Part One
Act 1
Chapter One
In Which Our Heroine Does Not Dance
3rdApril 1820
Disaster.
Another man making trouble and leaving Celia to fix it. This one had stumbled through the dance lines, knocked Celia down, and was still talk-talk-talking, zig-zagging into a Chippendale table as he backed away. The vase lurched, scattering petals onto the assembly room corridor, and Celia reached out reflexively.
“You—ahem—will be quite fine?”
The Honorable Miss Celia Westhaven steadied the teetering amphora and smiled politely.
It was obvious to a blind mole that she was not fine. Her chignon sagged over her left ear, her torn hem trailed behind her, and her dance partner was leaving her in the corner of the assembly rooms with only a fake Egyptian vase for company.
But men always felt better if someone smiled at them, so Celia smiled. It must have worked, for Mr. Whatever-his-name-was bowed, vanishing almost before he was upright. Celia rubbed her elbow, worrying how quickly the word about her tumble would spread.
Very quickly, apparently, for her aunt was scurrying towards her already.
“My poor little poppet!” Aunt Thompson’s ostrich feathers bounced along, her voice pitched to carry.
“Let me assist you to a parlor and fix your dress,” she declared. Embracing Celia as she never did at home, she muttered, “and I have a thing or two to say to you, my girl.”
Celia did not need her aunt to chide her. Maybe by next year, she could don the spinster’s cap instead of trundling around to these ridiculous parties.
Maybe by next year, her brother would bring her home. Celia was ready for Ireland, green slopes and wild forests and fireside tales in her own language.
Aunt Thompson snugged her arm around Celia’s waist. She let her voice carry and cooed, “Are you hurt, poor doll?” Then dropped to a whisper: “Limp, Celie.”
Celia staggered obediently, secretly enjoying how her aunt smelled. Although something was wrong tonight—the tension in her aunt’s arm, how flustered she had become after one little—
“Syncopate, Celia,” Aunt Thompson reminded her, humming Handel’s Hornpipe.
It was the Cu Sidhe pursuing her—Celia slipped into story as she limp-marched down the corridor. They followed the scene of her misery like real hounds followed a trace of blood, knowing she was weakest in high society. The hellhounds’ red eyes glared through the crystal glasses, their pointed ears peeking around balconies only painted to look like marble, their enormous paws reaching up to trip her in the gavotte—
“Here we are.” Aunt Thompson chivvied them into an overheated parlor, her shawls and sashes bobbing around her plump figure. “You aren’t actually injured, are you?”
“Oh no…” Celia rubbed her elbow absently, glimpsing a slightly chipped clock. Four more hours to go, unless she could convince her aunt to call for their carriage. She should have saidshe sprained her ankle. Broke her leg. Lost her entire foot in the melee and could never dance again.
“Wonderful,” Aunt Thompson cried, as the door opened, “here’s Charlotte Bigelowe. You’re so good with a needle, dear.”
Celia turned towards the fire instead of greeting her friend. If she met Charlotte’s eyes she might start to giggle, which would irritate her aunt—or cry, which would irritate herself. Celia removed her gloves and Charlotte helped arrange the torn skirt around her on the ottoman, while her aunt clattered about pouring drinks and finding the sewing kit on the sideboard.
The door slammed.
“Rose!” Aunt Thompson, usually so collected, dropped a spoon on the floor.
Celia tensed. She recognized that tone; Aunt Thompson and her eldest daughter had done nothing but quarrel lately. Charlotte drew up to Celia’s side, pincushion in one hand and her face shuttered.
“Rose, if you want to make a fuss, you can wait until we get home,” Aunt Thompson snapped. “And you haven’t any right to an opinion, to be perfectly frank.”
If Aunt Thompson didn’t want Rose’s opinion, then she planned to discuss gentlemen.
“I know better than to make a scene in public.” Rose’s voice was low and angry. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Celia.”
