Free The Mystic Marriage by Heather Rose Jones Page B

matron than a young girl. Her eyes, staring from under delicately arched brows—they spoke more truly, with a mixture of shy deference and hopeful expectation. She dipped in a formal curtsey and Antuniet rose to meet her, asking abruptly, “What is your age?”
    “I have fourteen years, Maisetra,” she answered softly but with confidence.
    “And what ancient languages have you studied? Latin? Greek?”
    She nodded. “I have some.” It was hard to know whether that was modesty or a deficiency. “And Hebrew, of course.”
    “Modern languages?” Antuniet continued. The usual assortment in smatterings. “Mathematics? Astronomy? Chemistry?” Her answers gave a patchwork picture. Well, that wasn’t at all unusual given her background. Margerit Sovitre had been the same, delving deeply into what interested her and touching barely on what didn’t. The deficiencies could be made up if she were willing to work.
    “You realize I need an apprentice, not a schoolroom miss,” Antuniet said sharply. “You’ll be grinding ores and tending furnaces.”
    In the first spark of something more than obedience, she replied, “That sounds no worse than baking days.”
    Antuniet covered a doubtful laugh by demanding, “Let me see your hands.”
    The girl held them out before her and Antuniet turned them over one at a time. Nowhere near as rough as her own had become, but the hands of someone accustomed to work. And the telltale stains of ink around the nail; at least that was true. She turned to the goldsmith. “Shall we discuss the details of the contract?”

Chapter Six
    Margerit
    It was worse than her coming-out ball, Margerit thought as she frowned over the gown that Maitelen had laid out and wondered if it were too frivolous, too young-looking. At twenty-three, she was scarcely ready to give over the trappings of youth for those of a confirmed spinster—to trade curls bound up carelessly in a fillet for a matron’s lace cap or turban—but there was a certain dignity to be maintained. At her own debut she had scarcely noticed her dress. She’d felt like a boat on the flood, uncertain where the tide would carry her. But tonight was for the debut of her creation, her child. And while she was more certain of the outcome, she also cared far, far more.
    It was usual for the mystery guilds to enjoy a formal dinner before their own special observances. Princess Annek had gone further and chosen to hold a full diplomatic ball on the eve of All Saints, with every foreign visitor and dignitary of rank in Rotenek present to hear of the working. Only a few of those guests would be invited to witness the castellum itself. It would be enough that they carried away the knowledge that the nation of Alpennia, small as it was among the great players, was still to be taken seriously.
    And she, too, hoped to be taken seriously. She turned to Maitelen to question the choice of gown once more but was forestalled by a tapping at the door that the maid hastened to answer.
    “Margerit dear, are you still not dressed?”
    “Just starting, Aunt Bertrut,” she replied, putting away her qualms.
    Her aunt had been both relieved and disappointed that her services as chaperone would not be required tonight. Balls and concerts were one thing, but this event was outside the world Aunt Bertrut knew. Last year her aunt had finally agreed to let Uncle Charul present her at court and that was as high as she cared to go. She had married into the aristocracy, but she was still only Maisetra Pertinek and content to remain so. Yet she couldn’t help fussing over the proprieties.
    “I wish you had asked Charul to escort you. This isn’t just a party among friends. How will it look for you to come alone, with no vizeino , no chaperone?” Worry pinched her pleasant face.
    “I won’t be alone. Barbara will be there, and Marken of course, though I know that’s not what you mean.”
    “The baroness can’t be a proper escort,” she protested.
    Margerit