Book One: The Marigold's Larkspur ~ A tale of mystery, magic, and obsession.

Chapter One

There was a man staring intensely at Cressida from across the room. He stood only a few paces from the entry way among the shadows and potted plants of the Banquet Hall, his attire blending seamlessly with the dark hues of black and green. As their eyes met, Cressida felt a sudden hitch in her breath.

"...in your family with a talent for the arts?" Someone was asking her a question. Cressida dragged her eyes away from the man and back to the conversation, mustering a demure smile.

"My father enjoys painting." she answered, hoping she understood the gist of the question. "And my mother has a talent in needlework."

There was a slight pause at the table, and then a few shared glances between the six well-dressed individuals. The woman in a pale peach dress, who had apparently asked the question in the first place, tilted her head, and clarified; "A talent. Or a..." She grimaced, holding her teacup aloft, gesturing elegantly with her other hand, "talent?"

Ah. She was asking about magic. They had managed to avoid the subject thus far, but Cressida could see each noble perk up with interest now that the taboo topic had been broached.

Cressida glanced at the old man sitting directly to her left. Salt and pepper coils tied up by a dark green cloth framed his face, which was the same shade and texture as the bark of an oak tree. His arms were crossed, hidden beneath the long sleeves of his grey robes. He raised an expectant eyebrow at her, leaning back against his seat. His expression seemed to say, 'Go on.'

Cressida hesitated for a moment, before making sure to keep the demure smile firmly in place, adding a twinkle of a laugh. "The most exceptional thing about my mother's needlework is the amount of hard work it took for her to become so accomplished. It's really a wonder what practice and patience can do."

Her response elicited a chorus of approving nods and murmurs. The old man sitting next to her snorted, a sharp exhale of amusement- or perhaps disappointment- through both whiskered nostrils. Cressida lightly stomped on his foot under the table, hidden beneath the ivory tablecloth. He gave no reaction, except to grin across the table at the woman in peach.

"Do you have any talent, Countess Fenella?" he asked, emphasizing the same word she had.

The countess's expression faltered. "Oh no!" she declared. "Not at all. Not in my family either!"

The old man, Quail, snorted once more, and under his breath muttered, "Clearly." Cressida stomped his foot again. Harder.

"Although no disrespect meant towards yourself, Sir Walerian..." spoke the large man in a burgundy coat.

"...here we go..." Grand Scholar of Magic Quail Walerian whispered.

"Talent is still a rather undesirable trait in Ashlar given our recent history. I'm sure you'll understand our nobility's aversion- "

"Oh yes, I understand aversion, Marquess. Sitting at this table and listening to you talk has become a lesson in it."

Cressida's smile was plastered on by spite and willpower as her heel dug into Quail's apparently steel toed boot.

"Sir Walerian, as I said no disrespect." The Marquess bobbed his head. "Your, ah, profession has many uses- "

"Ah...profession...! A step up from 'talent.' At least professions pay."

Cressida took a sip from her teacup to smother a bubble of genuine amusement.

"-but here in Ashlar talk of...your craft may make people feel.... uh.... uncomfortable."