The forest darkens during the long trek home. Several times I think I glimpse movement among the shadows—tall, skinny limbs that look like tree trunks but are actually legs. I tell myself I’m imagining it, like I dreamed up the huge teeth in Grandmother’s mouth.
When I get home that evening, I tell my mother and sister that Grandmother Riquet and I had a productive session and made excellent progress. I tell them what they want to hear—that I’ll be docile and safe for the party, that there’s little chance of a summoning that might embarrass them in front of the other guests.
Briefly I mention Grandmother’s memory issues and my promise to check in on her again. Both Mama and Anne agree that it’s a good idea, then show me the work they did on the dresses. The berry bushes in our garden yield a fantastic scarlet dye, and since those berries are free, that’s what they used to freshen the old gowns. The result is a marvelous, rich color.
The secret Mama had up her sleeve turns out to be an assortment of lace, ribbons, and beads, given to her when a local family moved away a few weeks ago. She kept the little treasure trove a secret, hoping to surprise us with it in a moment of need. When she shows us the trimmings, I feign delight to match Anne’s, and I express my eagerness to embellish the gowns, while Mama practically glows with pleasure at our excitement. But inside, my heart is dark, and I can’t help feeling that I should have done something different, or something more.
Unable to keep up the ruse of excitement any longer, I plead weariness and retreat to my room with one of the leftovermuffins. I sit on my bed, picking at the food and sliding deeper into nightmarish apprehension about this weekend and what might happen at Beresford’s dinner party.
Surely I can manage to control myself. I can remain at the fringes of the event and duck out if I feel particularly stressed or excited. I can avoid talking to people.
I can make this work. I have to for the sake of my mother, my sister, and Grandmother Riquet. Anxiety for their future and their welfare builds in my chest until I think I might explode, until I’m terrified that I’ll summon something else. Two summonings in one day would be unusual for me. It would mean I’m getting worse, not better.
I set the remaining portion of the muffin on my nightstand and turn my water cup upside down over it so it won’t attract pests. Then I lie on my stomach with my face in the pillow.
“Go to sleep, Sybil,” I order myself. “When you’re asleep, you don’t summon things. Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep…”
3
The darkness is still clinging to me on the night of Beresford’s dinner party. I haven’t summoned anything since the visit to Grandmother’s house, but my emotions have been more volatile than ever. Yesterday, when someone knocked on our front door, I nearly jumped out of my skin, but it was only a messenger, letting us know what time the carriage would be coming to pick us up on the night of the event.
Mama, Anne, and I are ready at the appointed hour, all of us dressed in shades of crimson, glowing and glittering thanks to a judicious application of the faceted beads to our old gowns. Anne did most of the beadwork, while I focused on the lace and Mama handled the tucks and the ribbons. I was the architect of our hairstyles—waterfalls of curls artfully pinned halfway up, with the rest cascading down our backs. Since all the family jewelry has been sold, Anne and I fashioned three matching chokers out of ribbons and lace. We don’t look rich, but we all look beautiful, and beauty is a currency of its own.
The carriage that comes to retrieve us is driven by a wizened old man who looks terribly bored by the task. The jet-black horses, however, are exquisite, tall, and graceful. Here and there in their luxurious manes and tails are tiny braids woven with gold threads, and they wear bejeweled harnesses and headgear decorated with sparkling golden feathers.
“How charming!” exclaims Mama. “What fun we’re going to have!”
In spite of my worries, my spirits lift a little. The journey to Beresford’s estate is a long one, and the carriage windows are tightly covered so we can’t see the route, but the interior of the vehicle is cozy and comfortable, lit with tiny lanterns. There’s a wooden lid at the center of one of the bench seats, and upon opening it we find a compartment containing a bottle of wine and three glasses, along with a tin of sugared nuts.
“We must partake carefully of the wine, since none of us have had the luxury of alcohol in a long time,” Mama warns.
I pour a little for myself and sip it cautiously. The fine wines I’ve sampled before never tasted very good to me, but this one is fantastic—sweet and crisp and refreshing. By the time the carriage finally halts, its warmth has settled in my stomach and I feel it buzzing lightly in my veins.
Footmen guide us out of the carriage and along a path through a well-groomed garden, into a magnificent greenhouse. Along the open center of the greenhouse, between lush beds of flowers and walls of fruit trees, the dinner has been spread with shining elegance upon long, narrow tables. Dozens of lanterns, dripping from the paneled glass ceiling overhead, shed a dazzling light on crystal goblets, golden flatware, and gilt-edged plates. The centerpieces overflow with blue and scarlet flowers, interspersed with gold-painted branches and feathery gold ferns.
I’m surprised that we’re not dining at the house, but none of the other guests seem to care. Most of them are in their twenties or early thirties, but there are some adults my mother’s age as well. Everyone is fabulously adorned for the occasion, wide-eyed with wonder at the beauty of the place, ready to be suitablyimpressed by whatever else Theron James Beresford has planned for the evening.
Directed by the servants, we take our seats at the center table. A middle-aged woman greets my mother and asks, “What do we know of this Beresford? Are you friends of his?”
“Barely acquaintances,” replies Mama.
“He’s new to the region,” replies a man I recognize—a tanner from Loisay. “This is the Valenkirk estate. Beresford took it over a few years ago, after the Valencourts’ fortunes failed and they had to leave. He’s been living here quietly since then. I’m not sure why he suddenly decided to host these fabulous dinners, but I’m not complaining. I heard he had a wife, but perhaps I was wrong about that. He’s certainly not behaving like a married man.” He nods toward the far end of our table.
My gaze follows his nod, and there is our host himself, looking resplendent in a dark suit trimmed with gold. His mane of blue hair is pinned back on one side with a gold clip, showing an ear lined with sparkling studs and gold earrings. Even his blue beard glints with flecks of gold as he leans toward the beautiful young woman on his right, murmuring something to her with smirking lips.
Immediately, unreasonably, I resent her. I resent the girl on his left, too, whose slim jeweled fingers curve over his arm. I hate the fawning smile on her face and the shrill laugh I can hear from a dozen seats away.
Why did I ever think Beresford might be strange or wild enough to be a good match for someone like me? He clearly doesn’t lack female attention. There’s no reason for him to even look at me, especially after I made such a terrible first impression, snapping at him from the wreckage of the spilled tea and the smashed table. I’m surprised he didn’t rescind our invitation on the spot.
“Sybil.” Anne looks at me intently from across the table. “Are you alright?”
Her tone is pointed, her eyes fraught with concern. She’s worried that I’m losing control of my emotions.
I inhale deeply through my nose and let out a steady breath. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”
As if on cue, our host rises from his chair and lifts his glass. Servants advance between the chairs, filling all the guests’ glasses with sparkling gold liquor.
“A toast.” Beresford’s deep voice rolls through the room. I wonder if anyone else feels it vibrating in their bones like I do. “To food, to friendship, and to pleasure!”
