Free Silent in the Sanctuary by Deanna Raybourn

bright with mischief. I turned my head, not surprised to find Portia at my elbow.
    “Well done, dearest,” she whispered.
    “Whiskey,” I hissed. “Now.”
    In another of the little altar alcoves a sideboard had been arranged with spirits of every variety. We made our way to the whiskey decanter and stood with our backs to the room. Portia poured out a generous measure for both of us and we each took a healthy, choking sip. I swallowed hard and fixed her with an Inquisitor’s stare.
    “I shall only ask you once. Did you know?”
    She paled, then took another sip of her whiskey, colour flooding her cheeks instantly. “Of course not. I knew Father meant to invite him down for Christmas. I thought it might be a nice surprise for you. But I had no idea he was being elevated, nor that he had that…that creature with him. How could he?”
    Portia shot Brisbane a dark look over her shoulder. “He kissed you. He gave you that pendant. I thought that meant something.”
    “Then you are as daft as I. Drink up. We cannot hover over the spirits all evening. We must mingle with the other guests.”
    She stared at me as though I had lost my senses. “But are you not—”
    “Of course, dearest. I am entirely shattered. Now finish your whiskey. I see Aunt Dorcas mouldering in an armchair by the fire and I must say hello to her before she decays completely.”
    Portia’s eyes narrowed. “You are not shattered. You are smiling. What are you about?”
    “Nothing,” I told her firmly. “But I have my pride. And as you pointed out,” I said with a nod toward Alessandro, “I have alternatives.”
    Alessandro smiled back at me, shyly, his colour rising a little.
    Portia poked me. “What are you thinking?”
    I put our glasses on the table and looped my arm through hers, pulling her toward Aunt Dorcas.
    “I was simply thinking what a delight it will be to introduce Alessandro to Brisbane.”
    *
    Aunt Dorcas had established herself in the armchair nearest the fire, and it looked as though it would take all of the Queen’s army to roust her out of it. No one would call her plump, for plumpness implies something jolly or pleasant, and Aunt Dorcas was neither of those. She was solid, with a sense of permanence about her, as though she had always existed and meant to go on doing so forever. Disturbingly for a woman of her size and age, she had a penchant for girlish ruffles and bows. She was draped in endless layers of pink silk and wrapped in an assortment of lace shawls, with lace mitts on her hands and an enormous lace cap atop her thinning hair. She wore only pearls, yards of them, dripping from her décolletage and drawing the eye to her wrinkled skin. She had gone yellow with age, like vellum, and every bit of her was the colour of stained ivory—teeth, hair, skin, and the long nails that tapped out a tuneless melody on the arm of her chair. But her eyesight was sharp, and her hearing even better. She was talking to, or rather at, Hortense de Bellefleur, Father’s particular friend. Hortense was stitching placidly at a bit of luscious violet silk. She was dressed with a Frenchwoman’s natural elegance in a simple gown of biscuit silk, an excellent choice for a lady of her years. She looked up as we approached, smiling a welcome. Aunt Dorcas simply raised her cane to poke my stomach.
    “Stop there. I don’t need you breathing all over me. Where have you been, Julia Grey? Gallivanting about Europe with all those filthy Continentals?”
    Her voice carried, and I darted a quick glance at Hortense, but she seemed entirely unperturbed. Then again, very little ever perturbed Hortense.
    “Xenophobic as ever, I see, Aunt Dorcas,” I said brightly.
    “Eh? Well, never mind. You’ve put on a bit of weight you have, and lost that scrawny look. You were a most unpromising child, but you have turned out better than I would have thought.”
    The praise was grudging, but extremely complimentary coming from Aunt Dorcas. She turned to