Sora tried to think of a polite way to decline. She glanced awkwardly around the room, then paused. A man sat in a chair behind her. She hadn’t seen him at first because her back was turned, but recognized him. Her heart stopped.
She last encountered Lord Gracen Seabourne—captain of the King’s personal guard—two years ago in Mayville when she fled her father’s manor. In fact, he arrested her and accused her of murder. His brown hair was considerably more gray now, though she knew him to be a young man, around thirty years old. There were dark circles underneath his eyes. Still, he harbored the aristocratic grace of the First Tier, and was well-dressed in a dark green, velvet morning jacket.
He studied her intently, and she felt self-conscious. Did he recognize her? She couldn’t tell.
Dumbfounded by his presence, Sora took the offered seat and accepted a cup of tea from the maid. Ferran met her gaze curiously but she looked away. Calm down, she said to herself firmly. She needed to regain her composure. She played with the teacup, and wondered again if Lord Gracen recognized her.
The conversation continued. Sora listened to Martin chat idly about a few recent business arrangements, and a joint venture with the Daniellians. Ferran leaned forward with interest when he heard the name. She noticed he asked quite a few questions about the doings of Cedric Daniellian, now head of the Daniellian estate and a patron of the Healing seminary.
As Ferran and Martin spoke, Lord Gracen turned to her with a wan smile. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Sora,” he said. “Sora,” he repeated. “That’s a unique name.”
“Oh?” she replied. Her mouth went dry.
“Yes…,” he continued, unconcerned. “In fact, it reminds me of an incident quite a few years ago. I was called out to the high plains to a small estate. Lord Frederick Fallcrest, a country noble, was murdered at his daughter’s Blooming. The whole business was very strange. Sadly, his daughter ran off into Fennbog swamp and was killed by wild beasts.”
Sora did her best to look shocked. She even gave a small gasp. “Eaten by wild beasts?” she murmured, hoping she sounded appropriately disgusted. “Did they ever find her body?”
“No,” Lord Gracen said flatly. “But she was declared dead anyway. The swamp is nigh impassable. The hunt was abandoned about a year ago.”
“Ah,” Sora muttered. “How very sad.”
“I don’t think you’ve told me that story before,” Martin interrupted. He gazed at Lord Gracen curiously.
Seabourne crossed his legs. “Well, they were Second Tier. Not truly worth mentioning,” he said. “Country nobility. No one important.”
Sora felt ruffled at that. “If it was so unimportant, why were you called out to the countryside?” she asked, trying to remain casual. She took a sip of tea. “Seems strange you would travel so far, just for the murder of a country lord….”
Gracen frowned. “Lord Fallcrest invited me to his daughter’s Blooming and asked for a private audience. Sadly, we never had the chance to speak.”
Martin Ebonaire held up his hand suddenly. “Wait. I think I remember this Fallcrest fellow,” he said. “A bit round in the middle, with a wide drawl. Balding, I think. Didn’t he stay in the city a few years ago?”
“Aye,” Seabourne acknowledged. “He tried to strike up a business arrangement with a few investors, something about importing goods from down the coast. I assume his plans fell through.”
Martin snorted. “We met briefly,” he muttered. “I suppose my good business sense served me well. Can’t have a man dying in the middle of a new venture.” But he seemed troubled. “Whatever happened to his estate?”
Sora focused hard on her teacup.
Gracen sat back thoughtfully. “It was absorbed by the King,” he said. “Fallcrest’s brother tried to claim it, but it was tied up in court. Letters were found in Frederick’s desk implying he had committed treason…or was it tax evasion?” Gracen frowned. “Some such nonsense. No one likes to admit it, but the royal family can do what they like. They sold off the land in parcels, I believe.”
Sora felt her heart plummet, but she hid her reaction behind a handkerchief. She pretended to dab at her lips. Sold off? A hundred questions filled her mind, and she struggled to keep them in check.
At that moment, Olivia appeared at the doorway. She bowed to Martin Ebonaire. “My Lord,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt. The carriage is ready and we must be leaving.”
“Excellent timing, as I do believe we have an afternoon ride planned,” Lord Martin agreed. “And remind Donwick that Ferran’s wife will be arriving this evening, will you? We must prepare a room for her.” He stood up, as did the other men.
Sora set down her tea and got up. Lord Martin took her hand in farewell; his touch was surprisingly warm and gentle. “I’ve given a stipend to Olivia for your new wardrobe. Don’t hurry, take your time and enjoy the city.”
Sora nodded. Don’t hurry? she wondered. Perhaps Lord Martin wanted more time to feel out his rogue brother and discover his true intentions.
“I will take my leave then,” Lord Gracen said in farewell. “I have business in the Gentleman’s District, then off to the royal court for a hearing this afternoon.”
“An eventful day, as always,” Martin grinned. “And tomorrow? Will you be busy with the parade?”
“Same as every year,” Lord Gracen said dryly. The weight of responsibility dampened his voice. A maid entered with his cane and coat. He donned them both, turned and strode away, his cane tapping rhythmically on the polished wooden floor.
Sora gazed after him, filled with both relief and burning curiosity. Her stepfather, accused of treason? Her estate dissolved? It didn’t sit right. She craved to know more.
And then, that long-ago question—who hired Crash to kill her father? Was the culprit here in this very city? In The Regency, perhaps?
She sighed softly, wondering where Crash had gone. He wasn't there that morning, and she had expected him to accompany her around The Regency. His absence bothered her more than she wanted to admit. What if they ran across the Shade? Olivia wouldn’t be much help in a fight. Weren’t they supposed to be looking for Burn, and for the Shade’s hideout?
She shared a look with Ferran; his eyes cautioned her to be careful. Then she curtsied elegantly and left the room, with Olivia in tow.
CHAPTER 21
By noon, The Regency streets were crowded with foot traffic, and carriages traveled slowly down the cobblestone roads. In some places, the snow had melted and formed slick patches of black ice. Horses picked their dainty way to and fro. The air felt crisp and moist through the open window of the Ebonaire carriage; each breath tasted of fresh snow and pine.
The Flower District spanned four blocks on the far west side of The Regency. Sora thought it resembled something out of a storybook. Clean cobblestones and wide flagstones paved the road. Signs painted with fancy gold-leaf lettering hung above each boutique. Despite the layer of snow dusting the streets, winter blossoms grew in long planters by the side of the road. Flowers bloomed beneath windowsills, above doorways, or in large pots next to the entrance of each store. She recognized bright pink camellias, dainty white snowdrops, sprawling winter jasmine and bushels of purple violets, all hardy plants with small, bright petals that could resist the frost. She imagined in Spring the District would be overflowing with color and rich perfume. And bees, she thought.
Many ladies walked slowly along the street with their maids or footmen. Older women traveled with their servants or a single companion, while the younger girls moved in large packs, giggling and laughing with each step. They wore skirts supported by wide panniers, just like Sora’s, and fur-lined cloaks buttoned tight around their shoulders. Some wore decorative hats above lavish, curled hair.
Sora remembered Olivia trying to thrust such a hat upon her this morning. She declined, and wore her hair braided. Her lack of glamour seemed not to impress Olivia in the least.
She didn’t know which families the women on
the street hailed from, but judging by their dress, she realized Olivia’s extravagant gown wasn’t over-the-top. Lady Danica obviously had expensive taste, but her gowns were elegant, almost understated. Some of the girls wore dresses with large, puffy sleeves and gaudy patterns, or feathers pinned every which way on their bodice. They looked like bright, bejeweled peacocks. Sora glanced down at her royal blue skirts again and thought, Expensive, but tasteful.
As their carriage pulled up alongside a group of stores, the driver opened the door and helped them step out.
“Here, Milady,” Olivia said, directing her to the nearest boutique. “First, we shall secure several day-gowns, then a few dinner gowns, and a costume for the winter festival, which we can get at a store up the street. How many weeks will you be staying? Have you given thought to your mask for the festival? Black is very much in-style this season.”
“Black?” Sora asked, surprised.
Olivia nodded. “Traditional, I know, but the queen wore a black swan costume last year, and now all the young ladies want one. Lady Danica had her costume specially made by the Queen’s own designer. She likes to compete with the princess, you see…just for sport, of course. This season, she aims to win.”
Sora stared at the maid, unable to think of a response. Olivia politely ignored her shocked expression. Lady Danica, competing with the royal princess just for sport?
Olivia linked arms with Sora and escorted her up the street. “You’ve come a bit late in the season to have your costume made,” she continued, “but perhaps we can find a seamstress who’s willing to make alterations to a previous design….You are staying for winter solstice eve, are you not?”
Sora grimaced at that. “Yes,” she said shortly. But not for the dancing.
Olivia led her to a nearby boutique. A stone lintel arched over the door; the building's facade resembled a quaint country cottage. Inside, the floor was made of gleaming mahogany wood and white plaster walls. Rolls of fabric and strips of embroidery lined a long, narrow aisle that was the only pathway through the small store.
Upon setting foot inside, Sora noted a large desk to their left. A short, gray-haired clerk sat behind it, poring over a bundle of dark green fabric. As he glanced up over his thick spectacles, his gaze drifted over Sora and focused on Olivia with immediate recognition.
“My darling!” the clerk exclaimed as he jumped up. He immediately rounded the desk and approached at an excited pace. He grasped Olivia’s hand with a flourish and kissed the back of her palm. “My dear girl, how are you? And who is this lovely lady you bring to my shop?”
Olivia grinned. “Oh, Edward, you are too much!” she gushed, then stepped aside and indicated Sora with a swift curtsy. “This is Lady Sora Ebonaire, a cousin of Lady Danica’s who is visiting for the winter season.”
A spark appeared in the clerk’s eyes: Ebonaire meant wealth. He turned to Sora with a vibrant smile. “Lady Sora!” the clerk greeted her. He said her name in a way that sounded respectful and endearing all at once.
Sora became acutely aware of her deception. She forced herself not to curtsy in return. An Ebonaire would only bow to those of equal or greater rank—namely, the royal bloodline—so she remained aloof. Just say nothing, she thought.
The clerk recovered from her silence. “Welcome to Winsome Couture, a boutique specializing in the most current fashion trends!” he said, even more eager to please. “Our seamstresses work extensively with the royal family and all the upper tier. We just finished a new ball gown for Lady Marcella LeCroy, a good friend of Danica’s. I don’t suppose you know her?”
“No,” Sora replied.
“Ah, well, you are in good hands, I assure you. Let’s take your measurements.”
Edward led them down the narrow aisle to the back of the store. Sora felt suffocated by so many reams of cloth. Every kind of fabric imaginable spilled from the walls: bundles of silk, piles of brocade, streams of chiffon, rolls of cotton and velvet. Finally, she found herself at the rear of the boutique, in a quaint circular room surrounded by mirrors. Potted ivy and large indoor ferns grew along the walls. Sora was mildly impressed. Despite the fact that the boutique resembled a messy closet, it was still decorated in style.
Olivia led her behind one of the mirrors to a small changing stall. There, Sora removed her dress and panniers until she wore only her undergarments. She hesitated when Olivia tried to escort her back to the measuring room, and the maid smiled sweetly.
“Don’t worry, Milady. This is routine,” she assured.
Sora nodded. Strange, that she could traipse around the Lost Isles in a ripped shirt and no shoes without a second thought, but removing her skirts in The Regency gave her pause.
Olivia escorted her back into the room and helped her onto a small footstool. Then Edward returned with a strip of measuring cloth. He bustled about with a professional air, and Sora stood patiently as he measured her arms, bust, waist and hips. He jotted down numbers, occasionally muttering to himself.
“Thank you, Milady,” he said as he finished. “This has given me much to work with.”
The short ritual finished, Olivia assisted her back into her dress and they returned to the front of the shop.
“Do you have a certain style in mind?” the clerk asked. “Let me show you our design book.”
Sora opened her mouth to respond, but Olivia took over at that point, explaining to him that several dresses were to be made. She listed a series of possible fabrics and cuts. Sora stayed behind as Edward led Olivia to the design book at his desk as ideas rolled easily off his tongue. Her eyes glazed over. She wanted to go explore the city, not spend all day standing on a stool, wrapped in cloth and stuck full of needles.
She looked out the front window at the line of shops across the narrow street.
An hour or more had passed since they had arrived at the shop, and the clouds were thinning overhead as the afternoon sun grew warmer. At times, a ray of sunlight broke through the dense sky to melt the frozen cobblestones.
A carriage passed. Sora frowned. Was that the Seabourne crest painted on the door?
The carriage stopped across the street, and she watched two young women step out of the coach. She wondered if they were directly related to Lord Gracen. One looked like she could be his sister and the other was younger, perhaps a niece. They walked into a perfume shop across the way.
Sora’s mind traveled back to her conversation with Lord Gracen that morning. She had the sudden desire to ask him more questions about her stepfather’s demise. Had her father truly committed treason? Why did Lord Fallcrest invite him to her Blooming? Did Gracen know who ordered her father's murder?
She took two steps toward the door, then paused. Lord Gracen wasn’t at the Ebonaire estate anymore. He left already, saying he had business in the Gentleman’s District.
She wondered how to excuse herself from the tailor's shop. Even as a noblewoman, she had never been one for tact, and her patience had shortened admirably in the last year. Enough of this nonsense, she thought. Time to do something useful.
She walked boldly up to Olivia and Edward, who were still huddled over the design book. She placed her hands on Olivia’s shoulders and said crisply, “Well, my dear, are we having any luck?”
Olivia started, “Ah…I’ve found a few gowns that might work, should you approve.”
“Then I’ll leave this in your very capable hands,” Sora said. “Edward,” she added to the store clerk, “Don’t let me down!” Then, with a swift turn on her heel, she started back across the room, striding with a purposeful gait, her pointed slippers clicking on the wooden floor.
“But, My Lady, we are not yet finished! Where are you going?” Olivia called after her.
“To get some fresh air,” she said brightly. “I’ll be close by!” But of course, she had no intention of staying close to them. She felt a little guilty for lying, but she hadn’t come to The Regency to shop for dresses. If she couldn’t hunt down Burn, she could at least investigate the demi
se of her estate.
She passed through the archway into the frozen street, then started toward the Ebonaire coach.
* * *
Ferran returned around mid-afternoon from an uneventful ride with his brother.
They had shared few words during the hours. Ferran found himself wondering whether he should ask about Simeon, or Lady Danica’s health—but he didn’t quite feel comfortable. Eventually, his brother broke the silence by pointing to an old deer trail and recalling how he and Ferran used to hunt game during the summer months. Ferran relaxed somewhat, but still felt on edge. He didn’t know how to act around his brother. Did he keep up his pretense of nobility, or slide into his familiar habits and ways of speech, allowing his brother to see how the last two decades had changed him?
He still didn’t have an answer upon returning to the stables and wished Lori would arrive. At least then he would have someone to commiserate with—she always seemed to know what to say.
Ferran and his brother chatted idly for a minute about his new thoroughbred horses. They were a quality breed for hunting, with a long bloodline supposedly leading back to the war--stallions of the founding tribes of the Kingdom. Then Ferran excused himself, saying he needed to bathe and dress before Lori’s arrival. He couldn’t walk fast enough back to his rooms, where supposedly he would take a long bath.
Actually, he was headed for the second floor, to Martin’s private study. His brother’s behavior that morning had piqued his curiosity. He seemed uncomfortable around Lord Gracen, who had joined them unexpectedly for tea. At times, their conversation sounded close to an interrogation. Ferran wondered at their friendship. Had Martin found himself under suspicion of the King’s guard? Or had they been friends for some time? It wasn’t any easy question to ask aloud.
Ferran had spent many years in low places. He knew a guilty conscience when he saw one. He could practically smell his brother’s anxiety around Lord Gracen. He wanted to know what Martin was up to, and why.