The ball that night was the first of the season. Gloria took Richard, Mother, and Aubrey in the Cartwright carriage while Mother exclaimed at their great good fortune in procuring such an important invitation. Aubrey and Gloria exchanged strained compliments.
The ball was at Stoliot House, an elegant edifice that hostesses leased for grand parties. Their carriage inched along the crescent-shaped drive. Footmen in glittering silver rushed forward to help the ladies descend. Richard stepped down behind, and they all entered the crush.
Lady Promfret, the hostess that evening, had chosen a water theme. The lobby of Stoliot House was a hazard course of temporary rivers and cascading fountains. Mother pranced over a small pool to greet Lord Ives, laughing when she wet her heels. Lord Rustilion, who headed Richard’s department, pulled him aside into a grotto with a tinkling waterfall. Gloria went with them, hand on Richard’s arm—to nudge him if he wasn’t obsequious enough probably.
Olivia claimed Aubrey by a huge bowl of multi-hued fish. They joined the crowd’s advancement on the ballroom. Couples were taking places for a dance. In a few minutes, an admirer would come to claim Olivia.
Aubrey wished she could ask Olivia about possibly courting Charles—Mr. Stowe. It wouldn’t be a “successful” match where Aubrey married up, but Olivia was a realist and might recognize the match’s suitability.
Except Olivia would tell everyone about Aubrey’s admirer before the ball ended. Gloria would hear. And be embarrassed. And find ways to criticize Aubrey.
Not to mention that Aubrey had no idea if Richard had read Mr. Stowe’s intentions correctly, or if Charles—Mr. Stowe—even still felt the same way about Aubrey. He was perhaps ten years her senior. Kind. Smart. Slyly humorous.
Aubrey felt her cheeks flush. Olivia said, “Are you waiting for someone?” with a coy wink.
Am I? Mr. Stowe isn’t going to show up in Stoliot House.
“Do tell!”
Aubrey was spared inventing a name when Bobby Hant came up to claim Olivia’s hand. “You’re next,” he said in his friendly way to Aubrey, and she smiled and nodded as they strolled off.
Aubrey leaned forward to get a better look at Lady Promfret’s ornate decorations: fluttering blue banners; twisting ribbons of fish-like scales, long silver chimes shaped like mermaid’s tails. The hairs rose on the back of her neck. The stretched feeling in her gut expanded. She gasped as her claws partly unsheathed. No. And they retracted.
She turned slowly, feeling the tightness in her gut like a growing bubble, pushing and pressing. She caught the eye of a supercilious blond man, looked past him at the milling guests, the blank-faced footmen. Turning further, she scanned the company bunched around the punch table.
Something—someone here was dangerous. To her.
“Miss St. Clair!” came a mute bellow, and Aubrey turned again to look up into Sir James’s expansive face.
Sir James said, “I hear you visited the police recently.”
Thanks to Olivia or Gloria or, Aubrey supposed resignedly, anyone passing the station at the time.
“I hope they didn’t fill your head with false ideas about Kingston magicians.”
Aubrey nearly laughed. Mr. Stowe warned. Sir James warned. She supposed warnings were better than Gloria’s scoldings.
“Academy magicians, that is. The Academy naturally objects to the actions of slum magicians. We encourage the government to monitor such people. We, of course, have internal controls. After all, we were able to discover your whereabouts—”
