“Why not?” Papa said. “It’s something a young lady of your status would have to attend sooner or later.”
I crossed my arms and scowled. “I choose later.” How I wished Papa hadn’t gotten so rich, so I wouldn’t have to attend at all!
He sighed and gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “I suppose you can wait another year. But promise me you’ll spend your time more wisely, my flower. Nothing rots the mind like idleness.”
I relaxed into the armchair. “Very well, Papa. I promise.”
I never kept my promise after he left for Aquatia, so perhaps I deserved the punishment.
Lydia’s thrill over Papa’s approval was nothing when she saw Genevieve in her ball gown. My stepsister looked like a princess in her gown of pale rose dotted with seed pearls. Lydia cried for a whole evening after the fitting.
I was happy for Genevieve. She was clearly excited for her coming out, but I knew she was suppressing her emotions for my sake. Still, as much as I tried, I couldn’t keep my sour mood from showing during the long carriage ride to the palace. My ill-fitting corset dug into my ribs and the embroidery on my dress itched. I hated that something so beautiful could be so painful.
When we arrived, Lady Hortensia met us debutantes in the courtyard and told us we had to rehearse our entrance before the ball. The year before, a debutante tumbled down the stairs, for she did not know the proper way to descend a royal staircase. I doubted there was a difference between descending a regular staircase versus a royal one, but I followed Lady Hortensia into the ballroom nonetheless.
All twenty-five of us gathered behind the grand steps, each moving forward as the herald called our names. He was a short man with a monocled eye, a bald head, and the most piercing voice I ever heard, second only to Julianna’s.
“Miss Amara...Amaran...tee—”
“The ‘e’ is silent, sir,” I said, already halfway down.
The herald sniffed. “Very well. Er...Miss Rachel Estelle!”
A tall girl in a blue dress descended after me at his squeaky call. Her hands were shaking, though the ballroom below was empty aside from the servants setting the refreshments table.
“Posture, dear!” Lady Hortensia trilled from the bottom of the steps. “Remember Rachel, you are a swan gliding along a lake, not a pigeon pecking crumbs on the road. And speaking of pigeons, Mr. Packington,” she said, turning to the herald, “are you sure you cannot do anything about those awful birds? They’re nesting in the chandeliers.”
The herald peered up. A band of gray-blue pigeons perched on the golden arms of the chandelier above him. They stared back with round, unblinking eyes. Mr. Packington shuddered. “Like I told you milady, the servants have tried everything. They simply wouldn’t leave.”
“I don’t like it. It seems like some sort of...witchery.” Lady Hortensia shuddered, wiggling her plump, bejeweled fingers.
“Nonsense!” Mr. Packington puffed up his scrawny chest. “We do not speak of such things here, milady. I’m sure that much you know.”
The lady frowned a frown that rivaled Lord Gideon’s.
By the end of it, we were led into a sitting room near the ballroom to wait for the start of the ball. Many debutantes spent the time chattering. Genevieve, Tori, and I sat in our own corner. We asked Olivia to join us, but the girl shied away from any interaction and buried her nose in a book.
Perhaps she would disappear again, like she had at the welcome banquet. We decided to leave her be.
As dull minute after dull minute dragged on, Tori excused herself to the lavatory, Genevieve sketched aimlessly on a napkin, and I settled on eavesdropping.
“How did pigeons get into the ballroom anyway?” Samantha asked from the other side of the room.
“I heard from one of the servers they entered through the kitchens,” Tessa Donahue said, patting her coppery curls. “Someone must’ve left a window open.”
“How irresponsible.” Julianna scoffed. “Narcissa, why don’t you have your cat take them down?”
The duchess’s daughter was perched on an armchair. She narrowed her eyes. “Misty is above that,” she said. “It’s the servants’ job to take care of such things.”
Julianna looked cowed, but she masked it with a laugh. “You’re right. Work like that is reserved for clumsy waiters and girls who flirt with them.” She threw a glance at me. A few debutantes giggled.
“Ignore them,” Genevieve whispered, smoothing her napkin. Julianna’s laughter was still ringing in my ear.
“I can’t believe she’d do this,” I muttered, blood rushing to my face. It was true that I had grown used to Julianna’s antics. She spread all sorts of rumors about me as a child—that I had a beard I shaved off every morning, that I ate bird droppings, that I had freckles because I was cursed by a witch. At some point I’d learned to tolerate it by playing pranks and giving empty threats, but this was different.
How would Lydia react knowing my reputation had ruined Genevieve’s? What would Papa say if my first day at the Season was a disaster? How could I make him proud then?
“Amarante, whoever she gossips to is going to think worse of her than of you. No respectable lady would say such things about others,” Genevieve said, tucking her napkin away. She squeezed my shoulders. “It will be fine. I promise.”
