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Clare had chosen her tutor well. Alys was confident in her knowledge of everyone who would be at the celebration that evening, and furthermore was capable of listing them and their families three generations back. She mercifully only did the last of these for two lineages—Numair’s and the king’s—because the sheer volume of information was otherwise overwhelming.
It was not that Clare hadn’t understood that the court of Veralna was large—though her own information was outdated, she knew the more prominent names Alys rattled off already—it was that her mind still had difficulty understanding that the world could support so many individuals possessed of obscene incomes, idle time, and comparatively idle concerns.
Clare memorized it all absently. She had never been certain if her adeptness at memorization was a natural occurrence, or if it was some side effect of the Song’s presence. Because most of the time, when she learned things, it felt more like remembering something she had known long ago, but had cause to forget until recently. Whatever the case, committing things to memory never required the whole of her attention.
So it was that half of her focused on filing information while the other half focused on the unsettled feeling in her stomach. The fluttering of unease inside her was on a level she had not felt since the day she’d left Renault County. The certainty thrumming through her that this was a moment of change that could not be undone—much like the prior one. Now, like then, she found herself on a precipice, and now, like then, the Song thrummed inside her coaxing, cajoling, and begging for release.
She had granted it, then. She could not afford to do so now.
“Clare, are you paying attention?”
She willed her nerves to settle. “Quite.”
“Then what is the name of Lord Abbott’s dog?”
Willed the Song to quiet. “His prized hunting hound or the little one his wife carries to balls?”
Alys's lips twitched.
“The hunting hound is Gibraltar and the little one is Ina.”
“One day you must explain to me how you can be in two places at once. It seems a useful skill.”
“More a curse than a skill.”
“How so?”
“If one’s mind can focus on two things with equal devotion, then it takes twice the distraction to get out of one’s own head.”
“I believe that is why people began dancing.”
Clare frowned—she supposed she should break the habit, as Alys never seemed to perform it herself. “Dancing is nothing but memorized steps in time to music. A task performed without thought as easily as walking.”
Alys laughed, then. “If that’s what you think, you haven’t done dancing correctly at all. I’ll give you a hint—half of it is finding the correct partner.”
There was clearly some underlying entendre there Clare was meant to understand, but didn’t. The Song nudged at her wanting, as always, to grant her that understanding. She shunted the offer aside.
“One more thing about tonight.” Alys finished applying the paint to Clare’s lips and pulled back to study the final result. “I do not know what you did to land yourself this engagement and truthfully, I do not care. But I do care what you reflect back on Marquin and Verol. Do not embarrass them.
“You are not only there as entertainment, but as Verol’s apprentice. The first he has taken in nearly two decades. It will generate interest, as will that pretty new gem in your ear. But do not delude yourself. They are not interested in you. Only in using you. And if you are foolish enough to allow them to, it is the Arrendons who will pay the price.”
Clare clamped down on the fiery retort that wanted to leave her mouth. Her temper, restrained for nearly the entirety of her life, kept wanting to rip out of her these days. But instead of telling Alys the many unpleasant places she could shove her advice, Clare arched her eyebrow and said, “Careful now. One might get the wrong impression from your concern.”
A knock sounded on the door before Alys could reply. In the vanity mirror’s reflection, Clare saw Marquin standing on the threshold of her room. His gaze focused on her back for a second too long, as if he could see her true skin beneath the glamour.
Some mages could, in the same way she could see beneath it, but if any of those were at the party tonight, she was counting on them not caring enough to look past it. In her wanderings through Hightown she’d caught the scent of glamour on practically everyone—for clearer skin, shinier hair, different colored eyes—and she expected it would only be more prominent at a celebration like the prince’s. Her glamour should simply be one in a hundred.
She stood and turned, daring him to say anything about her scars. “Aren’t you going to tell me I look pretty?” she finally asked, when the silence grew awkward.
“You look beautiful,” he said dutifully. “But you already know that. Could I speak with you alone for a moment?”
Alys needed no further urging to depart, giving Marquin’s shoulder a friendly squeeze on her way out.
“She offered to help you?” Marquin asked, clearly doubting that was the case.
“Something like that. What did you want to talk about?”
“I wanted to apologize. For what I said earlier.”
