REVISED The Marigold's Larkspur

Chapter One: Callidus

There was a man staring at Cressida from across the room.

He stood only a few paces from the entryway of the Banquet Hall, his dark attire blending seamlessly with the shadows and potted plants. Their eyes met, and Cressida felt a sudden hitch in her breath.

"...else 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 brother enjoys dancing." she answered, hoping she understood the gist of the question. "And my mother has a talent in needlework."

There was a pause, and the five well-dressed individuals at the table shared a collective, judgmental glance. The countess in a pale peach dress, who had apparently asked the question, tilted her head, and clarified; "A talent. Or a..." She grimaced, holding her teacup aloft, gesturing 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 familiar 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 as he raised an expectant eyebrow at her.

Cressida plastered on a practiced smile as she replied, "The most exceptional thing about my mother's needlework is the amount of hard work it took for her to become so accomplished."

There was a chorus of approving nods and murmurs, but the old man sitting next to her snorted, a sharp exhale of amusement - or perhaps disappointment - through both whiskered nostrils. He leaned across the table and grinned at the countess in peach.

"Do you have any talent, my Lady?" 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 muttered under his breath, "Clearly."

Cressida stomped on Quail's foot under the table, hidden beneath the ivory tablecloth.

The elderly count surveyed Quail with a critical eye, his pallid, crepe-like skin in sharp contrast to his much younger wife's hazelnut complexion. There was a subtle undertone of condescension in his voice as he spoke, "Although no disrespect meant towards yourself, Sir Walerian..."

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

"Talent is still a...nuanced topic in Ashlar," the count continued. "Our wise king has discovered that your...profession has many uses. However, given our similarity in age, I'm sure you need no reminding of our recent history."

"Please, jog my memory," Quail responded. "Because, although Ashlar takes up the entirety of your map, other nations actually do exist."

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

"Sir Walerian, as I said no disrespect." The Count bobbed his head.

Quail mocked his bob, echoing, "No disrespect."

"Sir. I'm sure you'll understand our nobility's aversion-"

"Oh yes, I understand aversion, my lord. Listening to you talk has become a lesson in it."

"On the topic of lessons," the countess tactfully interjected, "Sir Walerian, you introduced yourself as Her Highness's instructor. Correct?"

"Yes, that's me."