Page 3 of Enchanted Net
They made a lovely procession. Magister Dagobert went first, escorting his mother, as his wife had remained outside to see to the guests. Lord Clovis escorted Lady Maylis, of course, and Childeric had offered his arm at the perfect angle. They made their way out, picking up the metre of the music as soon as they could hear it, step by steady step. People parted in front of them, leaving space on either side. Magister Dagobert saw his mother to her chair on the small dais at one end of the dancing pavilion. Then she nodded, as the other two couples took their places and Magistra Laudine appeared from the crowd to stand beside her husband. Sigbert appeared from the other side, attentively positioned by his mother’s elbow, while Childeric and Thessaly posed.
Her parents stood on the other side, waiting to come forth for their part in the announcement. She could see the Landrys, a little further back. The men were elegant in their evening wear. Magistra Landry was resplendent in a gown of deep faience blue that made her brown skin seem like copper in the charmlight. The sheer numbers in the gathering were a potent sign of power in themselves, hundreds of people here just because the Fortiers had bid them be.
Thessaly could see a few of the others she knew from her Schola years, dotted here and there. Not every landed family was here, but the ones with children and heirs around her age all were. Genevieve Donovan was over there, though her husband Marcellus was sitting down beside her. He must be having an off day. Temenos Sibley was with his parents, and there was Ignatius Knapton, with his wife - they’d married young - and his sisters. She didn’t see Lionel Baddock. Perhaps he’d had a relapse of whatever had been ailing him the past year or three. Before she could look for others, Lord Clovis began speaking.
“Good evening, good evening! You are most welcome to Arundel this evening. All who come with good will are welcome here for our festivities.” It was a sensible welcome, ritually speaking, bounding it not only by time but by intention. “We welcome you for the celebration of Childeric’s birth, the completion of his apprenticeship, and, we are delighted to say, to announce a betrothal.”
Now Thessaly’s parents came forward, Mama’s hand resting on Father’s arm. Further back, near the opposite end of the tent, the light shifted a little. Thessaly could see Aunt Metaia standing with Cousin Owain, among a little knot of the members of the Council. Even Council Head Rowan and her husband were here, and that was a social coup. They did not always attend events like this. Thessaly wondered if that was because of the Fortiers, or far more likely due to Aunt Metaia’s friendship.
Besides their cousin, Aunt Metaia was closest to the head of the Council, Hereswith Rowan, and Thessaly could see them leaning together, watching. Thessaly could see several alchemists, too. There was Romulus Heath, who Thessaly would love to talk illusion work with, if she got such a chance during the gatherings over the next few days. And there, further away, were Hesperidon Warren and his wife Griselda. She knew they were closer connections of the Fortiers.
“The Fortier and Lytton-Powell families are delighted to announce the betrothal of our son, Childeric Fortier, firstborn of the land’s line, to Thessaly Lytton-Powell, eldest daughter of Sioned and Harold Lytton-Powell. We ask you to raise your glasses and toast.” The toast was given first in archaic, rhyming French. It was not quite an oath, but Thessaly could feel the way it tugged on the magic. Suddenly, those well-wishes and blessings were honed into something with her at the centre, the light through a faceted gem. Then someone was holding a cup, and she took it, drinking at the same time as Childeric. She did not swoon, but it was a terribly near thing. The light and the magic and the sheer presence of so many people, all intent on her every move, suddenly rushed in. The glass was plucked from her fingers while the guests applauded, then the music began.
Childeric immediately swung her into the dance with no pause for breath. Here, at least, they were well-matched. Thessaly was, if anything, more nimble on her feet. Her duelling skills gave her an advantage there. The music was chosen to let them show off the chassez and hop of the mazurka. Each time she leapt, she felt the skirts follow her down a second later. Each time she spun, there was some other glittering enchantment that caught her eye.
Every eye was on them. They had the entire floor and covered it over and over again. She spun, and she heard Childeric call out an incantation, three high-pitched beats in perfect archaic French, and then there were golden rose petals cascading down. Each one glowed with magic, each one matched the golden yellow of the heraldry. This was not romance, this was about the display of magic and power and delicate control, hinting at less delicate uses.
When the dance came to the final bow, Thessaly was on the edge of breathlessness. She was more fit than Childeric in the ordinary way of things, but the work of making all her skirts go just where she intended added a layer of complexity. The dance had been a touch more draining than she’d expected, even with the flurry and nerves of it all and the need to make a perfect showing. No matter, she was in excellent health, she could and would see the evening through with the necessary vivacity.
Fortunately, the next dance was a slower and more stately waltz, and it was with Father. From there, she was handed off to dance with Lord Clovis, with Magister Dagobert, their sister Bradamante’s husband Yves. From there, she danced with other notable men of the extended family and their close allies. There were quite a few dances with Father’s brothers and the other Lyttons, too.
All of that was interspersed with quadrilles and other set dances. She had, of course, perfected the ones the Fortiers favoured. She’d practised them throughout the winter, tracing the measures repeatedly, dragging in whoever was handy to be her partner. Most often Hermia, honestly. Hermia had been good-natured about it, and willing enough to learn dances she couldn’t enjoy in public for another year or two. Nonetheless, Thessaly had wondered if she were taking advantage of Hermia, or of her sister’s sometimes visible admiration and imitation.
Late in the evening, though - nearer one in the morning than midnight - she found herself on the edge of the gathering. The more senior adults were finding quieter pursuits, disappearing to the manor’s public rooms for conversation and chairs, or more stately dances. The sea of people - the client families and such - had thinned out as well. Those not of the same status as the Fortiers knew their role was to come and swell the numbers, but not stay too late.
Oddly, Thessaly felt entirely on her own. Childeric was in one corner, chatting with a knot of yearmates from his time at Schola. He was enough older that their social sets from school didn’t overlap much, but there were fewer people there than she’d expected, given the size of the guest list. A number of people between Childeric’s year and Thessaly’s had already said their farewells around midnight.
Adamus Mortimer had bowed out, so had Odile. Odile and Cosi and Thessaly had been the three of similar background in Fox House in their year, but of course Cosi was expecting again. Neither travel by portal nor a late evening was considered appropriate for her right now. Odile had pled exhaustion before eleven, leaving with her husband before Thessaly had any chance to talk to her.
That was the thing she was discovering at the moment. Plenty of people wanted to talk at her, to make a point of congratulating her. Very few wanted to actually have a conversation, much less hear how she was or anything remotely personal. She was here as a gem set in the line of the Fortiers. That was apparently all that mattered. She’d expected much of that, but perhaps not from everyone who’d offered it.
On any other night, she might have migrated toward Aunt Metaia. But Aunt Metaia had talked with Mama and Father briefly, and since then she’d had the sort of deliberate expression on her face that meant she was repressing a dozen things it was better not to say. There, at least, Thessaly had the promise of a better time to talk soon, next time she visited Bryn Glas, Aunt Metaia’s home.
Thessaly was considering her options when there was a courteous voice at her elbow. She felt the presence of his magic, before anything else, the way she sometimes woke at something shifting in the night. “Might I fetch you something cool to drink, Thessaly? And perhaps escort you with a charmlight for a breath of fresh air during this dance?”
That was Philip Landry, still impeccably put together. She nodded, once. It at least offered a chance for a pause and possibly some actual conversation that stretched beyond congratulations and a compliment on her gown. He returned within a minute, glass in hand, calling a charmlight in the other. The light caught on his hand, a flash of turquoise and some green stone on his ring. He offered her his arm as soon as she took the glass, escorting her out through one of the openings in the pavilion, onto the paved walkway.
They did not go far. She was not remotely dressed for it. But to stand outside, under the stars, that was refreshing. She - and Childeric - were expected to see the night through. There was at least an hour or two more for her. The sky above was remarkably clear. Even the weather and the stars had obeyed the Fortiers’ expectations, and the moon was only barely rising, a glimmer on the horizon yet.
“My congratulations, of course. I had not yet had a chance to make them properly.” Philip offered a little bow, then gestured up at the sky as he went on. “In our traditions, the stars are gemstones strewn across the sky, and tonight, you are among them. May it bring you all the blessings you wish.” It was courtly, more than that, it was kind.
Thessaly inclined her head. “Thank you. How lovely a sentiment.” She would acknowledge that he hadn’t needed to say it, or that way, here, in the quiet. “Are there particular stars of note, then, do they match gems? Or is it more the metaphor?” The stars seemed a far more pleasant conversation than anything she might say about the betrothal or the wedding to come.
Thessaly knew what was expected. She knew what the benefits would be, for herself and for her extended family, and she was going into it with her eyes open. She and Childeric had come to their own terms about things. Certainly once the focus of the wedding was over and done with, she would have more freedom in private. He would not burden her unduly. Philip wasn’t of that sort of family, but he knew by now how that was played. They didn’t need to discuss it.
“Ah, mmm.” Philip looked up toward the rest. “Sirius is of particular note, but not tonight. There, though, is Spica. If Sirius marks the beginning of the year, the flood of the Nile upon which everything depends, Spica is the mark of the harvest. And you know the other lore, perhaps?”
Thessaly had done exceedingly well in her education at Schola, including in her Astronomy class and the later specialist lectures in chronological and locational magics. “The sheaf of wheat the parthenos holds. A maiden who is unattached, whole in herself.” Her mouth twitched. No one but Philip could see. “Not exactly what one thinks of at a betrothal.”
“She is also Astraea, justice unfolding, Persephone, queen among the dead, Isis with her magics bringing grain and civilisation. The shade of your gown calls it to mind with the gold of the harvest and the land. Though Spica, of course, gowns herself in blue. It is a favoured colour with us. We do love our faience and our lapis lazuli and our turquoise.” His mother’s dress, tonight, that made sense, and then he lifted his hand and she saw a flash of the brighter turquoise stone on his ring. “In some customs, Spica’s star is the emerald, but that would not do for you tonight, or in this mode.”
It made her smile again. “No. It signals the wrong sort of things.” Just then, there was a cough behind her, and Philip turned to look over his shoulder.
“Alexander.” There was a brief phrase, in fluent Arabic - if it had been French, Thessaly would have understood, of course - then Alexander bowed to her. “I am bid to see if you will return to the dancing. May I take your glass?” Thessaly handed it over without complaint, offering her hand to Philip to escort her back.
“Your brother was kind enough to keep me company for a breath of fresh air, but I am quite renewed.” It was true, a few minutes on the grass and in the open air had been most restorative. As soon as they were back in the pavilion, Childeric swept her up again, this time into another of the couple’s dances.
When they came to a stop again, some time later, only the resilient few were left, and Childeric walked her back in silence to the guest house. It took her last dregs of energy to stand long enough for Alma to release her from the dress and bundle her into a nightgown. Tomorrow, there were more festivities, an afternoon of sport and a pavo match, followed by a banquet. Those would come entirely too soon.
