My invitation came three days later.
“You will cherish this forever, Amarante,” my stepmother said, handing me the crisp white envelope and gold embossed box. Nestled within was a bracelet of silver bells. It chimed when I took it out.
It was an old Olderean custom. Debutantes wore silver bells to mark the beginning of possible courtship. Young men tied gold ribbons around their wrists so the ladies knew they were interested suitors. By the end of the Season, if a couple decided to pair up, the two ornaments would be woven together as a pretty—but useless— symbol of courtship.
As I fastened the bracelet around my wrist, I vowed that a ribbon would not be looped through the chain under any circumstances. I was not attending for courtship, and even if I was, there was little sense in keeping such an ornament.
Lydia had kept hers all these years, locked away in her jewelry box. The ribbon intertwined in her chains, now faded of its luster, was not Papa’s.
4
The west wing of thepalace was a sprawling mass of marble arches and sky-high windows that extended beyond my vision. It was the only part of the palace open to the public, or the part of the public that could afford to rent the place.
I had only been there once for a soirée hosted by a particularly illustrious personage, but it had been ages since I’d stepped foot inside the banquet hall. A grand crystal chandelier that rivaled the Sternfelds’ hung above a long dining table set with twenty-five places of glittering dishes and silverware.
A handful of girls were already seated. I felt smaller and smaller as Genevieve and I approached.
“Relax, Amarante,” Genevieve said.
I loosened my grip on her hand, my palms clammy. “I’m sorry. I’m sweating all over you.”
“Don’t worry. This isn’t officially the start of the Season. Stepfather will let you withdraw before the Debutante Ball, I’m sure of it.”
I was glad for Genevieve’s assurance, but doubt still gnawed at my mind. Everythinglookedofficial enough.
A gasp sounded from behind me.
“Amarante? Who letyouin the palace?” Julianna demanded. She marched toward me in a gown of tangerine orange, a lace fan clenched in her hands.
This was icing on the cake.
“You did,” I retorted. “I have to spend two entire months attending these dull events becauseyouthrew a tantrum in my backyard.”
Julianna glared. “I wouldn’t have if you didn’t ruin my hat and make me drink dirt! And you!” she said, turning to Genevieve. “You seduced Mr. Sternfeld!”
Genevieve was at a loss for words. I scowled.SeduceMr. Sternfeld? Charm, delight, and captivate, perhaps, but not seduce.
