Page 8 of Enchanted Net
It made the corners of his mouth turn up. “Vitus Deschamps, Mistress. An apprentice talisman maker. Though I hope not an apprentice for too much longer.”
Thessaly considered the lists of people she had memorised, not least for the betrothal, when she’d been expected to be able to say something suitable to any person who might speak to her. “Your parents are Master Claud and Mistress Joceline, yes? And you have a younger brother.” She couldn’t quite keep from looking up, searching her memory.
“Lucas.” He supplied the name promptly. “He is not much seen in Albion society. I am impressed. Nor is he here tonight, actually. He’s a cavalry officer, based in Somerset, but with limited leave.”
That was intriguing, actually, to have a family who diverged quite like that. She knew the Deschamps were a client family to the Fortiers. There was some distant family connection, a few generations back, cousins or a cousin marrying in, something like that. Relevant enough, as it was, that she knew the name, not so powerful that she needed to worry about offending out of season. It begged the question of whether she shared her own name or not.
Etiquette - the sort of precise etiquette wielded like a weapon - said that anonymity gave her an edge of power, a chance for a conversation without her current social state interfering. Reality - in that same circle - said that whatever she said or did would make it back to Lady Maylis, eventually. Or to one of her relatives, which was as good as the same thing.
Instead of deciding immediately, she asked him another question. “I have not seen you at other events, at least recently, have I? Though I suppose at most of them you are not impersonating a gemstone mine.” The lack of clarity on the crystals kept making her fingers twitch and want to do something to improve it. Not that it was a poor costume, it just could be stunning with a little touch or three.
“I have been travelling the past year and a half. A series of visits with talisman makers in Europe. I am an apprentice to Magistra Niobe Hall, she was kind enough to make the arrangements.” Ah, the sort of thing where she’d traded favours. Not everyone got that kind of opportunity. Magistra Hall didn’t do work for the Fortiers - nor for the Powells or Lyttons - but she had an excellent reputation.
In particular, she was known for turning down requests she did not care to take, for whatever reason. Which was almost certainly why the Fortiers, Lyttons, and Powells preferred others, who could be relied on to fulfil requests as required. Thessaly nodded once. “I know her reputation, of course.”
“You are learned, Mistress.” Deschamps made another slight bow, lifting his glass in acknowledgement. “And I can see you appreciate magic in its many forms.”
Chapter6
APRIL 26TH IN TRELLECH
Vitus was not at all sure of his footing in this conversation. It was as if he had found himself in some new European city, still only beginning to grasp the language and the way the streets went together, or where the river was. There was usually a river, that much he’d learned. The non-magical world ran on them, and the magical folk preferred them.
This woman, whoever she was, didn’t seem far from his own age. But he wasn’t sure if he knew her. None of the mannerisms quite fit with the women he’d gone to Schola with, not in his house or his year, anyway. That still left quite a few options. But the illusion work was skilled, and it wasn’t a design he’d seen before. Not that he was up on the most recent work in Albion, of course, and he also didn’t know every illusionist currently crafting in the art form.
She considered, then inclined her head. “Thessaly Lytton-Powell.” The name rolled like the dragon she wore roaring to the sky. He’d heard her name recently, of course, twice over, but more than that, she came from two of the most powerful families in Albion and was marrying into a third.
Before he could do something ill-considered, he made another bow, careful to keep it elegant. “An honour, Mistress. May I also compliment your dressmaker and your illusionist?”
That made her smile, something that didn’t seem terrifying. She shifted her fingers slightly around the glass, and he saw the dragon move, another sinuous twist of the magnificent head, before he realised suddenly he had made a gaffe. Vitus swallowed. “Pardon. Your dressmaker, alone. Your illusion work is - I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it. Might I ask about it?”
She blinked at him several times, then she held out her wineglass to him. He took it, unsure what she was doing. She reached behind her head, tapping the ties that held her mask in place twice, so that the fastenings loosened, then lowered the mask. He wasn’t sure if she’d used charms to enhance her looks - smooth her skin, bring roses to her cheeks, that sort of thing - but she looked stunning. Flowering with the abundance of her magic, that was a way to put it, something no charm could ever quite duplicate.
She was also young, younger than he’d guessed with the mask on. They had overlapped at Schola, if briefly. He had a faint memory of someone who looked enough like her, though that someone had been a firstie when he’d been a fifth year. And in Fox or maybe Owl House, not his own Salmon. No, it must be Fox. Someone from a family like hers must have been.
Now, she lowered the mask, indicating several small embroidered strands in different colours along the edge of the mask. “These anchor each point, and by focusing on them, I can adjust the illusion so it moves. The other part is, well, more or less a dance, certainly a performance. It comes out a little differently each time. It is not a rigid precision.” She considered, then added, “Your brother would not approve of it as a military drill.”
Vitus laughed. “Ah, but my brother is a cavalryman, and horses do not precisely behave the same way each time, either. It is a delightfully organic piece, and with much more nuance in the colour than I’ve seen in many illusions. It’s the range.” He glanced back toward the rest of the gala. “I am wondering how many other people appreciated it properly?”
“My aunt. But she had the advance knowledge to do so.” Mistress Lytton-Powell let the mask drape from her wrist by one loop of ribbon. She wore it charmingly like a dance card, then reached out for her glass. Vitus made absolutely certain not to fumble with it.
“If this is what you create when you are encouraged in your work, it is a pity more people do not notice.” There, that was a gallant statement. “Are you apprenticing then, or do I insult, and you have completed it?”
“Oh, not for nine or ten months more.” Her tone shifted, the kind of thing those of Fox House read in their infinite subtlety, and Vitus had to work to understand in all the implied layers. “Illusion work - if not this form of it - is a suitable skill for a society wife of the Great Families.”
“My congratulations, of course. My parents were at your betrothal. Mama was telling me how grand the festivities were. I am sorry I was away, and missed the chance myself.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Will your betrothed object to find you talking with another man? Or will his parents or yours?” It suddenly seemed an excellent idea to gain more information on that point.
“Childeric is off with his friends.” There was a clear neutrality there. She was not placing any judgement anywhere near that sentence. That was most curious. “And he and I have discussed matters. A conversation somewhere public and well-lit for a few minutes is well within our agreements. A hint of scandal is not. You understand, I am sure.”
“I understand that those are deep waters, not ones I normally navigate, Mistress.” Vitus let himself smile. “I must trust, then, that you will let me know should I overstep. And of course, I do not wish to keep you from the dancing.”
“I did want a breath of air. I will go in soon enough.” Mistress Lytton-Powell turned to him, looking him up and down. “Actually, may I adjust your costume? Would you mind terribly?”
Vitus blinked. It was certainly not a sentence he’d expected, or an offer. “What sort of change, please?” He thought quickly through what he was wearing in the way of his own work, just cufflinks, tie pin, and a protective talisman under his shirt.
“It’s rather a lovely design, your amethyst. But I’ve been itching to improve it. And you seem like a gentleman who wishes the proper translucence and shading in his accoutrements. Something as much like stone as it is possible to wear?”
She turned her hand up, palm flat, the mask bumping against her skirts as she moved. “May I? The amethyst first, but I also hope for an improvement in the surrounding matrix.” Before he could ask anything further, she added, “It will wear off overnight. I don’t have any of the fixatives handy. Obviously.” She gestured at her skirts. “I might carry them beneath my skirts, but I’d worry about breakage. Some people are so clumsy on the dance floor.”
