and unpacking the other bits and pieces she had taken with her.
Chloe slithered off the bed, kneeling beside the trunk and peering into it to see what remained. "Well?"
Imogene shoved aside two silk ball gowns that were distinctly not the type of clothes she preferred—and she was dreading her mother's explanation as to why they had appeared in her wardrobe—and tucked her sole clean uniform jacket into place before turning back to Chloe, who promptly handed her a pair of boots.
"It was...intriguing. And exhausting. Fascinating. And nerve-racking." She grinned at Chloe. "I can't wait to do it all over again." She bent to put the boots away. When she straightened, Chloe's expression had turned gloomy.
"So you're definitely going to ask for another assignment, then?" Chloe asked.
Imogene hesitated. Chloe, a year younger than Imogene, wanted to join the Imperial Corps, too. But her mother had fallen ill not long after Chloe turned twenty-one and manifested her magic, and Chloe had temporarily given up her plans to help her family out. "Temporarily" had stretched to several years already. Chloe had completed her studies—her father was the Maistre of the Academe di Sages, after all—but spent all the time she could running the Matin household and looking after her younger brother and sister.
"How is your mama?" Imogene asked gently. They'd written to each other while she had been away, but Chloe had kept her letters relentlessly positive and gossipy, so Imogene didn't know what the actual situation might be.
Chloe's smile was a little too cheerful. "She continues to improve. We are hopeful she will be fully well again within the year."
In other words, Chloe would not be joining up this year either. And might not like Imogene's response. But Imogene wasn't about to start lying to her best friend.
"I am planning to ask for another assignment. I don't think I'll be in town very long." Too long and her mother would start getting ideas. The Carvelles weren't part of the level of society that partook in the palace's season of balls and entertainments that were prime matchmaking territory for the Illvyan nobility, but there were similar events amongst the families of the well-off merchants and such. Her mother had, no doubt, already made a list in triplicate of potential suitors, as she had every year since Imogene turned twenty-one. There was no other explanation for the new ball gowns.
"So we must spend time together while we can," she continued, reaching for Chloe's hand, squeezing it.
Chloe looked away. Then she lifted her chin, another of those too-bright smiles stretched across her face. "Speaking of which, Father has an invitation to the imperial ball this week. Mother cannot attend, so he asked permission to bring me. And a friend. Will you come?"
To a palace ball? Her mother would go into a frenzy. "It's not really—"
"Oh don't be boring. It will be fun," Chloe said. "In fact, it's the perfect way to outwit your mother. None of the aristocratic bachelors will be looking for anything serious with the likes of us, so you can flirt and dance in perfect safety." She grinned then, dark brows lifted in challenge.
There was an argument Imogene hadn't considered. Chloe, as Henri's daughter and a strong witch, was perfectly eligible, as she herself was. But there were also plenty of women with power among the noble families. Most of the bachelors at an imperial ball would be on the hunt for someone with a title, or a dowry far more impressive than either she or Chloe could bring to the table, or trying to avoid matrimony altogether.
Chloe was right. Those men were safe. Those men might even offer the opportunity for the kind of entertainment she hadn't indulged in at all during her mission. Smart girls didn't have liaisons with members of their own squads. Or companies. She missed sex. In some parts of the empire—and in mysterious Anglion across the ocean—they had odd rules about such things, particularly for young witches or potential witches. Or so she had heard. Here in Illvya, other than perhaps in the highest families, the unwritten rules were "don't get pregnant and don't cause a scandal." Easy enough for a witch with the brains to choose a sensible, discreet partner, and to wield a basic knowledge of herbs and the ways of female and male bodies. So why not enjoy herself?
Captain Brodier had told her to keep her nose clean. That meant stay out of the spotlight, not avoid fun altogether.
Furthermore, if she was at a palace ball, she couldn't be at one of the balls she suspected her mother would be forcing her to attend where the men were far more likely to be looking for a wife like her and therefore apt to become troublesome.
She threw an arm around Chloe and kissed her cheek. "Darling one, I believe you're a genius. A ball sounds wonderful."