Episode Six:
A Fair Hand

Patty Bryant and Racheline Maltese

 

There were certain things that happened every year, as regular as clockwork. In the springtime, farmers planted their crops, the University prepared for its exams, the City’s streets turned to mud, and—far more important than any of that, at least in the steward Duchamp’s mind—Tremontaine held its annual Swan Ball.

Whisper the word “ball,” and a noblewoman’s mind fills with thoughts of silk dresses and violin music, rich sauces poured over roast meats, and sweets of airy meringue and heavy cream. But to Duchamp, steward of the Tremontaine household, a ball meant one thing: work.

Duchamp was no longer a young man. But the Tremontaine ball was his responsibility, and always had been. Duchamp had been overseeing the Swan Ball since before the current duchess had even married into the family. He knew exactly what it took to host a successful ball. The duchess relied on him to meticulously oversee the household staff as they fetched and unpacked the family’s traditional swan-shaped decorations from the attics, laundered the drapes and hangings, waxed the floors, polished the silver, and replaced a vast array of candles so that the guests could actually see the result of the Tremontaine family retainers’ labors. But even that was an incomplete list.

Before cleaning the silver, one had to find the silver. There were always a few pieces missing. Spoons in particular had a habit of disappearing into bodices to be sold down in Riverside by ladies’ maids. Just last month, a serving bowl painted with a scene of unnatural congress between a large waterfowl and some maiden of myth had vanished entirely. All for the best, really; the vivid colors of webbed feet on virgin flesh had improved no one’s appetite.

Duchamp remembered when Tremontaine had promptly bought new silver. In Duke William’s father’s day, when Duchamp was an under-footman, the old duke had spent lavishly and never counted the cost. So his son had inherited his father’s considerable debts along with the obligation to keep up tradition. It was a blessing that the son’s pretty young wife had turned out to have a streak of practicality, even if Duchamp sometimes mourned the days of heedless glamour. Instead, the old steward made do, mixing and matching the family’s various sets of tableware, replacing what was missing with pieces that looked close enough. Surely not so dissimilar that any of the guests would notice.

Maybe he’d put fewer candles in the dining room this year.

And silver wasn’t the only place corners were being cut. No one had been brought in to fix the wobbly leg on the clavier. Just last week, two parlor maids and an under-cook had been dismissed—supposedly for minor infractions, but more likely to have fewer servants to keep. At least there’d be no more dismissals until after the ball. They’d have enough trouble preparing for it with the staff as reduced as it was now; any less and there would be no hope of pulling off such a grand event in the style that the City expected.

* * *

“Again,” Applethorpe said, beating the side of Kaab’s blade with his own.

Ixkaab Balam retreated to a garde. At least she no longer dropped her weapon when he did that. The secret was a loose grip; if she held on tightly, her own strength worked against her, concentrating the force of the sword master’s attempts to disarm her rather than letting it dissipate. Her nature argued against such a tactic. When attacked, she wanted to fight back, to launch forward, not to meekly allow his attack to flow through her.

She extended her arm, pointing the tip of her sword toward Applethorpe, and walked around the circle of their training grounds. It was within the shell of an abandoned building, nothing more than weeds and a few piles of red bricks, completely open to the sky. A pair of matching mutts nosed at a trash heap in one corner. Applethorpe had tried to run them off when they’d first arrived, but animals in Riverside weren’t dissuaded by a loud voice and stomped foot. He had not deigned to threaten them with his sword.

Kaab abruptly feinted north, then south, and then made an earnest strike low and back to the north, below Applethorpe’s ribs and into his soft organs. Or rather, such was her intention; instead Applethorpe parried easily, and Kaab tripped on the uneven ground. The muddier of the two dogs barked, a sound that reminded her of mocking laughter.

The blade seemed to have grown heavy as a boulder since this morning; Kaab sighed and dropped her arm. She longed for her obsidian dagger, whose weight was barely noticeable no matter how long she practiced, but Applethorpe had refused to let her use it. “You rely on it too much,” he had said when she’d protested. “What’s the point in practicing with a sword if you’re not going to use it?”

Kaab turned away from him, intending to walk off her frustration. The dog barked again, and she made a sharp, threatening noise in the back of her throat. She didn’t want any witnesses to her humiliation, not even a dog. It ignored her, so she bent over, looking for a stone to throw.

The flat of Applethorpe’s blade hit the back of her thighs.

“Ow!” She leaped away. She’d had worse, and often, during her training back home in Binkiinha. It was the indignity that she resented; it was a long time since Ixkaab Balam had been a novice at anything.

“You can’t leave just because I blocked you.”

“I wasn’t leaving. I am taking a break,” she said. “Besides, this isn’t an actual fight.” She wished it was. She might not have the skills to beat him—yet—but at least then he wouldn’t correct her like a child. She gestured with her sword at the shell of the building in a manner that didn’t directly threaten Applethorpe but still showed less respect than was appropriate. “No one with any sense would fight here.”

“I’ve fought here.”

“Why?” Kaab looked skeptically at their surroundings.

“Things happen.” Applethorpe shrugged, a carefully controlled motion; the rest of his body remained as still as a reed, the way it always did when his sword was drawn. Kaab couldn’t help but be annoyed by that also. Everything about him made her feel inadequate.

She’d had enough of failing at swords for the day. “The man you replaced as Tess’s protector,” she said, deliberately keeping her voice casual. “Ben. Did you know he’d been stabbed?”

Applethorpe paused long enough to make it clear that he’d noticed her redirection of the conversation, then obliged her by answering, “Many people end up stabbed in Riverside.”

“This wasn’t any bar fight. Whoever did it was an expert.”

He sheathed his sword. Even that small movement had the grace of a jaguar. But dressed in the bright colors and hodgepodge styles that Riversiders were partial to, Applethorpe looked like an acrobat. From what Kaab understood of how this city used swordsmen, she supposed he was a sort of performer. But his would be a deadly show, far from all surface and no substance.

“How do you know?”

“It was done from behind, with a thin blade. It went between the ribs and up.” Kaab mimed a stabbing motion with her free hand. “Fast, and not too much blood.”

“And you suspect it was done by the fellow you had me follow? The one who stole Tess’s drawings in the tavern?”

Kaab hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much to tell this man. She was used to working alone. But what was the point in having him protect Tess if he wasn’t trustworthy? If she wanted to make any progress in the matter of Ben’s death and what it meant, she must share what she knew with someone here in Riverside, someone close to Tess. Tess was a forger. But the trouble her friend was in seemed to be more than anyone would take for mere forgery.

Kaab nodded. “The man you followed to the house of Tremontaine, yes. Did you learn his name?”

“I did not. He disappeared indoors before I could find out.”

“Well.” Kaab liked the way this was going. She had his interest, now. And he was quick to understand. “Someone broke into Tess’s rooms last week, probably looking for those drawings . . . and they left behind Ben’s fancy jacket, the one he died in.”

Applethorpe’s eyebrows went up. “Why would someone at Tremontaine House want to kill a Riverside pretty-boy? And what do the drawings have to do with it?”

“I wish I knew.”

“If you’re right, then it may be serious.” He drew again, indicating that the time for conversation was over. “And therefore it’s all the more important that you learn how to use a sword.”

Kaab groaned and let her own blade remain at her side. “You’re a very difficult teacher.” She was beginning to like Applethorpe. Not the way she liked Tess, of course. But his smug assurance of his own superiority, his dry humor, his cool assessment of danger . . . he was someone she might come to think of as a friend, here in this cold, strange city so far from home.

“That’s because I’m not a teacher,” he said. “Just a swordsman.” He reached out and tapped her blade with his own. “Come on; a little longer and then we’ll switch. I want you to teach me that twisting thing you do with a dagger.”

That sent enough energy to her arms to bring her sword back up into a defensive position. “And then we duel?” she asked, without any real hope he’d agree.

Unsurprisingly, he shook his head. “You’re not ready for a real duel.”

“I won many duels here, when I chose a protector for Tess last week!”

“Because you were fighting drunk bravos who only wanted a few minutes’ amusement in the marketplace. I’m trying to teach you more than how to show off to an audience. So you can fight not just with a few tricks you’ve memorized, but with your whole self, for your whole life.” He gave that graceful shrug again. “At least, you could if you’d concentrate.”

Kaab ignored that last comment, struck by the suggestion that a swordsman was never not engaged. “So I am already fighting, even without a challenge?”

Applethorpe gave her a long look. “Aren’t you? As far as I can tell, Mistress Balam, you’ve always been fighting.”

 

Rafe knew how to look as though he didn’t completely despise the situation in which he found himself. He’d perfected the art as a child, although sometime in his adolescence he’d lost the self-discipline required to employ it regularly. All he had to do was set his back teeth at the right angle, and the tension in his jaw would give the impression that he was faintly smiling rather than grimacing in disgust.

Just now he was fighting a losing battle to keep his teeth from sliding out of that wonderfully deceptive angle. He sat at a gilded secretary in the Tremontaine library as the Duchess Tremontaine lounged on a nearby settee, her languid ease a pointed contrast to Rafe’s tense posture. Supposedly she was talking him through writing invitations to the Tremontaine annual ball in her low, melodious voice, but since he obviously could handle such a simple task on his own, he assumed she was actually there to irritate him.

When Rafe had agreed to become her husband’s secretary, he had imagined himself writing speeches, researching political issues, attending important meetings—not doing a task that any scribbling lackey could do. But the duchess had insisted that she needed help, and Will—sweet, kind, guilty Will, the Duke Tremontaine—had asked Rafe to be kind to her, and now here he was, wondering what had become of his life. In addition, he suspected that the duchess knew he was sleeping with her husband, enthusiastically and often, but she’d shown not a single flicker of jealousy. This uncertainty made the skin on the back of his neck itch, and being alone with her wasn’t helping.

The duchess discreetly cleared her throat, and he looked up, hoping for a change in topic—but she only said, “The Lindleys next. Although keep theirs aside after you’ve written it.”

“May I ask why?”

“Do you remember your birthday parties as a child? Surely you must, being still so young.” She smiled as she said it, and her voice carried a friendly hint of laughter, but Rafe still recognized the insult.

His fingers tightened on the quill, but he managed to keep his own voice bland. “Yes. Of course.”

“Tell me, did you invite only the children you liked?”

“It’s not a good party if you don’t enjoy the company,” Rafe said.

“Oh, you dear child. You still have so very much to learn. Parties are politics, you see, like everything else. Would you think poorly of me if I admitted that I rather enjoy that aspect of them?”

“No, madam,” Rafe said automatically, hating himself for it.

“You’re a sweet boy. You see, the Lindleys are bores and think themselves better than they are. Particularly old Lord Horn. And yet, much like the odious Duke of Karleigh—we’ll discuss him later—we must still invite them.” She lifted one shoulder in an urbane shrug. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make them worry. They can get their invitation next week. Don’t you agree?”

Rafe nodded, wishing that he had never asked. What a pointless game. Dresses and invitations and gifts, endlessly discussed and exchanged and analyzed, all to score points off someone else in the same small circle of noble society, and just so that person could throw themselves into returning the insult next season.

The duchess rapped at the arm of his chair with her closed fan. “Woolgathering?” she asked. “I suppose that is natural at University; what would anyone expect when you gather a crowd of lively young boys into a stuffy room and ask them to debate philosophical principles? But you must focus now. This is an important household, and you are assigned important tasks.”

Rafe had a vision of himself showing the relative importance of party invitations and natural philosophy by throwing the invitations into the hearth, dashing the black inkpot over the duchess’s pale blue silk, and storming out of the house, never to return. He could do it. He moved his hands to the arms of his chair, his muscles tensing to shove himself to his feet, ready to smash this opportunity and all it required of him to pieces. But . . . there was his exam to think of, with his chances of starting his school. And, irritating as it was to admit, there was Will. He drew another clean sheet of paper toward himself.

Hours later, Rafe stood at the window of the library and watched the invitations being carried out. Footmen proceeded in multiple directions, some on horseback and some on foot, all dressed in the green-and-gold livery of Tremontaine. It was a dramatic show of wealth and influence, and Rafe felt oddly uplifted, knowing that he was a part of this vivid swirl of power, that it was his actions that had sent this cavalry on its way, his words they carried.

Except they weren’t his words. They were the duchess’s words, even if they were written in his hand. Rafe was no more an important part of the whole than the stable boy who fed the horses or the maid who mended the embroidery on the footmen’s coats. He turned from the window without waiting to see the last of the parade and caught sight of the duchess in the doorway. She had been watching him, her face still and without emotion, but as soon as their gazes met, she produced a smile. “You don’t look well,” she said sympathetically. “A headache?”

“Yes,” Rafe muttered. “I think I’ll go and lie down upstairs for a bit.”

The duchess made a perfect moue of concern. “Do. I’ll have a cold compress sent up. I’m sure William wouldn’t want you overworked.”

Startled, Rafe stared at her. Her eyes were gray and flawless as a locked safe. Was it possible that she didn’t know? That she had only been upset before because Will had missed a Council meeting? Surely not even an empty-headed social butterfly like Diane could be that oblivious. Besides, how likely was it that she cared about import tariffs, of all things? Even Rafe’s father found tariffs boring, and he was a man who got the greatest pleasure in life out of double-entry bookkeeping. No, the duchess must know. She simply chose to pretend otherwise.

Still, Rafe felt better once he’d turned a corner of the hallway and was out of her view.

 

I hope I will be able to come home in a day or two—

No, she’d said that in an earlier letter, and then it hadn’t been a day or two or even three. Micah crossed out the line and tried again.

I promise I’ll come back next week, as soon as—

No, she’d said that before too. Micah didn’t like to lie. Or not do her tasks. The problem was that now she had too many tasks: those she was starting to feel bad about neglecting at home on the farm now that the season was changing, and those at the University. She was so close to figuring out the answer to the great question of how distances worked over the round earth! Not to finish would be like having a bug bite and not scratching it. Aunt Judith had always said that scratching bites only made them worse, but Micah never had been able to stop herself.

Micah wondered what Aunt Judith would say about her life at University, with its tomato pies and playing cards for money, and if she would have a tip to keep away the rats Micah sometimes saw in the alley behind Rafe’s building. She missed Aunt Judith, even though she probably wouldn’t approve of Micah’s new friends or all the time she spent on calculations. And what’s the use of that? her aunt had said when Micah had tried to explain ratios to her back on the farm. It doesn’t put seeds in the ground nor food on your plate, does it? At the time, Micah had been tremendously annoyed, but now the memory just made her feel lonely.

Was it selfish of her to stay here when her family needed her for planting season? Rafe needed her too, though. He said that finding the right numbers was very important, much more important than planting rhubarb or peas, and that no one else could do it. But was it more important than her family? Micah felt unwell even asking such a question.

Micah had never realized that there were so many things to learn or that the world contained so many fascinating puzzles. Rafe had taken her to the University library yesterday, and Micah had had to hold on to his sleeve to stop herself from running down the aisles, pulling books and scrolls and loose pages off every shelf. There was so much to read in that one room that it would take her years to go through all of it. And that was just mathematics; there were other subjects she could study, if she wanted: history and rhetoric and medicine, logic and law and other languages, vast horizons of new ideas, expanding every day she stayed here. Sometimes she was sure she could feel her brain growing to contain it all. How could she give this up to go back to the farm, where there was nothing new to learn?

Micah pushed the letter aside and dropped her face into her hands, sighing loudly. If only she could do both things! It wasn’t fair that she had to choose. Back home she’d always known what she should do, even if she didn’t always want to do it. Now both sides seemed like the right thing, and she could only pick one. She scrubbed at her face one last time, put her shoulders back, and looked at the letter.

I must stay at the University until I finish the calculations for Rafe. It is Very Important. I miss you all very much and will come home as soon as I can but if I am not home before Bessie has her next calf do not forget to check that she is in the barn at night and give her lots of wheat until the calf is ready to come out. It is my turn to pick a name and I have picked the name Trigonometry because it is a very pretty word. Please please do not forget or let Cousin Seth pick the name because he named the last calf. Love, Micah.

 

Kaab was on her way home to Uncle Chuleb and Aunt Saabim. It wasn’t a terribly long walk from Riverside to the Kinwiinik Traders’ quarter, but her thighs were aching, her arms were sore, and her head was filled with everything she didn’t yet know: about fighting, about this city and the many smaller cities it contained, and about whoever had killed Ben. Her arms felt like ship’s ballast weighing down her shoulders, and when she raised a hand to wipe the sweat from her face, sharp pain shot through her muscles.

If she were to be set upon right now, she wasn’t sure she’d even be able to draw her sword. Its weight on her hip was normally reassuring, but today it was a burden, another reminder of everything she didn’t know and everything she hadn’t yet achieved.

Applethorpe had worked her past the point of exhaustion over the last few days, saying that it was not how well she fought at her best but how well she fought at her worst that would keep her alive. Kaab had woken before dawn day after day to join him down in Riverside. He then worked her well into the night, insisting that she practice despite the bruises from missed parries, the burn of overexerted muscles, and the lack of sleep. She did have to admit that eventually the aches and pains had transformed into a new stamina and rock-hard muscles, but it was difficult to be grateful when she was still burningly aware of how much Applethorpe’s skill exceeded her own: Despite all the training and all of her own knowledge, she hadn’t been able to best him once.

Her mood wasn’t helped by a nagging sense that whatever her aunt Ixsaabim and uncle Chuleb would say about her scarcity around the family compound would not be laced with wild enthusiasm. Although Kaab felt certain that her efforts to improve her skills and understand more about the workings of this strange city were worthwhile, she wasn’t at all sure that Saabim and Chuleb would see matters that way; she worried they would accuse her of shirking her duties. So as much as she hated to do so, Kaab was prepared to be contrite. Or, well, she was prepared to seem contrite. Actual contrition was another matter entirely.

As she entered the Kinwiinik enclave, the foreignness of the City gave way to familiar sights and sounds. The roof of the Balam family compound rose like a temple above the buildings that surrounded it, towering over them physically the way the Balam towered over the other Traders in status and importance, but there were enough other Kinwiinik families to have created a little piece of home in this foreign territory.

Even those who spoke the Local language here did so with Kinwiinik rhythms and accents, making that tongue their own. Kaab passed compounds whose outer walls were decorated with murals in the bright colors and angular style of home, a heartwarming sight after the muted shades of Local houses. She caught a brief whiff of steamed corn and smoked chiles, and felt her belly growl. She closed her eyes to take a deeper breath, but just then someone shouted her name, and she spun on her heel to see a ball bouncing toward her from a gang of children. Normally she would have kicked it back—well, perhaps after showing off a bit by bouncing it from knee to hip—but today she was too tired and merely stepped aside. Little Ahjuub groaned in disappointment, then raced past her after the ball.

Across the street, the elder auntie Ixnoom greeted her with a wry smile at the children’s antics. She had run one of the Balam family’s warehouses before retiring and now dedicated most of her time to gardening. There was a potted plant on her doorstep that Kaab recognized as passion fruit, a plant she hadn’t seen since leaving Binkiinha.

“Isn’t it too cold to grow passion fruit here?” she asked, keeping her voice respectful as she questioned an elder. It was good to speak Kindaan again, after days spent among people who didn’t understand it. Kaab was fluent in the Locals’ language, but there was no language like her own, the language of her childhood games, of her mother’s prayers, of her first awkward flirtations, the language that required no thought or hesitation, whose every shade of meaning and poetic allusion and piece of slang was as obvious and clear to her as the water in a mountain lake.

Ixnoom nodded and gently stroked a leaf with one wrinkled finger. “It’s never produced a fruit, not one, and even its flowers are few and far between.” Then she looked up at Kaab, a twinkle of amusement in her dark eyes. “But it hasn’t died yet either! May we all do so well here.”

Kaab passed on with a polite smile, stepping around the decrepit donkey and matching decrepit cart belonging to Ahaak. A cat sunned itself on top of the low wall surrounding the family’s compound. Cats were rare in their homeland, and this one in particular held herself like the goddess Ixchel, beautiful and queenly; it seemed out of place adorning the household of one of the lesser Traders.

Kaab felt at home here. But then, she was beginning to feel the same thing about Riverside. The two neighborhoods, though so different, shared a similar vibrancy, an inescapable energy. Neither of them were truly where she belonged, but they were beginning to feel like places she could be happy.

She was glad to reach the Balam family compound after the bustle of the streets. But once she had passed through the doors, she found the house startlingly still. There were no women in the courtyard chatting as they ground corn into flour or wove on their small looms, nor any men guarding the door or tending to the family’s animals. No children shrieked and ran from spot to spot. The quiet was unnatural. Kaab drew her sword—surprised at the new instinct that made her go for it over her dagger even with her aching shoulders—but kept it low as she crept down the first passageway and past the now-empty banquet hall.

She reached her uncle’s office without breaking the silence and found most of the household there, gathered in a tight circle around Ixsaabim and Chuleb. Their two heads were bent together, studying something Chuleb held in his hands, while the cousins and elders and a few of the bolder servants tried to peer over their shoulders.

Kaab let her sword fall to her side, but didn’t sheathe it. “What’s going on?”

The murmur of worried and excited conversation broke off at the sound of her voice. People turned toward her, and she saw several pairs of eyes drop down to her weapon and widen in surprise. Someone giggled nervously.

At least her aunt Ixsaabim smiled kindly on seeing her. “We could ask you the same thing. Breaking and entering, little bee?”

Kaab hastily sheathed her sword and unbuckled the belt, her motions clumsy from embarrassment. “I do live here.”

“Do you? We haven’t been sure lately,” Saabim said good-naturedly, but Kaab didn’t miss the mild scolding.

She quickly changed the topic, jerking her chin toward the paper Chuleb had passed to a widowed aunt. “What have I missed?”

Chuleb was silent, as though he were considering not sharing the news with her. That hesitation was worse than any yelling, any punishment; being shut out from the work of her family even for a few seconds made her fiercely regret having toiled so hard to avoid them for days. She had neglected her vow to prove herself a first daughter, loyal and industrious, when she had already been given a second chance.

Thankfully, Chuleb did not force her to ask again. After a pause long enough to make his point, he answered, “It seems we have been invited to the Duchess Tremontaine’s ball.”

Kaab blinked wordlessly, as she struggled to switch gears to focus on her family’s concerns after all the intrigue and exhaustion of Riverside. Realizing that she had been silent too long, Kaab blurted, “Why would she invite us?”

“I believe she wishes to do business with us.”

Kaab remembered the duchess’s odd visit to Chuleb’s study, the half-spoken questions and evasive answers cloaked in elaborate politeness. So this was what had come of it! Still: “That explains nothing,” she said. “Does the Batab invite the farmers in his fields to his banquets, or his wife let the gardeners place flowers in her hair? What is the real reason the duchess invited us?”

“That,” Chuleb chided, “is what we were discussing when you came stalking in here flaunting that sword. It is not the way of the Balam to rush in with weapons drawn.” He looked at her more closely, and she saw sympathy displace the disappointment in his expression. She must look terrible, Kaab thought wryly, to make his eyes soften in that way. “Has something happened, Niece? Did you have a reason to fear this house was in danger?”

She didn’t, of course. True, the silent, empty house had spooked her. In Riverside she had seen the marks of an expert stabbing on a man’s corpse, and she was besotted with a girl who was being stalked by an unknown danger. But there was no reason to suspect those matters had anything to do with the Balam.

“Maybe I could find out,” she said, hoping to distract from her preoccupation, “why the duchess invited her potential business partners to her exclusive party on the Hill.”

Chuleb frowned, wary but intrigued. “How?”

She wasn’t actually sure. But better to try something and see if it worked than admit to ignorance. “Let me see the invitation,” she said, pleased at the cool confidence of her voice.

It had been slowly making its way from hand to hand throughout the family. Aunt Saabim handed it over with a teasing, “Expecting a secret message? Invisible ink, perhaps? Or a code that escaped the notice of the rest of us?”

Kaab frowned and made a show of turning the invitation over carefully in her hands, examining the phrasing and the loops of the oddly sparse Xanamwiinik letters. Was this the duchess’s own hand? Kinwiinik nobles never did their own writing; they employed scribes for that.

“Do they have scribes here?” she asked suddenly.

“They call them secretaries,” piped up one of her young male cousins. The Local word snagged on a memory.

“I know the Tremontaine duke’s secretary. I’ve already won his trust,” she said proudly, if not entirely accurately. She had no idea if this handwriting belonged to Rafe, but even if the Tremontaines had multiple secretaries to write their invitations, surely Rafe would know about it. “The oldest son of the Fenton family, the one I have been following because of—” She broke off, aware of the eyes on her. She couldn’t say because of his interest in the mysteries of moving across the sea; that was a situation she wanted to keep closely guarded, hoping it would come to nothing. She shrugged sheepishly and looked embarrassed. “Because of his lovely hair. And his eyes . . .” Had they been blue? Green? Chee, she couldn’t remember. “Like jewels!” she finished, figuring that was a safe enough comparison.

One of her distant uncles laughed. “I had heard you preferred women, little bee! If you have changed your tastes, be careful. Do not let a son of this land besmirch your honor.”

Kaab managed to maintain her smile by force of will. “Of course, Great Uncle.”

“Yes,” said Saabim slowly, exchanging a look with her husband. “The oldest son of the Fenton family. His mother’s been bragging to everyone about her son’s new place in the duke’s household. Information from him could be very useful.”

Chuleb nodded stiffly. He was still frowning, but Kaab suspected he was actually pleased. “You have our permission to see what he knows. But be subtle, Niece. Bring no drawn swords into this matter.”

Kaab grinned. “Rafe wouldn’t know subtle if it hit him over the head. This will be an easy task.” She schooled her voice to formality and put her hand over her heart. Like a good first daughter, she said, “Thank you, Uncle, Aunt. I will solve this mystery for you.”

 

The Inkpot was not the best place to work on her calculations, but then neither were Rafe’s rooms. Although Rafe had told Micah that his rooms at the University were private, there were always people coming and going, insisting on talking about things that were very important to them but weren’t very important to Micah; she suspected they might not have been very important at all. Even Rafe did that sometimes. He was insistent on how the world should be, and when it didn’t match his ideas, it made him upset. Which just meant that he talked even more.

Worse than having extra people in Rafe’s rooms talking at her while she was working was when the extra people wanted to sleep there. It made sense because that’s what students’ rooms were for, but Micah wished they wouldn’t. After all, they weren’t their rooms, and they tended to snore and drool and sometimes fall asleep right on top of Micah’s few belongings. Of course, they weren’t Micah’s rooms either. And Rafe’s friends were like her: They had nowhere else to go.

So when she was very, very annoyed by Rafe’s friends and couldn’t be polite any longer, she went to the Inkpot. Sometimes when she was writing letters home she got tomato pie smeared on the paper, but at least her family would know that she was eating well.

Her table was jostled, and Micah looked up with a frown. But it wasn’t a stranger who had pulled out the seat across from her—it was Kaab, the nice foreign lady.

“Do you have the charts for me?” Micah asked, then remembered to say hello.

Kaab sank into the chair stiffly, like Uncle Amos when his joints were bothering him. “No, not yet. My family is concerned, because they’re very useful to us. What if you took them home, and then we needed to check on some detail about the stars in their courses? But don’t worry, we’re making you a copy of your own. As soon as it’s done, I’ll bring it to you.” She leaned forward to look at Micah’s papers. “What are these notes?”

“It’s mathematics.”

“Yes, I see.” Kaab peered at Micah’s work, though it was upside down to her. “And how are your calculations today?”

Micah blinked at her. Kaab always asked about that, though she didn’t really listen to the answer. Kaab really didn’t like numbers, even though she liked the things numbers were for. Micah thought that most people were like that a little, but Kaab was like that a lot.

“They’re numbers,” Micah said. “They don’t change.”

Kaab smiled. “Do you know where Rafe is?”

Micah shook her head. “No, I don’t. If he were nearby, we would be able to hear him.”

The smile turned to a grin.

“I’m going to keep calculating,” Micah said, turning her attention back to her papers. “Rafe will show up eventually.”

Rafe did. He came through the door of the Inkpot in midsentence, gesticulating wildly and walking backward to keep his attention on the friends following him rather than where he was going. He bumped into another student and briefly interrupted himself to apologize before picking up where he’d left off. Micah knew that meant he wasn’t talking about his Big Ideas. If he was talking about the Big Ideas, he wouldn’t have even noticed the collision. The people following him—Joshua and another student—weren’t entirely listening, but Rafe didn’t realize it, or perhaps he didn’t care. Micah wasn’t sure. Being Rafe was apparently very different from being her.

Kaab raised a hand to catch Rafe’s attention, but Rafe had already noticed Micah and was pointing at her. “And this, Henry, is Micah. I discovered him, and he has been invaluable to my project; he has a facility for numbers and a dedication to his labors that we should all strive to emulate. Also, he made Volney furious, which is a reward all its own.”

“Doctor Volney was wrong,” Micah pointed out, not for the first time. She was sick of people talking about it. Anyone could have seen Volney’s mistake, if only they’d looked closely enough.

“Do we have to get into this again?” Kaab asked, and Micah was glad that she wasn’t the only one who was bored with Volney.

“Ah, Kaab! I’m so glad to see you. Allow me to introduce you to my friends.” Rafe turned to Joshua and Henry. “This is Ixkaab Balam. She’s a Kinwiinik princess,” he said in a manner that even Micah could tell meant he was showing off. She was about to ask Kaab if she really was a princess, because Micah had heard that kings and queens were evil and so maybe their daughters were too, but before she could, Rafe sat in the chair next to Kaab and leaned toward her.

“Have you decided you want to study at the University too? I’d be happy to show you around. Don’t trust these two.” He pointed at Joshua and Henry with his thumb as they found chairs of their own. “They’d only want to get you alone so they could try to seduce a woman of your beauty and sophistication.”

Joshua rolled his eyes and Henry blushed, but Kaab just shook her head. “I don’t have enough time.”

Rafe scoffed. “All you have is time! Whenever I see you, you’re exploring here or in Riverside or the gods know where else, while I’m stuck doing petty secretarial work and desperately trying to get some of the antiquated bats who run this place to examine me so I can finally call myself a Master of Natural Science.”

Kaab tilted her head to one side, amused by Rafe’s rant. “I’m learning. I thought you would encourage that.”

“I do, I do, but what are you learning? Street names? Where to find the best shopping? There’s more to the world than that, Kaab!” Rafe pounded his fist on the table, making Micah’s chocolate cup wobble. “You could be helping Micah here with his calculations! No one in this whole city knows as much about navigation as you do, and instead of teaching us you’re off prancing about the town!”

Micah’s eyes darted back and forth between them. Kaab had pursed her lips and would probably laugh at Rafe soon. But Micah didn’t think Rafe would mind, because Kaab laughed at him often. Micah liked to watch them, although she didn’t quite understand their friendship.

“I’m not done prancing yet,” Kaab said. “Next I go to the Hill.”

“Oh. No. You shouldn’t do that.” Rafe slouched back in his chair, making a face. “I’ve been exploring the Hill lately myself, and I don’t like it at all.”

“You don’t mind the Hill, pigeon,” Joshua said. “You just mind the work.”

Rafe shrugged, smiling slightly. “There are some benefits.” He said it like he had a secret, which meant it was about his duke. Which wasn’t a secret at all. Micah wasn’t sure why everyone kept pretending that it was.

“I must go to the Hill,” Kaab repeated.

“But why? The Hill will never appreciate you the way I do, my dearest Ixkaab. Let me buy you ale—or chocolate, if you prefer, although the stuff they sell here is utter dreck—and then you and I can talk to Micah about—”

“Because my family was invited to the party, of course. Are not you their secretary? You must have seen our name on the invitations.”

He paused with his hand half-raised to call a server, his eyebrows drawing down in confusion. “What party?”

“The Tremontaine ball!” Kaab threw up her hands in frustration. “There cannot be so many parties that you have forgotten.”

“Ah yes. As a matter of fact, I was asked to help the duchess with a few small matters—”

“You’re writing invitations?” Joshua asked, his voice incredulous. “I know I advised you to take the job, but, pigeon, I never imagined he would ask you to stoop so low.”

“It was one day—” Rafe began, but Micah had an important question and raised her voice over both of them.

“What’s a ball?”

“It’s a party,” Kaab answered after an awkward moment of silence, since Rafe was frowning fiercely and Joshua was focused on him, his gaze sympathetic. Henry was still staring at Kaab and then quickly looking away and pretending that he hadn’t been.

“Why didn’t the duchess write her own invitations? Doesn’t she know how to write?” Micah asked.

“Well, she does, but—”

“Does she have bad handwriting?”

“It shows how important she is,” Kaab explained. “She pays a secretary to write her letters for her, because she has many more letters than you or I do.”

Micah thought about that and then nodded. It made sense. “What will the party be like?”

“This is what I also want to know,” Kaab said, turning to Rafe.

He groaned but dropped his hands from his face. “Don’t ask me. I’m sick of talking about this ball already, and it’s still days away. Writing the invitations would have been terrible enough, but the duchess babbled at me the entire time about every single detail. Which flowers should she buy? What color should her dress be? What songs will the musicians play, and should two violinists be enough, or must she have three? And the rest of the household is going crazy. You’re entirely right about her using it to show how important she is. Why do we even have nobility? What antiquated purpose do they serve?” He turned his face toward the ceiling. “Did I go to University for this?”

“It will get better, pigeon,” Joshua murmured, squeezing Rafe’s shoulder.

Kaab ignored his tragic expression. “Why were the Balam invited? And what does one wear to balls on the Hill? My family has never attended a noble’s ball before.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” Rafe groaned. “Not you too! I like you. Don’t clutter up that brilliant mind with ribbons and lace, I beg of you. It’s bad enough that I’ve been reduced to a secretary; don’t make me a fashion consultant too.”

Micah was worried at the way Rafe was shouting and flinging his arms about, but Kaab smiled and put her dark hand over Rafe’s pale, nail-bitten one. “I like you too. And I believe you will not let me go to the ball looking like a stupid peasant.”

Rafe sighed loudly, but his shoulders slumped and he nodded.

“My cousin Dinah talks a lot about fashion,” Micah said. “She could help. But I don’t think she’s ever been to a ball. What happens at them?”

“I know a Dinah,” Joshua said musingly. “But this Dinah is very familiar with balls. She has this trick where she takes four of them and puts them—”

“Joshua! Not in front of a lady!” Henry shouted. Kaab glanced at him, surprised, and he turned beet red and stared hard at the tabletop, adding quietly, “It isn’t proper.”

Rafe held up his hands in a placating gesture. He answered Micah’s question first, which made her smile. “A ball is just a fancy party with dancing. People wear very expensive clothes and eat a lot of expensive food and talk to one another about nothing except the clothes and the food, and never about anything worthwhile like mathematics or natural philosophy or history.”

“What type of food?” she asked. “And how much?”

“Two hundred pounds of potatoes,” Joshua said, ticking each item off on his fingers, “ninety-nine loaves of bread, eight thousand tomato pies, three eels, an entire boar—”

“Wait, wait!” Micah scrabbled for a fresh sheet of paper. “I have to write it down; it’s too many to remember.”

“He’s making it up, Micah,” Rafe said, irritation showing in his voice.

“Then what do you eat at balls?”

“I don’t know! They didn’t make me write their shopping lists too. And anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“You must know something of what food is served,” Kaab said in a calm, soothing way that Micah found reassuring after all of the shouting. “I’m sure Micah would be grateful for an answer, and I would be also.”

Rafe snorted, but Kaab’s steady gaze made him look aside. “Apparently it is traditional for this ball to have a swan theme. Swans are on the Tremontaine family crest, you know, and the duchess is very proud of herself for finding ever new and inventive ways to incorporate swans into the ball each year. She was almost as tedious on this subject as she was on the dress. There will be pastries shaped like swans, and baked swans’ eggs, and cold swan pie. There will be a swan of ice, floating upon the punch bowl. But what she’s most proud of is her plan for a swan-shaped pudding, made of blackberries and wine.” He rolled his eyes. “It sounds utterly unappetizing to me. I advise you to eat well before arriving.”

“Are there vegetables?” Micah asked.

“There must be, I suppose.”

Micah shuffled through her papers, looking for the letter she had struggled to write to her family. Once she found it, she handed it to Rafe and asked, “Turnips?”

He looked at the letter and frowned, not understanding, then shrugged. “Only if she can make a swan out of turnips.”

“You can! I know you can!” She wriggled with excitement at her new idea. “The duchess needs to meet my cousin Reuben.”

“I don’t think the duchess—”

“He carves turnips. He’s very good at it—he can make houses, or faces, or little cows. We do it every Last Night, and put candles in them for the dead. I’m sure he could make swans! If the duchess bought them for her party, she would pay a lot, and then it wouldn’t even matter so much that I’m here and not there helping them. So I could stay and learn more about straight lines and spheres. If I go home now, I’ll never find out what the lines do!” Micah stood and leaned over the table toward Rafe. “You must tell the duchess.”

“She doesn’t want my menu advice. I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“What about the duke? He’s your boyfriend!”

Rafe sighed. “Yes, that would be why she doesn’t like me very much, thank you.”

“She needs swan turnips and I can get them. This is very important!” Micah shouted when she saw that Rafe was about to explain to her why it really wasn’t important after all and she should just listen to him. “I know more about turnips than you do. My cousin will be at the market tomorrow. Will you come with me and tell him about the ball and the duchess and also help him understand why I have to figure out the lines?”

“Yes,” Kaab answered. “Yes, he will. But first, he will tell me what one wears to a ball. And why the duchess would want my family to be there.”

Rafe looked at Joshua. “Why did I take this job?” he moaned.

“Think of your school, pigeon,” Joshua said. “Focus on that.”

 

Kaab returned home in a gloomy mood. All hope was not lost, but she certainly didn’t feel as though she’d solved the mystery as she’d promised. Part of the difficulty had been Micah and her belief in Tremontaine’s need for turnips, but Rafe had seemed grateful for the distraction. Presumably because he didn’t like his job, but Kaab couldn’t be sure. Could he be protecting Tremontaine from her inquiries? Did he know something about Ben’s death? Or about Diane’s interest in the Balam family?

The Balam household had returned to its normal activities, and she found Aunt Saabim in the kitchen, going over her own menus for the coming week with the cook. “Ah, little bee,” Saabim said, straightening up and putting a hand to her lower back. “Come, sit, and tell me what you have learned.”

Kaab settled on the floor next to her aunt. It was a difficult manner of sitting when wearing the Local clothing; the long skirt bound her legs and added to her irritation. Finally managing to arrange herself into a position that was tolerable, she flung an exasperated hand toward the menus waiting by Saabim’s north side. “I might as well have stayed here. They kept talking about food, no matter how many other questions I asked.”

“If they talked about it so much, perhaps it is important to them,” Saabim said mildly. “Tell me what they said.”

“I don’t think so.” Kaab switched her ankles from one side to the other but was no more comfortable. “It was a conversation about turnips. Micah’s people sell turnips and she wanted to sell some to the duchess, but Rafe didn’t think she wanted any.”

Saabim hummed thoughtfully. “Did Rafe say what the duchess is planning on serving?”

“He mentioned birds—”

“What kind?”

“Swans. Swans of ice, swans of cake, swans of pudding.”

Saabim exchanged a meaningful look with the cook. “But no actual swans, correct, ma’am?” the cook asked. “And what spices in the pudding?”

“Did you want recipes?” Kaab was beginning to understand Rafe’s hostility toward the frivolity of balls in general, and this one in particular.

“No,” Saabim said. “Did he mention anything else?”

“Swans’ eggs.” Again the significant look, the comprehending nods. “What?” Kaab asked. “What am I missing?”

“Ice, cakes, puddings,” said the cook. “These are the things one serves when one does not wish to spend a great deal at the market. Nothing more than flour and sugar and a cold storage room. This menu of the duchess’s . . . it is not impressive. Instead, it strives to hide a lack of wealth. I’d wager that even the eggs will be nothing more than goose eggs, chopped up to disguise their size.”

Kaab was sure the older woman had been introduced to her at one point, but she’d forgotten her name, and couldn’t ask now without appearing rude. She bowed her head to the cook thankfully, her mind racing. “If the duchess has no money, is that why she’s trying to make a deal with Uncle?”

“Perhaps,” Saabim said. “We need more information to be sure. I will keep an eye out at the ball for further indications of financial troubles, and you should do the same. Your uncle and I had already begun to suspect that such was the case. While you were busy”—and she delicately emphasized the word, making Kaab flush and look away—“we received word that the reduced tariffs she promised us will not be forthcoming soon. Her husband the duke somehow failed to attend the Council meeting where the matter was to be discussed! There is something very strange going on with that family, and if she wants our assistance, she will have to prove that she has something more to offer than empty promises and party invitations.” Saabim huffed out a breath of air. “Now, did Rafe tell you anything about clothing?”

“He said they wear the same things to a ball that they wear for every day, just more elaborate and made of more expensive fabrics. And never the same one twice.”

Saabim frowned. “Xamanek’s light! Then I suppose that none of the Local outfits we already have will do. But a week isn’t enough time to order new ones for everyone. What will we wear?”

“Why not wear our own clothes?” Kaab suggested. “The Locals seemed impressed with them at our banquet.”

“Those were City merchants,” Saabim said. “The nobles are very different. Even if this duchess is willing—or desperate enough—to break tradition to do business with us, I doubt she and her guests would find our anklets and nose rings anything but shocking—let alone the length of your uncle’s skirt!” She chuckled, but then looked grave. “No, this is a delicate matter. I will have to discuss it with Chuleb and the elder cousins.” She gathered the menus from the floor and handed them to the cook, then climbed to her feet. But before she left the room, she put a hand on Kaab’s shoulder. “Thank you. This is useful knowledge you have gathered for us. Your mother would be proud.”

It was only because she was so tired, Kaab told herself, that she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

 

Returning to the North Market brought a certain relief. While Rafe had never liked it—as the son of a merchant he resented being expected to waste his life on trays of bread and tins of spices—he knew it. His family was wealthy enough that they hadn’t needed to attend to the marketing themselves, but his father had insisted on it. He’d always said that there was no substitute for hands-on knowledge, for the innate skill at haggling and trading and making deals that could only come from being raised in the midst of a bustling market.

Rafe had avoided coming here as much as he could since he’d been at University, but everyone there ended up in North Market eventually; there was no way to escape the need to sell and to buy, to scrape and to hustle. Even Micah, normally only good with numbers, understood it instinctively. In the end, everyone needed turnips.

“Now, you both need to let me do the talking,” said Micah, turning to Rafe and then to Kaab. They flanked him like a wildly mismatched honor guard through the crowded lanes.

“Then why are we here?” Kaab asked.

“Details,” Micah said. “I need you to do the details.”

Once they’d found his cousin Reuben’s stall, Micah waited patiently, letting him serve the current customers. Kaab plucked a turnip from the pile on the wooden boards and turned it over in her hands, apparently unfamiliar with the purple-and-cream-colored vegetable, and Micah told her several facts about it that the boy probably thought were very interesting. He seemed calm now that he was actually here, despite his worry and desperate strategizing the previous night.

Finally Reuben greeted them. His voice was a mix of surprise, concern, and—most of all—curiosity: Rafe and Kaab likely seemed strange companions.

“I’m not here to go home, but I wrote you a letter,” Micah said, holding it out to his imposing cousin. “But then I found out something better than what was in the letter so I came to tell you in person.”

Reuben smiled, tired and fond. “What could be better than a letter from you?” He pulled a stool out from behind himself and sat down, apparently willing to spend some time with them despite it being midmorning, the best time for selling vegetables. A man who would do that didn’t seem likely to demand Micah’s immediate return, which eased Rafe’s worries. They were so close to solving the problem of navigation that he couldn’t afford to lose Micah now.

“The Duchess Tremontaine is having a ball,” Micah began seriously.

Reuben laughed, not unkindly. “Don’t tell me living in the City has made you take a fancy to parties? You used to not even like it when Judith’s sister and her little ones came to stay for Year’s End.”

“No, listen to me. The duchess needs turnips. She needs carved turnips, ones that look like swans. You could do that! No one can carve turnips like you! And because she’s a duchess she’ll pay lots of money for them. You should go to her immediately.”

“Micah, the duchess don’t need our turnips. She’s got her own lands, and they produce plenty. Besides, someone like me can’t go to a duchess without an introduction.”

“I know that. Rafe can introduce you,” Micah said, tugging Rafe forward as though Reuben might not have noticed him. “He works for her!”

“Is that so?” Reuben didn’t seemed particularly impressed, which made Rafe like him even more.

“I’m the Duke Tremontaine’s secretary now,” he explained. “But I’m still helping Micah at University. Truly, we all expect great discoveries from him. So we appreciate your letting him stay.”

“That true, boy?” Reuben asked Micah.

“Micah is very happy at the University,” Kaab said, trying to be helpful.

“I just like solving things,” Micah said. “And I’ve solved this. We have to sell the duchess your turnips.”

“Micah, Tremontaine has this ball every year. Even if they wanted to serve turnips, which I doubt, they’d have ordered them weeks or even months ago. They plan that party very far in advance, just like we plan the plantings. I’m glad that you’re thinking of your family, even with all your new friends, but I think we’ll manage without providing turnips for this ball.”

Micah’s shoulders slumped. “Are you sure, Cousin?”

“If you’re not coming home yet, you’re not coming home yet. I’ll make sure everyone reads this letter.” Reuben reached across the stall’s front and thumped Micah’s shoulder in a friendly fashion. “Hey, why not go to the ball yourself? Then you could write us all about it. Your cousin Dinah’ll pine away from jealousy.”

The joke wasn’t unkind. Not to Micah anyway. But Rafe could see the consequences of it rushing toward him. In the hopes of distracting Micah, he offered to buy a few turnips. “As a thank you for your time,” he added.

“If you like,” Reuben said agreeably, “but if you’ll take my advice, we’re getting past the season for turnips. Let me show you our green cabbage instead.”

“No, no, turnips will do,” Rafe said, and began selecting turnips from the stall somewhat frantically. He was going to have to at least pretend that he was going to show them to the duchess for Micah’s sake, although he might actually even go through with it. Just to annoy her.

“Can I come to the ball with you, Rafe?” Micah asked.

Damn. Rafe laughed incredulously, causing Kaab to glance at him with raised eyebrows, but Micah pressed the issue.

“You heard my cousin say I should. If I go I can learn more about how it works and what your duchess needs—”

“She’s not my duchess.”

Kaab snickered. “No, but Tremontaine is your duke.”

Rafe pointedly didn’t answer. “Micah, I can’t invite anyone to the ball. It’s not my place.”

“Why not?” Kaab asked. “You wrote the invitations. Write one more, for Micah.”

“I wrote them at the duchess’s direction!”

“You don’t even like her,” Kaab said. “So why follow her orders?”

“I work for her husband, not her. Not that she respects that!”

“And you don’t respect the fact that he’s her husband, not yours,” Kaab said.

Micah stopped dead still in the center of the crowd and put his hands over his ears. “Stop yelling!”

Rafe was very tempted to keep going, but he reluctantly let his perfect witty retort slide away and put up his palms to show the boy that he was calm.

Micah kept his hands over his ears. “You should help me. I play cards even when I don’t want to, just so you can buy tomato pies and beer.”

“I have a job now. I don’t need you to do that anymore. You should focus on your studies.”

“But I did it. So you should help me.”

“I agree,” Kaab said. “Help Micah go to the ball if he wants to. What’s so wrong with wanting to go to a ball?”

“You should know better,” Rafe said, fighting to keep his voice from rising once again. Micah’s hands had only just begun to lower. “Both of you.”

Kaab bristled. “Don’t speak to me like a child.”

“What do you even do?” He rounded on her, his voice low but angry. The crowd began to give them a greater berth, not wanting to be involved. “Micah attends University, at least. What do you do all day? You still haven’t brought those charts you promised us! As far as I can tell, all you do is bother me with stupid questions about what you should wear to the ball and what everyone’s eating.”

“The turnips are important,” Micah said softly.

“No, they’re not!” Rafe clutched at his hair, nearly tearing it out in his frustration. “This whole City is made up of children,” he went on, yelling at no one in particular. “All anyone talks about is food and parties and clothes. It’s bad enough that I’ve already wasted days of my valuable time on this damn ball, so that people can giggle and flirt and wear pretty clothes. Gods damn it, am I the only one who cares about knowledge anymore? Who sees these shallow, idle entertainments for what they are?”

“You shout about flirting?” Kaab said, putting her hands on her hips. “How are you any better? You wouldn’t have this secretary job if you hadn’t flirted with the duke first.”

That dart found its target. “That’s not true,” Rafe said. Kaab smirked. “Or rather it was. At first. But that’s not the point. This is not an idle amusement that I can toss away on writing a fraudulent invitation for a scholar who shouldn’t even want to go to a ball.”

Kaab scoffed. “Fine. You need not worry about these idle amusements. I will help Micah get in.”

“Really?” Micah asked. He was clearly distressed by the fight, his hands clenched into fists and his shoulders hunched.

“Yes. We’ll go together,” Kaab said firmly, taking hold of Micah’s elbow.

“Do whatever you want,” Rafe said. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

“I am happy to not tell you things.” Kaab was clearly angry, but she maintained her control as she led Micah away.

Rafe wished he could be as calm. Now that his outburst was over, he was already beginning to regret it. Joshua knew him well enough to know that Rafe’s rantings weren’t always meant to be taken seriously, but Micah and Kaab weren’t as familiar with him. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that he’d exploded. He was dealing with a year’s delay in becoming a Master, a noble lover with an unsettling wife, a society occasion he dreaded but wasn’t sure he’d be able to avoid, the shallowness of an entire City, and now unreasonable demands that would require him to compromise his own sense of honor. Anyone would have shouted, surely.

Well, he’d find a way to apologize to them later.

 

“Tell Tess what you need,” Kaab said, pushing Micah forward.

Micah hesitated. She didn’t like asking strangers for favors, but Kaab had promised that Tess wouldn’t mind. Tess wasn’t what Micah had expected from a Riversider. Cousin Reuben had told her never to go to Riverside because the people who lived there were dangerous, and Rafe had said the same thing, but Tess looked nice. She was plump with red hair braided back from her face, and she wore a plain dress with ink stains on her sleeve; that made Micah feel better. Micah’s clothes usually had ink stains on them too, though at least they didn’t show on the black robes she wore at the University.

“I need an invitation to a party, please,” Micah said. “I mean, a ball. The one that Rafe’s duchess is holding soon.”

Tess smiled. “I can do that for you. Invitations are easy, at least as long as you have a real one to copy from.”

Micah’s hopes plummeted, but Kaab patted her on the shoulder and pulled a letter from her pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the one the duchess sent to my family.” She handed it to Tess, who flipped it open and began studying it. The paper was much thicker than what Micah used for her own letters and was a brighter white too. “I’ll need it back, though I doubt she’ll have forgotten about us by the time we show up at her door.”

Tess nodded, distracted. She held the letter up toward the window and examined the way the light shone through the paper. “I’ve got good matches for the paper and ink on hand. This shouldn’t take me very long. If you have the time to wait, I’ll do it right now.”

Kaab smiled. “We have plenty of time. I would be honored to watch you work.”

Tess’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. . . .”

“No, it’s fascinating.” Kaab moved closer to Tess. “You’re so skilled.”

Micah sighed. Why were they talking so much? Tess spread the invitation out on a bare table near the window, while Kaab sat down next to her. She was so close that occasionally her arm bumped against Tess’s, which didn’t seem helpful for writing, and their voices dropped almost to whispers, punctuated by giggles. Micah didn’t see anything funny about paper and ink.

She decided to ignore them and studied the rest of Tess’s apartment. It was somewhat like Rafe’s rooms, but much bigger and with fewer people, which was nice. It was much brighter, too, both because of the large windows and because of a full-length mirror that reflected their light despite a spider web of cracks in its bottom corner. Silk and velvet scarves were tacked to the walls, hiding the peeling paint with bright blue and purple patterns. There were overlapping rugs on the floor, soft enough for Micah’s shoes to sink into them.

The most interesting thing, though, was a desk not far from Tess’s worktable. It had all sorts of drawers and shelves, and every surface was covered in paper of different weights and sizes, bottles of ink and sticks of wax in a rainbow of colors, dozens of quills and penknives for sharpening them. Micah opened one drawer to discover a pile of seals, made of wood and terra-cotta and one of iron. She closed that drawer and opened the one below it, which was stuffed full of tiny glass bottles and released a strong stinging smell that made her flinch back and cough.

“Those are my perfumes,” Tess said, looking over at the sound. “For when I need to forge a love letter.”

Micah didn’t understand why anyone would want a made-up love letter. Other people’s feelings were confusing enough; why make it even more complicated?

“By the way, who are you?” Tess asked. Micah wondered how Tess had forgotten her name. It wasn’t a long or complicated name. It wasn’t even foreign, and, anyway, Tess could remember Kaab’s name just fine. But to be polite, Micah introduced herself again.

Tess laughed and gestured at the new invitation she was writing. “Yes, but the Duchess Tremontaine wouldn’t invite Micah, the turnip girl pretending to be a University boy, to her ball. So who do you want to be on the invitation?”

“I’m not pretending to be at the University. I am there,” she said, going through the pile of papers on top of the desk. One of them was so strange that it caught her attention: a round circle thickly scattered with what appeared to be randomly sized dots. Each dot was labeled with symbols from a language Micah didn’t recognize and numbers that she did. She held up the paper, turned it sideways and upside down, but still couldn’t make sense of it. “What is this?”

“Don’t mess with Tess’s work,” said a deep voice behind her.

Micah dropped the paper and spun around, finding herself face-to-face with a tall, dark-haired man who hadn’t been there before. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t scare her, Applethorpe,” Kaab said, getting up from Tess’s side. She picked the paper up from where it had drifted to the floor and handed it back to Micah. “This is for you, actually. It’s the star chart I was telling you about. I had Tess make a copy, so that way my uncle will still have his, and you’ll have yours, and everyone will be happy.” Kaab leafed through the pile of papers and pulled out several other sheets that looked very similar to the one in Micah’s hands. “Here, here, and here. Take them home and study them very closely.”

“What about that one?” Micah asked, pointing at a similar-looking chart in the pile.

“Oh, no, no.” Kaab rolled it up before Micah could get a good look at it and tucked it into a pouch at her side. “This one is my uncle’s. I have to take it back to him. You just use those ones I gave you.”

Micah looked at the charts. “But I can’t read any of it! Tell me what this means.” She pointed to one of the symbols next to a dot; it looked like a human face that had been squished into a square.

“It’s the name of the star. I could translate for you, but I’m sure you have different names for them. Focus on the numbers; I had Tess write those in your fashion.” She looked at Tess. “Right? You did make the changes I asked for?”

Tess nodded, then glanced quickly at Micah before looking away again.

“I’ve never seen anything like these,” Micah said, fascinated despite her confusion. “I don’t know how to use them.”

Kaab shrugged. “They’re stars. Other than that, you’ll have to figure it out yourself, because I don’t know what it means either.” She continued poking through the papers on Tess’s desk, tucking away other star charts that must also have belonged to her uncle. She stopped at a pencil sketch of a piece of jewelry and stared at it for a moment, then held it up to Tess. “Is this what I think it is?”

Tess nodded silently, and Applethorpe moved closer. Micah hurriedly stepped away, but he only took the drawing from Kaab and studied it.

“The locket and chain were gold, I’d say,” Tess said, “and the little chips round the edge were diamonds. The bird was done up in gems too.”

Micah looked at the paper again since everyone else seemed to think it was very important, but it only looked like an oval locket on a chain—with a swan at its center and a balanced pattern of lines and curlicues behind it that was really quite satisfying. If it were real, and not just a drawing, Micah would have wanted to touch it. She turned her attention back to her new charts. She was beginning to figure them out: If the dots were stars, then these six dots here must be the Cockerel, a constellation her uncle had taught her to find in the night sky. Therefore the numbers must be . . . no, she didn’t understand it yet.

Kaab set the locket sketch back on the desk and turned to Micah. “Don’t worry about that,” she said, which was fine because Micah wasn’t worried. “Tell me who you want to be at the ball.”

“I want to be myself,” she said. “Who else could I be?”

“Micah, the real Micah, can’t go to the ball. So we’ll just make you into someone who does go to balls at Tremontaine House. We need to do more than just make you your own invitation; we have to make it so that if the duchess sees you, she believes she might have invited you.”

“That seems like lying.”

Kaab exchanged a glance and a small smile with Applethorpe. “Think of it like a feint instead. A little trick, to make everyone look away. Besides, it’s no different from telling everyone you’re a boy.”

Micah shook her head. “I don’t do that. Everyone thinks I’m a boy. I don’t tell them otherwise, but that’s not lying.”

Tess laughed. “That’s splitting a fine hair.”

“Why do you do it, by the way?” Kaab asked. “Do you want to be a boy?”

“No, I don’t mind being a girl. But people bother boys less; that’s what Cousin Reuben says.”

Tess smiled. “Cousin Reuben’s a wise man. But what do you do when you’ve got your cycles?”

“Rags,” Micah said. “Like anyone.”

“Even at the University?” Tess tilted her head to one side. “I thought the students lived all crammed together, like birds in a nest. Someone must notice.”

“Rafe’s really busy. And dramatic. And messy. He doesn’t pay attention to things like rags.”

Kaab snorted. “Of course he doesn’t. Does he pay attention to anything other than himself?”

“I don’t mind,” Micah said. “No one notices everything. I’d rather he noticed my calculations than my blood.”

Applethorpe laughed with approval, and Micah decided that maybe he wasn’t as scary as she’d thought. “Well, you’ll have to stay a boy for a little longer,” he said. “Noble girls don’t go to parties on their own. At least not until they’re widows, and you’re a little young for that.”

Kaab nodded. “It is the same in my country. What kind of boy do you want to be, Micah?”

Micah bit her lip and thought hard. “I want to be things that are true,” she decided. “I am good with crops. I like mathematics. I go to the University. I am not from the City. I have a big family.”

“How about a rich merchant?” Tess suggested, looking at Kaab. “Merchants aren’t so very different from farmers, so she should be able to pull it off.”

Kaab shook her head. “No, the Tremontaine ball isn’t a ball that merchants go to. My family will be the first Trading family to ever attend.”

“Why not take her with you? She could be your maid or something.”

Micah liked that idea. It would be much less scary with Kaab there to tell her what to do. But she didn’t think it would fool the duchess. Micah looked nothing like Kaab and didn’t speak her language. “That won’t work,” she said.

Applethorpe took Micah by the shoulders and studied her for several seconds, then pronounced, “Minor country nobility.”

Kaab narrowed her eyes in thought. “Will that work? Back home, the nobles all know each other.”

“Trust me. There’s always someone’s second cousin or uncle once removed or discreetly reared by-blow at these sorts of things. Their family trees are too complicated for even the nobles to keep track of everyone. Besides, look at her. Everyone has a dozen forgettable relatives that look exactly like her.”

Kaab turned to Micah. “It’s not so different from the truth. A big family in the country . . . I suppose if you’re minor enough nobility, you might even have helped on the farm. Does that sound like something you can do?”

Micah nodded.

Kaab clapped her hands together and grinned. “Now to the fun part! Let’s get you some new clothes.”

 

Rafe found himself left alone in the marketplace with a great deal of annoyance and nothing to do with it. He could have headed to the University, of course, to contemplate Micah’s table of artificial numbers. He could have found Joshua and complained, or other friends who would let him dispel his irritation in a round of cards or a beer or two. But those were sensible occupations, and he wasn’t in the mood for sensible. Instead he remembered that Will had an appointment nearby at his tailor’s.

Durham’s had pride of place in the center of Threadneedle Row. A large window in the front displayed several items of clothing, their cut elaborate and colors exquisite. Rafe imagined that he would be the first scholar ever to pass over its threshold.

He pushed open the heavy oak door, setting off a small bell, and was greeted by the calming masculine scents of lavender and citron. A gentleman lounged in a leather armchair drawn close to the window’s light, idly perusing a broadsheet as he waited for his appointment, or perhaps simply using the space as his own private club.

A clerk emerged from the back. “Yes?” he asked imperiously, one eyebrow raised.

Rafe hated introducing himself as a secretary, but he had no other excuse for being here. Let them make what they would of his scholar’s robe and long hair.

“I will inform the duke of your presence.” The clerk disappeared into the back, leaving Rafe to loiter awkwardly. He told himself he belonged here as much as any man did. If he had stayed with his family and gone into business, he would be buying clothes from fine establishments like this one, or close to it. Of course, his current garments gave no hint of the status he’d so proudly rejected; his scholar’s robe covered most of the wrinkled clothes he wore, but was itself fraying at the hem and in need of laundering. Rafe couldn’t suppress the sense that his presence was improper. This is what working on the Hill has done to me, he thought savagely.

The clerk returned and ushered him back to a fitting room where Will waited, smiling broadly, dispelling Rafe’s lingering fear that he might be turned away.

“Rafe! I’m so glad to see you. What a wonderful surprise.”

Will wore unfinished breeches, the lining showing and a flurry of loose threads emerging from the seams, and had on nothing but his shirtsleeves. Rafe had seen him naked before, but he was somehow more compelling in this half-dressed state, slivers of pale skin visible at his neck and wrist, the shape of his body a shadow glimpsed through the linen.

Here, deep in the heart of all Durham’s formality, there was only Will, a mortal man like Rafe, nothing more. But nothing less, either. It was more intimate than Rafe had expected, especially once Will sent away the clerk and tailor. He let Will take his hand and draw him close, then kiss him without words.

This was what Rafe needed after his fight with Micah and Kaab. Someone who understood him; the simple physical pleasure of human contact. When they parted, Rafe let his forehead sink to Will’s shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Will asked. “You seem upset, my dear.”

Rafe sighed. “It’s been a trying day. No—days. Your wife has had me writing invitations to her ball. She didn’t even let me compose them myself, but dictated every word, as though I couldn’t be trusted to address a noble.”

“She doesn’t have a secretary of her own right now. I’m sure she only meant to help.”

“No.” Rafe shrugged out of Will’s embrace and stepped away. “She was trying to irritate me—I’m certain of it. She wanted to waste my time and keep me from my real work.”

“But why would Diane do that?” Will’s expression suddenly changed. “You . . . you don’t think she knows about us, do you?”

In fact, Rafe did, but when confronted with Will’s obvious horror at the idea, he found himself unable to say so. He waved a hand as though unconcerned. “And what if she does? It’s only an affair; there’s nothing for her to be bothered by.”

“I’m not sure I see it that way,” Will said softly. “And I am certain that Diane won’t either.”

“Why shouldn’t she? I know your marriage was arranged, so you can’t tell me she considers herself in love with you! I’m glad that you two seem to have found some measure of camaraderie in your years together, but surely she understands the realities of married life by now.”

Will avoided his gaze, staring off toward the bones of a waistcoat that was folded over the back of a chair. It was made of a vivid crimson clearly intended to pair with the more muted burgundy of the half-finished breeches he was wearing. He gave no answer.

A suspicion began to grow in Rafe’s mind. “You have had affairs before, haven’t you?”

“Well, no, actually I haven’t,” Will said, still looking away. “And neither has the duchess, if you’re wondering. I am sure of her,” he added stoutly, his voice firm in support of his wife.

The last thing Rafe wanted to hear right now was his lover praising his wife. This was an unforeseen disaster. He, Rafe Fenton, saddled with an inexperienced lover and a sure to be jealous wife! And yet . . . Will was, if new to this game, not unskilled. Far from it. And there was something compelling about the idea of being his first. Well, not his first exactly, but the first of a sort. The first to seduce the steadfastly loyal Duke Tremontaine from the arms of that grasping, irritating wife of his . . .

Rafe found himself drifting back toward Will. Will’s shirt was warm and soft beneath his hands as he moved them across Will’s chest. “Never mind,” Rafe said, done with the topic. “I’m sure she suspects nothing. We’ve been very discreet.”

They kissed; Will’s mouth was hot and sweet, and Rafe couldn’t seem to get enough. “I like you in these clothes,” he said, his lips brushing Will’s jaw. “Red is a good color for you.”

Will smiled, his long fingers pulling Rafe’s hair from its queue. “Shall I buy you an outfit as well? You will need something to wear to the ball, you know.”

Rafe didn’t want to talk about the ball, so he kissed him again. Words soon grew unimportant, and they might have gone further than kissing had not the tailor bustled in, a coat in one hand and a bundle of lace in the other.

Rafe broke away from Will and fled quickly, his face hot. The tailor certainly knew now, which meant nothing, but it deepened his conviction that the duchess did too, and was far less amused.

 

The four of them—Micah and Kaab and Tess and the man called Applethorpe, too—left Tess’s rooms and followed her through the winding streets of Riverside. She led them to a house that looked much like her own, a large building that had been fancy once, when it had been younger and cleaner and had glass in all its windows. Now it was a bit scary and leaned crookedly over the narrow alley like a gargoyle. They entered through a back door and went up a flight of stairs with no windows or lanterns to light the way; at the top, Tess pounded on a door and waited through the click and rattle of multiple locks being undone.

But after all of that, the door swept open to reveal a shop. Micah thought it was odd to have a shop hidden up a flight of stairs with no signs marking the way. How would anyone find it? But otherwise it seemed to be normal, if a bit messy. There were racks of clothes filling most of the space, and piles of more clothes on every surface, and a few shelves displaying odds and ends like pocket watches and hatpins and jewelry. A group of girls was sitting in a circle, working with needles and thread on handkerchiefs. At first Micah thought they were doing embroidery, but a closer look showed just the opposite: They were picking out monogrammed letters to make plain, unadorned handkerchiefs. That was odd too.

The oldest of the girls—a woman, really—stood and greeted Tess with an embrace. “This is Madeline,” Tess said to Micah and Kaab. “Though her place is called Vanessa’s.”

Everyone seemed to have two names lately. Even Micah herself did now, since according to her new invitation she was Thomas Abney.

“You want some toast and cheese?” Madeline asked. “I’ll do it for you all for five, which is a better price than Jenny offers. I can also find you some wine, but it’ll be ten for a bottle of the good stuff.”

“Is this a cookshop, too?” Micah asked.

Madeline laughed. “Of course. Anything you want, duck, I’ll get it for you—at the right price. I even got beds in the back if you need a place to sleep.”

Micah shook her head. “I already have a place to stay, thank you.”

“No food for us, Madeline,” Tess said. “We’re looking for an outfit for Micah, here. Something fancy, like what a noble would wear to a ball.”

Madeline cocked her hip to one side and planted a fist on it. She was a tiny woman, shorter than Micah, even, with bright black eyes and dark hair piled in a bun high on her head. “Wellll, we’re a bit short on ladies’ finery right now, but—”

“Not a problem,” Tess said. “Micah’s a young man for this one.”

Madeline did not seem confused by this. She looked at Micah, measuring with her eyes.

“I’ll take that wine you offered,” Applethorpe said.

The small woman grinned up at him. “I knew you would, Vincent.”

That settled, Madeline began to show off clothes to Tess. Doublets, scarves and hats, breeches and trousers and shiny black boots—the two of them went through dozens of pieces, Madeline holding them up just long enough for Tess to shake her head and then tossing them aside. Some of the clothes seemed brand new, and others were so old that their dyes had faded to brown or gray. Kaab was watching closely, but it seemed to be Tess who was in charge here.

Applethorpe settled on a trunk to observe, dangling his bottle of wine loosely in one hand. No one seemed much interested in what Micah thought of the clothes, so she took a seat next to him. He offered her the bottle, but she refused; she preferred chocolate but was afraid to ask Madeline for any. She didn’t know how much it would cost, and she didn’t want to waste her money if she needed to buy clothes for the ball.

“Look at this one!” Madeline crowed, holding up a coat of emerald silk with gold piping on the seams. “I just acquired it, but I’ll sell it to you, Tess. The lining’s torn, but that won’t show when your boy is wearing it.”

“No, no! That’s not right at all.” Tess began to paw through another pile of clothes. “Micah’s the younger son of a country noble. Not long in the City, and certainly not with the money for silk. Besides, it’s too fashion-forward.” She pulled out a cream-colored doublet with a pattern of diamonds in brown thread. “Now, this is what we want. Good, old-fashioned doublet his father probably wore in his first season. What do you have that matches?”

“There’s a pair of loose breeches in a lovely brown velvet somewhere in here—also out of fashion, but perhaps that’s all the better. Fine quality. I’ll let you have them both for twenty silver.”

“Silver?” Tess shouted. “I’ll give you twenty brass minnows, and that’s more than they’re worth.”

“Ten silver, then, and I’ll throw in a good linen shirt.”

“Micah already has a shirt. Three.”

Micah stopped paying attention. The numbers seemed random to her, and she didn’t understand how Tess could make them change just by arguing about it. “What do you think?” she asked Applethorpe.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Brown’s a good choice. It’ll keep you from standing out. Best way to keep anyone from noticing the holes in your story is to keep them from noticing you in the first place.” He turned to Kaab. “And what will you be wearing, Mistress Balam? You’d draw attention in any color.”

Kaab sighed and picked up a cotton petticoat that Tess had tossed aside earlier. “I don’t know. I am told that normally one has a new costume made to order, but there isn’t time for that.”

“I could fit you with a good dress,” Madeline said. She dropped a stack of clothes into Micah’s arms and showed her where she could duck between several lines of hanging clothes to try them on. “I got plenty. What color you want?”

“No,” Applethorpe said firmly. “That’ll do for Micah, but Kaab has much to lose if someone recognizes their discards from last season. Or the dress that went missing when it was supposed to be put into storage.”

“They have more clothes than they can keep track of, up on the Hill.” Madeline said, waving a red skirt. “This is good fabric. Sturdy weave, nice small stitching . . .”

“But if we wear old clothes, even good ones, won’t people notice?” Kaab asked. “We must be impressive.”

“I can make you impressive, dearie. As long as you got a good base to work with, you can do anything.”

Micah emerged clumsily from behind the hanging clothes. The doublet was so tight that she felt like she couldn’t breathe, but she liked the way the velvet felt under her fingers.

Tess came up to her and tried to tug up the vest, stopping when the seams creaked alarmingly. “Well, at least it’s the right length,” she said. “We can open the sides and add some extra fabric.”

Micah was thankful when Tess nodded and said she could change back into her old clothes. When she emerged again, once more in her old shirt, breeches, and scholar’s robe, the others were gathered around a shelf of hats and trinkets.

“What is this?” Kaab pointed to a woman’s showy four-cornered hat ornamented with an ostrich plume. “I thought you didn’t wear feathers here?”

Madeline shrugged. “They’re in one season and then out the next. Why? You got some feathers to work with?”

“Many. And our feathers are much better than this.” Kaab reached out to stroke the plume, which Micah had to admit did look rather ratty.

“Are they?” Tess drawled. “Then why not wear your wonderful feathers, but in our styles?”

“Why not . . .” Kaab laughed and hugged Tess swiftly. “You are brilliant! We have such beautiful things, we could just rearrange them: put on our jade and gold as you Locals do; wear a nose ring as a brooch, let us say. What else . . . ? Our mantles.” She sketched a large rectangle in the air. “They are woven, with bright colors and complex designs. Is there anything like that in your fashions here?”

“Sounds like a shawl to me.” Madeline dug through a nearby pile and produced a damask example, draping it around her shoulders and striking a pose.

Kaab grinned. “Excellent!” She looked to Applethorpe. “What do you think? You know these nobles better than any of us—they hire swordsmen all the time. Will this work?”

Applethorpe nodded slowly. “If you wear their clothes, they’ll think you failed because they’re not as new or stylish as the ones they wear. If you wear your own clothes, they’ll think you failed because you’re too stupid to learn our ways. But this . . . it isn’t one thing or the other.” He smiled. “Yes, I think you’ll beat them at their own game. Or maybe even make them play yours.”