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

from Leato’s pattern, with The Face of Stars and The Mask of Night standing on either side of The Face of Glass. Here, though, she wasn’t so sure. Storm Against Stone was raw, unstoppable force. Veiled, it ought to mean that Mettore risked being crushed by that force—and maybe that was true.

But Wings in Silk indicated a point of no return. Revealed—so from Mettore’s perspective the change would be one he welcomed. Ren doubted she would like it half as much. And the force of Storm Against Stone… it might be unleashed either way. The only question was whether Mettore himself would suffer as a consequence.

Footsteps scraping on the flagstones outside jarred Ren from her musings. With quick hands she wrapped the cards and tucked them into her pocket, standing just as Tess bumped the door open with her hip, waddling backward under two bolts of velveteen. Sedge followed with four more of silk brocade.

“Are you that set on not marrying for money?” Tess asked, leaning the bolts against the wall with as much care as Ren had used in wrapping her mother’s cards. “Because I’m fair certain I’d take Master Vargo for his warehouse alone, if he’d give me a second thought.”

Ren and Sedge exchanged dubious looks. He shook his head minutely: not marrying material.

Tess pouted for all of two breaths before shaking it off. “No matter. You’ll just have to advocate for him for the rest of our lives. Now light some candles. I want to show you what I’ve in mind for the engagement party.”

9

Jump at the Sun

Isla Indestor, the Pearls: Pavnilun 5

Traementis Manor had seemed like unimaginable splendor when Renata first set foot in it. Since then she’d visited several others and seen what they looked like when the house wasn’t in debt. But Indestor Manor, decorated for the wedding announcement of Mezzan Indestor and Marvisal Coscanum, put them all to shame.

Shimmering organza swags, imbued during their weaving to catch and reflect the light from the sconces, formed an archway from the entry hall to the ballroom. Renata and the Traementis party passed a card salon where Oksana Ryvček was collecting a pile of winnings from a rueful Ghiscolo Acrenix, then a parlour where early revelers sipped from flutes of aža-infused wine. The adjoining banquet room held cold tables of crimson fish roe and smoked mussels, ripe berries and Liganti cheeses, and hot tables of seared carp, turtle soup, and roasted partridges.

The ballroom fulfilled the promise of the organza hall. Numinata scribed for the occasion hung on heavy draperies of silver silk, the overlapping circles of Tuat’s vesica piscis—two become one—prominent in all the figures, along with the sapphire hexagram of Sessat, a nod to House Indestor’s hold on the Caerulet seat.

The floor was already crowded with couples treading figures without any help of a dance caller; Renata sent a silent thanks to Giuna for the lessons. Music wove through the swish of skirts, as far removed from a single harpist plucking in an empty ballroom as one of Tess’s muslin mock-ups was from the final ensemble.

“Oh, they’ve opened the gardens!” Giuna cried. She wended her way around the edge of the room, pulling Renata along with one hand. Trellises of creeping pearl roses blooming out of season decked the walls, spilling onto the terrace overlooking the adjacent garden. A canopy protected strolling couples from a steady drizzle, its patter a counterpoint to the music drifting from the open doors. The rose-woven trellises circling the garden formed a break against the winter rains, with braziers chasing away the chill. Treated with perfumed oils, the coals filled the air with scents of summer grass and honey. If Renata closed her eyes, she could almost believe she stood in a garden on a mild midsummer’s night.

But she couldn’t afford the luxury of immersing herself in the illusion. This was no different from casing a lace-maker’s shop, checking sight lines and watching the flow of customers to identify the best moment to lift something and run. She wasn’t here to steal—though the wealth strewn so carelessly about made her fingers itch—but the principles were the same.

Which was part of why she’d arranged a distraction. She was dressed in a surcoat of ice-blue velveteen, burned out in an intricate pattern to reveal the gold of her underdress—but these days, everyone expected elegance from Renata Viraudax. And it wasn’t herself she wanted their eyes on; it was Giuna.

The Traementis daughter was radiant in her new gown. Her moss-green bandeau gave way to a sun-sparkling overlay of palest gold that floated about her pearl-pink underdress like clouds at sunrise—much more fitting for a girl on the edge of womanhood than the heavy, shapeless surcoats she’d been wearing. Tess had brushed gold into Giuna’s hair and pinned the matching ribbon into place with a few brilliants, scenting it all with a perfume of apricot and mint that Ren pinched when their cash ran short. If the gardens held winter at bay, then Giuna danced through them like a herald of spring. Even her blush only enhanced the effect, shaming the trellis roses.

“Thank you,” Donaia murmured in Renata’s ear, gazing fondly at her daughter. “Giuna’s needed something like this for quite some time.”

“It was my pleasure—and Tess’s,” Renata said. Even though she’d done it out of calculation, it was hard not to smile at Giuna’s delight.

“Ah, Alta Renata. You’ve discovered sleeves, I see.” Carinci had Fadrin Acrenix pushing her chair this time. She paused him on her way to the terrace to give Renata a thorough once-over. Not even Tess reviewed her clothing with such a critical eye. “I suppose the cold defeats us all one day. Look forward to seeing what you dare for the Spring Gloria. I hear you’re fond of doing away with gloves as well.”

Donaia’s sharp inhale warmed Renata more than sleeves. “We should all be willing to give up so much to stand against that criminal,” Donaia said, snapping her fan open