“Say, since you’re technically a lady, shouldn’t you be sitting somewhere up there?” I asked, gesturing toward the head of the table.
Tori guffawed, drawing a few disgusted looks from passersby. “Sure, when witches are allowed back in Olderea. The duchess wouldn’t want me with my lord of nothing father up there. She’s very particular about preserving the distinction of class, ironically.”
“Ironically?”
“Haven’t you heard? Her Grace came to the palace as a mere scullery maid, befriended the queen, married a duke on his deathbed and became one of the most powerful and well-respected women in court. She’s in charge of the Season this year instead of the queen. Said Her Majesty wanted her to do it for some reason.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t expect to like Her Grace very much. My Pa says she’s a sharp sort of woman who knows too much for her own good.”
“Seems like you know a lot about the duchess,” I said, quite drawn in to our new friend’s stories. She spoke as if she were a palace insider and not a blacksmith’s daughter thrown into prosperity.
Tori’s cheeky grin reappeared. “I know about as much as everyone else.”
“Not us. We’re new to all this,” Genevieve said.
“Is that so? I couldn’t tell,” Tori said. “You two look as proper as anyone else in the room.”
“Propriety can be learned,” I said with a smile. “Our father is a bit like yours, though he doesn’t have a fancy title. He’s a merchant.”
Tori nodded. “Heard there’s been a boom in trade ever since Olderea opened its ports to Aquatia. Who would’ve thought? That kingdom is full of magic.”
“They’ve arrested someone for going to the Witch Market this week,” I said in a lower voice. “Why would we accept goods from Aquatia if magic is illegal here?”
She shrugged. “To keep good relations, I suppose. It’s because Queen Cordelia is Aquatian. Olderean merchants are only accepting non-magical items, I heard. But who knows? That may change.”
Before I could say more, a dignified woman dressed in a brilliant red gown emerged from the hall. The chatter quieted. She had a thin nose, thick auburn hair, and a pair of rosebud lips that curved into a smile when she approached.
Her teeth gleamed like the large gold locket around her neck, stamped with an emblem of a snake twisted amongst thorny roses.
“The Whittington insignia,” Tori murmured from the corner of her mouth when she saw my interest in the piece.
When Duchess Wilhelmina reached the table, we all stood. I thought I saw a girl swoon.
“Good evening, ladies.” The duchess’s voice was deeper than I anticipated.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” we collectively murmured.
She inclined her head, her diamond earrings glittering. “Welcome to this year’s Season. As you know, it is tradition for all young ladies who have come of age to participate in this two-month event to celebrate their journey to womanhood. This year, Queen Cordelia has allowed me to be your hostess. I have chosen two ladies to help me mentor you during this year’s events.”
At her word, two women entered, one thin and one plump. They were introduced respectively as Madam Lucille, the music mistress and Lady Hortensia, a courtier. Madam Lucille looked more like a nun in her somber high-necked frock, but Lady Hortensia looked her part, adorned with layers of beaded jewelry and lacy hems.
The two chattered some nonsense about how they looked forward to mentoring us and how they had never seen a prettier batch of debutantes. After Madam Lucille and Lady Hortensia seated themselves with us, Duchess Wilhelmina once again took the stage.
“A catalog of events will be sent out soon. But for now,” the duchess said, clapping her hands, “let the banquet begin!”
A row of smartly-dressed waiters filed into the hall, carrying silver platters with shallow plates of leafy green salads.
For the next thirty minutes, Duchess Wilhelmina instructed us on the proper way to sit and the correct utensils to use for each dish. It was all immensely dull and confusing, and time seemed to muddle itself in my brain. In the midst of it, Olivia Sternfeld left the room after whispering to a maid. She never returned. Whether it was the dullness of the event or her crippling shyness, I did not know, but I certainly envied the girl.
At the start of the last course, a few waiters came to replenish our beverages. I watched absentmindedly as one of them refilled a girl’s glass, the water rising up and up and...
The girl shrieked when her glass overflowed, water pooling into the tablecloth and dribbling down onto her violet skirts. “What have you done?” she demanded, frantically wiping her dress. “This gown is worth more than your yearly wages you clumsy cow!”
“Apologies, Miss Samantha.” The waiter who spoke couldn’t have been older than me. He bowed his head of lustrous black hair and offered Samantha a napkin. She snatched it, dabbed her skirts, and flung it back at him. He caught it with ease and proceeded down the table.
The duchess, oddly enough, did not seem to notice this encounter. Even Madam Lucille and Lady Hortensia were preoccupied chatting amongst themselves.
An arm reached past my shoulder with a water pitcher. I glanced up, recognizing the waiter’s black hair. He didn’t seem too bothered by Samantha’s rebuke. I supposed he had to be thick-skinned to be a waiter.
But apparently not well-coordinated.
