Somewhere in the middle of all these labors, she caught a sudden, stray thought—a servant approaching her door. Quickly, she dumped the dress into her lap topsy-turvy and pulled a thread through a needle, then scrubbed fingers through her hair to make it tousled, disarrayed.
A knock came.
Cordelia called, "Open!"
The door opened, and the serving-wench stepped in, holding a tray in one hand. "My lady, you have not come to dine."
"Oh, I cannot!" Cordelia did her best to sound frazzled. "See how deeply in the toils I am!"
The wench came closer, large-eyed. "Surely, my lady, the seamstress could aid thee... "
"Mayhap, but I am loath to ask. Oh, I will be done in time, I am sure of it! Nay, but set the wine and bread there, on the little table—I think there is room. I shall take it when I have a moment."
"Even as you say, my lady." The maid curtsied, roundeyed, then stepped out, closing the door behind her. Cordelia caught the impression of smug satisfaction, and answered it with a vindictive smile, glaring at the door. So they thought they would have her beaten, did they? Well, all to the better. Let Delilah think Cordelia was in a state and could not possibly have a decent gown. Nothing would strengthen her so much as Delilah's overconfidence.
She was done by early afternoon. The bread, cheese, meat, and wine were quite good. She ate lightly, not wanting to feel sluggish when she waked.
Because, of course, she wanted to be fresh for the evening's festivities. She lay down to nap, closing her eyes as she sought out a finch, leaving a stern command within its mind to come trill beneath her window in an hour. She left the same command within her own mind—only to wake, not to trill—hid the lovely gown in the wardrobe, locked the door, and lay down to sleep, satisfied.
After all, she did want to look her best.
She woke at four, added one last touch—a cloak, of a contrasting material; only a great circle of cloth that she could throw over herself to hide the gown. When the knock on the door came, she quickly threw the cloak over her shoulders and called, "Enter!"
It was a servant, with a can of steaming water. Cordelia bade her put it by the hearth, and the maid did, then left, with many curious glances about the room.
"Oh, I had almost forgot!" The maid turned back in the doorway and came to bring Cordelia a domino mask. "It is to be a masked ball, my lady."
Cordelia thrilled with delight, but tried to sound worn and exhausted. "Thank you, good soul."
"As you wish, my lady." The maid gave a little curtsy, then left, closing the door behind her.
Alain stared, paling. "I could never behave so!"
He was watching the "neighbors" flirt with one another as they bowed and chatted and danced. None had been introduced as other than the character they were dressed as, most of them from the romances, some from old myths. But they were all very outgoing, and the dances were rather earthy.
"Of course you can," Geoffrey assured him. "It is a masked ball, Alain. None shall know who you are."
"Well ... there is truth in that," Alain said thoughtfully, then looked up sharply. "But hold! I have heard of these masked balls. Is there not something about unmasking at midnight?"
"Well, aye," Geoffrey allowed, "so, if you are careful to leave before midnight, no one will discover your identity." Alain's gaze wandered over the glittering company, golden in the light of myriad candles. "Well ... true ... 'twould be a pity to miss the last of the ball..."
"Yet mayhap would be worth it." Geoffrey took a sip of his wine. "Bear in mind, though, that you need not decide until it is nigh the hour of midnight. If you feel that you would do something ... exhilarating, something ... that is not truly evil, mind you, but only a little wicked, or no, not even wicked, but ... daring ... why, if you have done it, you leave before midnight!" He clinked his glass against Alain's. "If you have not, you stay for the unmasking! Drink up!"
Alain sipped the wine absently, his mind clearly else where. Then he looked up, suddenly remembering what he had been thinking before. "Hold! I should not drink wine so early! 'Twill make me drunk, will it not?"
"What—one goblet of wine?" Geoffrey gave a deprecating laugh. "Do not give it a thought."
But he had. He had given Alain's wine quite a lot of thought. It was now thirty percent alcohol.
Geoffrey knew Alain of old, of course, and knew that the Prince had grown up drinking wine, as did most noble children on Gramarye. He would not become drunk, Geoffrey knew, but perhaps rather ... uninhibited ...
The musicians had tuned their instruments and begun to play. Cordelia stood in the shadow at the top of the staircase, shrouded in her cloak, eyes wide as she stared at the guests, feeling a strange nervousness, a strange apprehension. How many of them were truly neighbors, and how many Delilah's minions?
How could she hope to outshine Delilah on her own territory?
But my heavens, there were a lot of people! Admittedly, their garb was old-fashioned by the standards of Runnymede—but nothing was ever really out of style on Gramarye. They were certainly jovial enough, laughing and talking as the servants passed among them with goblets of wine. The entire Great Hall was already filled with company—at least half dowagers and their husbands.
But the other half were young. Probably most of them were married, but they were young and vibrant nonetheless. They milled about, making quite a roar. Like waves upon the beach, they were about to engulf her.
"Surely you are not timid, Lady Cordelia!" Cordelia looked up, alarmed.
It was Delilah, parading down the stairs in a gown so lovely that it made Cordelia gasp. Mask or not, there was no mistaking her—the cascade of golden hair was artfully arranged and equally artfully displayed, as was a generous expanse of bosom. The heart-shaped face, the voluptuous curves-all were enhanced by the splendor of her pink-and-gold gown.
Cordelia felt a bitter stab of jealousy.
"Why, what a mouse you are!" Delilah said. "Will you start at every shadow? Come, how can you possibly not delight in such an evening as this?"
"I ... I will endeavor to." Cordelia summoned what remained of her self-possession and drew herself up.
"I rejoice to hear it. Do you go before me, for I have no wish to dim your luster."
Cordelia's eyes narrowed behind her mask. "Surely, Lady Delilah, no gown can compare with yours tonight. Nay, do you precede me. 'Tis your house, after all, and 'tis your due."
"I thank you, my dear. I shall." Delilah nodded with a pinfeather smile and stepped to the head of the stairs. She motioned, and her maid hissed down to the majordomo. He looked up; his eyes widened a moment; then he turned to the crowd and bawled out, "The Lady Helen of Troy!"
Of course, Cordelia thought.
As one, the crowd turned to look, and the musicians struck up a soft march. Delilah paraded down the stairs.
For a moment, the crowd was silent, staring. Then, as one, they broke into applause.
Cordelia tried to remind herself that most of them must be in Delilah's pay—but still, the jealousy burned within her. The hussy!
Well, Cordelia would answer in her own style.
The applause turned into congratulatory conversation as Delilah reached the foot of the stairs. The young men were pressing forward to kiss her hands; the ladies were "oh"ing and "ah"ing and congratulating her on so wonderful a costume, then turning away to mutter savagely with one another.