Chapter 1 – Segoile’s Newest Rose
Lady Mionet Verr’s debut into society was perfect.
At sixteen, she had still been Mionet Boscillard, the daughter of a rustic nobleman who had never seen a city, much less something as splendid as Segoile. But Grandmother Boscillard was a canny woman who had successfully launched three daughters into society, and so they arrived in the capital two months before the social season began, to give Mionet time to get the bumpkin out of her system.
By the end of the first month, she was navigating like a native.
The Wold was a labyrinth of markets, parks, and estates that composed the aristocrats’ quarter of the city, with banners and lamps on every bridge and long rows of silver birches shading the promenades. From the many vantages over the river, she could see Starfall, distant and beautiful as a dream, its white walls and crystal-domed towers rising above the Emme.
No one was ever really prepared for Starfall.
They said Ospret Far-Eyes had raised his city from the bottom of the river, the place where his sacred celestial feet had first touched the earth of this world, the place where he had summoned and married Ambrosie Star-daughter. There his descendants had lived for over eight hundred years, along with the vast apparatus necessary for governing the Empire: servants, guards, and retainers whose loyalty had endured for generations.
There was the home of Emperor Bastin Agnephus and his Empress Esmene, who had sent an invitation to Mionet on silver-leaf paper, to welcome the next generation of debutantes.
The night of Mionet’s debut glittered even in memory. The white coach drawn by four perfectly matched chestnut horses. Her new silk gown, the first gown she had ever worn that bared her shoulders, a vivid turquoise and copper that perfectly complemented her auburn hair and unblemished skin. Even at sixteen, Mionet had never been afraid to make herself noticed.
Under a sky of dusky violet, they drove across the north bridge and through the triple gates, their crushing spiked jaws glittering silver and fancifully formed. Even the sharp teeth of Starfall’s gates were beautiful.
Beyond the gates were gardens and plazas, green lawns and temples, manmade pools overhung with ornamental trees and white star lilies perfuming the air. Through the carriage windows, she glimpsed the feet of the famous statue of Ospret Far-Eyes, sandaled and larger than the carriage. Crystal bells chimed with every breath of the breeze, adorning every door in the city.
House Boscillard was a powerful barony. For all Baron Boscillard’s rustic sensibilities—and his questionable wife—there were few that could look down on them as they stood in the long line of girls awaiting presentation. For this event, admittance was restricted only to the girl and her parents,so Mionet silently repeated her grandmother’s instructions to herself.When they call you, pick up your train first. Lift your chin. As you walk to the Empress, imagine you are walking to your groom on your wedding day in the most beautiful gown you will ever wear, and that one girl you hate has to watch.
Mionet’s mother always objected to the last part, but it never failed to make Mionet lift her chin.
“Don’t be nervous, lovely,” her mother whispered now, though the common-born Lady Boscillard was far more nervous than anyone else.
“I’m not, mother,” Mionet whispered back, gripping her lacy fan in both hands. She was not nervous. She wasn’t the least bit afraid. She wasimpatient.
The presentation of debutantes took place in the Greater Court, the larger of the throne rooms where the Divinity sat on his high dais, watching the proceedings as if from a distant star. Mionet did feel a thrill of fear when she stepped through the doors. There was the Divinity, Beloved of the Stars, whose very presence sanctified the lands of the Empire. As the line of young women moved forward, he sipped wine and occasionally turned his head to murmur to his advisors, but he did take care to look as each maiden was called forth, to formally recognize their entrance into society.
“House Boscillard, presenting the Lady Mionet,” called the herald, and Mionet picked up her train, lifted her chin, and fixed her eyes on the Empress, imagining that that bitch Onette was watching as she floated down the long violet Imperial aisle.
“Your Imperial Highness,” she said when she reached the end of the wide carpet, bending into a curtsy so perfect, it might have been used for a diagram in a book on noble etiquette.
“Lady Mionet Boscillard,” the Empress replied. “You may rise.”
Mionet obeyed. The Empress was forty-four at the time, and maturity became her. Dressed in a silver gown spangled with diamonds and crystals and her long silver hair cascading down her back, she looked like a statue, or a being summoned from the stars. For a moment, Mionet forgot what she was supposed to say.
“I am honored to meet the Empress of Argence,” she said, with a little internal jolt that she hoped did not show outside. She lifted her chin. “I am the newest Rose of Boscillard.”
“I recall another Rose of that name, when I made my debut,” the Empress replied, which meant she was pleased. “Have you an aunt?”
“Three, Your Majesty.” Mionet met her eyes boldly. Roses of Segoile were not shy. They announced themselves. “My father’s sisters are Clemenne, Seferie, and Tamenie.”
For nearly three whole minutes they exchanged pleasantries, as much a test of Mionet’s poise and wit as to give the Empress’s secretary time to write her name down into the famous silver book. The Empress’s middle-aged secretary wore white gloves, as if the book was too precious to be touched with bare hands.
Mionet was also conscious of the gaze of the Emperor, not twenty paces away, a shadow on the periphery of her vision. But her grandmother had warned her about that, too, and more than once.
Do not dare to look at the Emperor, unless he speaks to you directly,she said, deadly serious.House Boscillard will never be powerful enough or foolish enough to step between the House of Agnephus and House Melun.
It didn’tseemlike such a dangerous thing, but Grandmother Boscillard had sounded so terrible when she said it, terrible enough to impress even the brash Mionet. Mionet restricted her eyes to the ten square feet occupied by theEmpress and her attendants, and the only time she looked in the Emperor’s direction was when she and her parents paused to make their obeisance before his throne. She had the impression of thick silver hair, but she did not dare to meet the famous starry blue eyes.
Instead, she looked at his cloak, silver satin trimmed in ermine, cascading down the steps of the dais.
Even if she was only one girl among forty presented that year, the ball that night was a triumph. Mionet danced every dance. She made contacts among a dozen other noble girls—and more importantly, their mamas—and took her first heady sips of both champagne and the flattery of young men. Before the night was out, she had not one or two butthreenew suitors, though she would ultimately reject them all and wed Lord Athurin Verr before the next season.
It was a night of splendor and stardust, of music ringing to the high and glorious vaults of the Greater Court, touched by the otherworldly beauty of the House of the Emperor. The sort of night that comes once in a lifetime.
