The Mask of Mirrors by M. Carrick; (different e readers txt) 📕

with more chocolate. Extend my apologies, not feeling well—you know what to say.” It wasn’t Vargo’s first time at the Heron of the South Wind, nor was it the first time he’d had to leave abruptly.

Choking up on his sword cane, he headed for the river and a skiff to the Lower Bank. I almost had her. If she slips the hook now…

Whoever had gone after Hraček, he was going to make them bleed.

Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Suilun 8

Renata arrived too early at Traementis Manor. She was used to traveling the city on foot, not by sedan chair, and kept misestimating how long it would take her to get anywhere. After being late to lunch with Vargo, she’d erred too far in the other direction.

She wondered what could have sparked Vargo’s sudden departure. Illness? He’d looked unwell, certainly. And she couldn’t think of anything she might have said or done to drive him off.

The darkened skies were still echoing with the first bell of second earth as she climbed out of the chair. Two bells too early for her dinner appointment. Renata stood, trying not to fidget with tension, while Tess paid the bearers. What money she saved on food by accepting invitations to meals was instead going to transport, and then some—but what choice did she have? Someone of her status didn’t walk everywhere.

But it might not matter soon. After lunch, she’d spent the afternoon reading through Vargo’s proposal. He turned out to have a surprisingly meticulous mind; his documents laid out everything a Seterin visitor wouldn’t know about the inner workings of the Charterhouse, from the responsibilities of the five seats to the legal terms of charters. The only thing it left out was why House Traementis was the perfect target for the idea—but that, Ren knew without being told.

Now all she had to do was sell his audacity to Donaia.

“If anyone can talk those two into striking palms, it’s you,” Tess assured her as she settled the drape of Renata’s sleeves to the most pleasing effect. “But just in case dinner goes poorly, I’ll send a messenger to tell Altan Bondiro you won’t be joining him at the theatre later.”

Before Renata could make up her mind to find an ostretta and spend the remaining two bells planning her attack, the door to Traementis Manor opened. Clearly the majordomo had been keeping watch. Renata had no choice but to mount the stairs and let him escort her to the same salon where she’d first met Donaia while Tess was sent downstairs to join the other servants. She didn’t have Ren’s knack for manipulating people, but she didn’t need it; her natural sweet demeanor would work its own magic, and when the night was over, she might have some interesting gossip to share.

Nothing Renata saw supported Vargo’s claim that House Traementis’s fortunes were suffering. There were coffee and tea kept warm in imbued pots, and a mellow wine kept chilled in an imbued decanter. A fire crackled in the hearth, the numinat inlaid on the wall behind reflecting the heat outward into the room.

Compared to the days when the Fulvet seat had belonged to them, perhaps the Traementis had indeed declined. But Ren had seen real poverty; she knew how many of the furnishings around her could be sold, and for how much. Their notion of hardship is probably having to buy Vraszenian rice wine instead of grape wine from Seste Ligante.

“Era Traementis is dressing, and Altan Leato has not yet returned,” Colbrin said, his tone mild but his words their own rebuke. “I will inform Alta Giuna of your arrival.”

“No need, Colbrin.” Giuna touched his arm and gave him a smile of dismissal, then hurried in to take Renata’s hands in greeting. “I shouldn’t admit it, but I’ve been sitting in my window all afternoon. I’m so happy you came early. We’ll have time to talk before Mother is done with her papers.”

Unless Donaia intended to wear paper to dinner, one of the two explanations about how she was currently occupied was false. Renata let it pass without comment and followed Giuna’s tug toward the hearth and mantel. “Look, see? I put it here because it catches the light so nicely.” Giuna brushed her fingers over the glass sculpture Renata had gifted her. Its blue didn’t match the peaches and golds of the rest of the room, but that hadn’t deterred her from giving the bauble a place of honor.

Renata knew better than to swallow Letilia’s stories whole, but the themes of her former mistress’s complaints were clear enough: Donaia was a skinflint; Donaia was a prude; Donaia insisted that everything in the house be to her liking, and never mind what anyone else preferred. Even filtering for exaggeration, Renata was surprised Donaia had let the glass mar her lovely salon—especially when the less-favored child put it there.

Giuna’s dress bore out Letilia’s first two assertions. The dove-grey underdress and simple sleeves were pretty enough, if boring, but the murky plum and stiff, straight lines of her surcoat dragged on her like a rain-heavy cloud on a gloomy day. A ribbon of bright silver silk wove around and through her tresses, though, in a passable imitation of the style Renata had worn to the Gloria.

Catching Renata’s glance, Giuna touched her hair and smiled shyly. “Our maid did the best she could with only my description to work from. I don’t look silly, do I?”

“You look lovely,” Renata said warmly. “And oh, what Tess could do with your coloring—she’s my maid, and the one who makes my dresses. I’ve a mind to set her loose on you. I saw her looking at you during the Gloria, and I know that expression; it’s the one she gets when she’s busy sewing in her mind.” It had the merit of being true.

Giggling, Giuna pressed fingers to her reddening cheeks. “Oh, I—”

“We couldn’t possibly trouble you to lend us your maid’s services, Alta Renata,” Era Traementis interrupted