Some of the older guests look a little uncertain about the propriety of toasting to pleasure, but they lift their glasses anyway. After we repeat the words and drink, Beresford settles back into his chair and keeps flirting with his female companions. I force myself to stop watching him.
The meal is a seven-course affair. My stomach tends to be finicky about rich food, so I take care to eat only a couple bites of the most decadent dishes. The last thing I need is stomach cramps that send me to the privy for half an hour or more. Thankfully I’m able to find enough safe things to eat so that by the end of the dinner, I’m comfortably full.
As more wine is poured, Beresford announces that the party will continue with dancing in the North Conservatory. Footmen draw back the ivory curtains from an archway that’s nearly two stories high, revealing another section of the greenhouse building. Strains of music emerge from the glimmering space beyond, like some otherworldly melody calling us into a realm of enchantment.
With a woman on each arm, Beresford proceeds through the arch, and the other guests rise to follow him, some hurriedly finishing their wine and setting it back on the table, others bringing the glasses along.
Anne proceeds along her side of the table, while Mama and I hurry along ours, intending to meet her at the end of the room.By the time we reach her, however, she has already been asked to dance. She waves to us with a sheepish smile, borne away on the arm of an attractive young man.
“May I have this dance?”
Mama and I both turn, but the gentleman is addressing my mother. He bends in a respectful half-bow, with his hand extended. He’s a well-dressed fellow with a decent jawline and flecks of gray at his temples. Something about his posture hints at a military career.
My mother throws me an uncertain glance. I nod my encouragement, so she takes the man’s hand with a smile and they proceed into the conservatory.
The rest of the dinner guests trickle out of the banquet area while I hesitate, pretending to adjust the ribbon at my waist. When I glance up, I spot a young man heading my way, but he takes only a few steps before his two friends intercept him with a cautionary whisper and sidelong looks in my direction.
I can’t hear the words at this distance, but I don’t have to. I know they’re telling him who I am. Warning him that I’m a summoner, a witch, an anomaly, something odd and unpredictable. Someone he should avoid.
Part of me wants to confront the trio and demand that they say all those things to my face. But what purpose would that serve? It would only ratchet up my emotions to greater heights and possibly cause the very thing I want to avoid.
More couples are pairing off, and with every second my dread of entering the ballroom alone increases, until the idea feels unbearable. Instead of subjecting myself to that embarrassment, I slink away, finding refuge among the rows of fruit trees and plants.
The beauty of the greenhouse captures my attention within moments, soothing the pain of isolation. Every bed is a work of art, carefully planned, with the tall stalks and climbing plants atthe back, then the medium sized ones with lush foliage and large blooms in the middle, and the little ones at the front.
No matter where I look, there’s a vignette of exquisite beauty. A slender green stem rises up from a mass of broad, glossy leaves, its delicate arch ending with a tiny lavender flower. An explosion of blooms with daggerlike petals catches my eye next, and I marvel at the way each petal displays all the colors of the sunset, from deep purple to butter yellow to flaming orange. Palm fronds arch over berry bushes, which thrive next to plants with frosty-looking leaves, which give way to a myriad of starlike white flowers.
Passing through a small side arch, I enter an entire room full of cacti. I’ve only seen them in books, and I’m fascinated by the roughness of their knobby stalks and the waxy coating of their pads. There’s so much variety among them, more than I could have thought possible. I’m overwhelmed by their beauty, struck to the heart.
I could never create such art with growing things, but I feel its effect like a shining blade in my soul, like a delicious chill all over my body. I want to wander this greenhouse forever and worship the mind of the person who designed all this. It must be the work of years, possibly decades. The patience it would take to create this landscape and the time required to maintain it is unbelievable. Not to mention the difficulty of sourcing most of these plants, some of which are certainly not native to our region.
I sink onto a round stool in the center of the cactus room and sit there, drowning myself in beauty, consuming all the textures, shapes, and colors.
“I take it you don’t like to dance?” The voice behind me is quiet, like he didn’t want to scare me, but I startle just the same. I spin around on the stool and see Theron Beresford’s huge frame filling the archway.
“I love to dance,” I reply. “But I wasn’t asked, and now I’ve discovered that I love this more.” I gesture to the plant life around us.
He doesn’t smile, only gives me a calculating stare. “You haven’t touched any of the plants, or tried to pluck the flowers.”
“I wouldn’t want to damage the art. They’re living things, and this is their home. I’m just a guest.”
Beresford props his big shoulder against the doorframe. “Some of my guests seem to think, because of the invitation, that the place belongs to them. They are dreadfully entitled and pathetically civilized.” His canines and his blue eyes flash as he pronounces the last word.
“Civilized people of the higher classes are indeed the most demanding and difficult,” I agree.
“Which is why I host another type of gathering in the middle of the week,” he says. “Some of the guests you’ve seen tonight will be there—the ones who are broad-minded and less concerned with the rules of high society.”
I tilt my head, eyeing him. “You’re either inviting me, or you’re being cruel by pointing out that I’ll be excluded yet again.”
“You excluded yourself tonight,” he says. “If you had come into the conservatory, someone would have asked you to dance.”
“Unlikely.”
He scoffs as if I’m frustrating him. “You think you would have been a wallflower? You, wearing that dress, with thatface?”
Heat crawls into my cheeks. When I blush, my throat and my chest tend to get pink splotches, and I know it’s happening now. I wish I could stop it. What if my embarrassment triggers a summoning?
I need to calm down, but my pulse is racing frantically, and my chest feels compressed, crushed tight. It’s hard to suck in a good, deep breath.
