Jordan smiled at Rowen, knowing somewhere her father let loose a sigh of disappointment.
Their conversation was brief and oddly stilted considering Micah’s normal verbosity, and he apologized, saying, “I fell ill recently and still have not returned to rights.” As the trio turned from the boy to mingle with others, Jordan noticed that if Micah glimmered with jewels then Lady Liradean dazzled as if she were constructed only of light. It must be a growing trend, Jordan supposed, noting several other guests sporting jewels.
“She glows like an angel,” Jordan murmured, her mouth close to Rowen’s shoulder.
Catrina overheard and sniffled in contempt. “If she appears to you an angel, I daresay all Heaven is far gaudier than ever I expected.”
Jordan’s brows knitted together at the assessment. Rowen bent so his face was between the two girls’ faces.
“Should not all angels sparkle beyond mortal means? If Jordan judges her to be angelic, I second the notion, for there is no lady here closer to heavenly than our own Jordan Astraea.”
The words were a clear challenge to Catrina’s attitude. And her social standing. Yet, uttered by Rowen, they were a challenge she chose not to accept.
Instead Catrina sniffled again, her gaze locking with Rowen’s as she muttered, “Too true,” an instant before looking away.
Men of the highest ranks mingled nearby, chattering on about things they felt important. Whereas they often frequented the city’s coffeehouses for stimulants and stimulating conversations, on evenings of social occasions they brought their debates along, regardless of the beverage lubricating conversation.
“I do so wish they would overlap the timing of the Pulse. We are the Athens of the Western world,” Lord Liradean said. “How truly difficult is it to be a Weather Witch? Are you not essentially kept by our own good government, your needs supplied for, food, clothes, and shelter never a worry? Considering such things you might assume they could overlap so that there is no stutter of power associated with the Pulse.”
“True, true,” his companions muttered, nodding.
“Have you seen a Weather Witch, Lord Liradean?” Micah’s voice cut through the amiable conversation like a knife.
Lord Liradean sputtered into his wine glass. “I daresay not,” he answered tersely. “It is not my place to deal with such a class of characters. Of this one can be certain—they are far better treated now than their forbears in Salem village.”
“Do they even have a class,” Micah wondered aloud, “or do we strip them of that as well as rank when they are declared a Witch?”
“You, lad, do nothing related to them either,” Lord Liradean’s voice rang out, “and nothing related to anything else of any true value to society from what I can tell.”
Micah raised and lowered one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I merely suggest, gentlemen, that we know of what we speak before speaking.”
“And where would the fun be in that, Micah?” Rowen challenged. “I daresay”—he briefly adopted Liradean’s tone and timbre—“that adopting such a suggestion as the rule would lead to the quietest parties upon the Hill.” He winked at the blustering Liradean and dropped Jordan’s hand to grab Micah and steer him from the muddle of older men in a joking fashion that left the group chuckling.
“You seem to be recovering your old self now, but you, dear Micah,” Rowen whispered, “must needs learn who to encourage into thinking new thoughts and who has never had a thought in his head.”
Micah nodded. “Are you then of the opinion that one cannot teach an old dog new tricks?”
“More strongly of the opinion that one should let sleeping dogs lie. Because that is all politicians do anyhow. Lie.”
“True, true. Perhaps I should sit and relax. I feel a bit off,” Micah mentioned. “Even my complexion's coloring seems off of late.”
Rowen nodded while behind them Lord Liradean continued to bluster, “And that boy Rowen of yours, Burchette, when is he due for service?”
Rowen ducked his head at the question, retrieving Jordan’s hand.
“Soon, soon,” Burchette returned. “He is on the cusp.”
“He’ll make a fine enlisted man,” Liradean assured. “With his jocular attitude he could keep them laughing as both ball and bullet fly.”
“We hope for a bit more than that,” Rowen heard his father confess.
Liradean’s volume dropped but Rowen and the others still heard him. “Surely you do not expect him to be a leader of men…”
Burchette’s response was slow in coming. “I simply expect him to be the best that he can be.”
“Come,” Rowen said. “Let us step away from these animals of a purely political variety and see what more noble beasts the menagerie has provided for viewing.”
Jordan nodded, saying, “Oh … Rowen, remember…”
“I know, I know … You must be seen. Showcased.” He winked at her. “People watch you no matter where you go, Jordan, you need not seek their attention so hungrily.”
She pressed her lips together. “When attention is all you are good for…”
He stepped away from her suddenly, pulling her arm to spin her back into his side.
She laughed.
“You are good for far more than you give yourself credit.”
“No. I am as useful as a single butterfly’s wing.” She touched the pendant hanging at her throat. “Beautiful to look upon and worth a comment here or there, but with not even the ability to take flight.”
“Oh, do hush,” Catrina said, closing the gap between them. “You have value, Jordan.”
“How so?”
Catrina paused to consider as they walked past a gaggle of younger girls gossiping.
“… old man Biddle’s boy has fallen in love with a serving girl!”
“I saw them once from my window late at night as they were winding their way down the Hill together. She on a white horse, of all things!”
“Wherever were they off to?”
“I watched them go all the way to the water’s edge!”
“Well. That will be a short-lived romance if they go on in such a carefree manner. And rightly so,” the girl added, seeing they were being observed by the three friends. With a curtsy to Jordan and a wink at Rowen she said, “One should stick to one’s own class and know well one’s own place.”
Remembering the girl was Sixth of the Nine (as was Rowen), this time it was Jordan who guided him away from the too obviously interested members of his same rank.
“I am not as clever as you,” Jordan complained. “I cannot do more than simple arithmetic in my head. I am utterly beyond hope in all but the simplest card games—”
“They are not suitable pastimes for a lady of fine rank,” Catrina scolded.
Rowen gave a bemused snort. “Then we must needs occupy our hours alone in other ways,” he said, raising an eyebrow so that Catrina was quite thoroughly scandalized.
Jordan swatted at him.
“Hours alone?” Catrina squeaked. “Unchaperoned? You do know that is the thing most certain to ruin a young lady’s reputation—other than witchery…”
“It was only the once,” Jordan chided.
Rowen coughed.
Catrina was incensed.
“And for but a few hours…”
Catrina’s eyes widened. “A few—”
“Why whatever might a young man and a young woman do together in but a few hours?” Rowen asked drolly. “I cannot possibly imagine…”
Catrina sucked in a sharp breath. “I daresay you can imagine, Rowen Albertus Burchette … oh! And you probably have!”
“Are we not instructed to use the gifts we have been provided by the Divine, Catrina?” Rowen asked, raising his eyes to the ceiling and clasping his hands together in the most perfectly pious of poses. “It just so happens I intend to use well those things I have in a most impressive size. Like my disproportionately large imagination. As well as other things of”—he coughed—“substantial size that the good Lord saw fit to gift me with.”