Free Living With Ghosts by Kari Sperring

bouquets of ribbons. On the toilette table stood an impressive array of crystal vials, silver-backed brushes, and porcelain boxes. Everything was airy and dainty and fragile. Miraude took great care to ensure that: her intimates expected it. The beautiful Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie was one of the ornaments of Merafien society; elegance in person, in dress, in surroundings was required of her. Her approval was sought after, her taste everywhere admired, invitations to her monthly salons coveted by friends and enemies alike.
    She rose, now, to embrace Yvelliane and bestow a kiss upon her cheek. “You’re wearing a horrid dress again. You must let me take you to my modiste .”
    “If I ever have the time.” Yvelliane seated herself on a low chair and glanced across at the maid. “I need to talk to you about family business.”
    “Oh. Oh, of course.” Miraude resumed her own seat and smiled at her maid. “Leave me, Coralie. I’ll ring when I want you.” The maid curtsyed and left. Miraude said, “Well? The Ninth Councillor again?”
    “No, although the queen is very pleased with your information on that.” Miraude sketched a small bow. Yvelliane continued, “It’s a harder one, I’m afraid. Kenan Orcandros.”
    Miraude half-turned, contemplating her reflection in the mirror. She said. “The heir to Lunedith. The amber and sulfur merchants don’t like him. They think, when he’s prince, he’ll raise export duties and make trouble over imports.” She patted a stray curl into place. “He’s unmarried, but unlikely to wed outside Lunedith. Old-fashioned—he’d marry his cousin, if he had a female one older than eight.”
    Yvelliane smiled. “You’ve done your homework.”
    “I hear things.” Miraude finished with the curl and turned back to face Yvelliane. “And I was rather expecting to be asked, given what’s said about him.” Her intimates would have been surprised that she could sound so serious. Miraude was very careful as to what she let her intimates know. It did not pay, in matters of intrigue, to be profligate with oneself. There were a hundred people at court who would swear they knew every one of her thoughts and secrets. Outside Yvelliane, the queen, and Prince Laurens, there were perhaps two who knew even a part.
    She was Yvelliane’s best informer. At sixteen, she had come to live in the Far Blays household, as wife to Valdarrien. Less than three months later, he was dead, having never consummated the marriage. Beautiful, charming, and rich, Miraude had not lacked for suitors or friends. But it had taken her less than six months to find court life shallow, for all that. Yvelliane had provided her with an endless source of interest and excitement, by offering her the chance to spy for the queen. Now, she said, “Am I looking for anything in particular?”
    “No . . .” Yvelliane hesitated. “At least, I’m not sure.
    Connections to Tarnaroq or to the undarii maybe. He used to be friends with Quenfrida d’Ivrinez. There’s some suspicion that he’d like to see Lunedith independent of us. I just . . .”
    “He smells wrong?” Miraude suggested. “Figuratively speaking.”
    “Yes. He’s unlikely to make it easy for you. He doesn’t like Merafiens.”
    “No. But he likes tradition.” Miraude nodded. “I can work with that.”
    “Thank you.” Yvelliane rose and started toward the door.
    Miraude said, “We missed you the last couple of days.”
    “There’s so much to do. And Firomelle.”
    “Yes.” Miraude studied her sister-in-law’s face.Today, she looked older than her thirty-four years, lines becoming set in her brow. Lately, it seemed, Yvelliane did nothing beside work and fret. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”
    Yvelliane said, “I do.”
    Miraude shook her head.
    Yvelliane continued, “Laurens was nagging me about that, too. I’ll rest soon, I promise.” She went to the door. In it, she paused and said, “Mimi?”
    “Yes?”
    “How’s