The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (33 page)

Golia dropped the rope and drew his sword, advancing toward Lucien across the rooftop of the
sanatorio
, his eyes flat, showing nothing. Dawn light flashed from the blade.

34

Until Someone Dies
HOUSE FONTEIN GREAT HALL
–
Ottobre
314

Lucien always approached
La Festa del Ringraziamento
with trepidation. The night the porcelain ears shattered on the floor had haunted his every public appearance since. Despite this nagging memory quite a different creature prepared to enter the grand hall of House Fontein five years later. He was dressed in a severe suit of black damask, trousers bearing a stripe down the seam of each leg in House Fontein scarlet. His matching shirt was immaculate. A kerchief in his jacket pocket completed the ensemble. Determined not to be unarmed yet mindful of etiquette, a sword cane had been commissioned especially. He’d wasted an afternoon in a forgotten practice room, drawing the blade over and over, working through his forms. The weapon was, he’d decided, exquisite. And completely illegal of course. Orfani weren’t allowed metal blades until they turned eighteen. He rolled his shoulders, working the tension out, taking a moment to compose himself before the doors of the grand hall.

It had been just over a year since his vigil on the rooftop of the
sanatorio
. Now seventeen, the speculation surrounding him was rampant. Who would he marry and what would he do after his final testing? Would he in fact survive at all, or would Golia move against him? His occasional assignations with Stephania had become common knowledge, adding further fuel to the fires of gossip that swept through Demesne. Anea had remained resolutely unreachable, consumed with study and assignations of her own. These were rumoured to be political in nature, and Russo was now a fixture at Anea’s side. The silent Orfano was crafting an agenda, but Lucien had yet to discover her intent.

The doors opened and the steward announced him to the room. Even Golia’s hulking presence at
La Festa
couldn’t dim his confidence. The guests turned to him, some whispering behind fans, others nodding respectfully. Far too few of the last. He took care to keep his expression neutral, knowing he was given to scowling when under scrutiny. Camelia had chided him often.

Dino fell in beside him with a sour look, Achilles on his shoulder, scaly and imperious. A servant wound his way through the crowd toward them, bringing a tray of wine-filled glasses.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ whispered the younger Orfano, brow furrowed.

‘Getting dressed. There’s no rush.
La Festa
lasts all night.’

‘Duchess Prospero has been asking after you. Every ten minutes, without fail.’ Dino lowered his voice. ‘She’s as mad as a box of frogs, you know.’

‘Keep your voice down; she’s heading this way. And why the hell did you bring Achilles?’

Dino said nothing, shifting his gaze to the trio of figures that stepped through the parted crowd. The hall buzzed, thrumming with small talk and speculation.

Lucien doubted Duchess Prospero could have traversed the short distance alone. The nearly-deaf duke supported her as she towered over him, a gratuitous amount of décolletage on display. Stephania followed in a matching dress, demure compared to the confection of her mother. The effect was of seeing two twins separated by a span of twenty years and a watering-down of values.

‘Now I know what a migraine feels like,’ whispered Lucien.

‘What
does
a migraine feel like? asked Dino.

‘You should know – you’ve already been talking to her.’

Dino coughed laughter into his wine glass, displacing most of it onto the floor. Servants scurried about him as he made his apologies. Duchess Prospero turned to the string quartet and gave them the signal after the requisite pleasantries were exchanged. Lucien bowed to Stephania. She took his hand and smiled. The dance was under way. There was a faint trace of red wine on her lips. His mind flashed back to the day she’d kissed him by the mantelpiece. There’d been no repeat of that event, but she’d blessed him with her smile freely and often.

‘New dress?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, sounding weary. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind, but you know what mother is like.’

‘Insistent.’

‘That’s a nice word for it.’ Stephania smiled again. Lucien couldn’t help joining her.

‘And how is life as a member of the feared Fontein?’ A common enquiry. ‘I notice you’ve yet to take an apartment with them.’

‘I grew up in House Contadino. And besides, assassinating me there would cause political problems for Duke Fontein.’

‘Sound thinking,’ she agreed.

‘I find I sleep easier when I’m not under the same roof as Golia.’

‘Ever consider that you might sleep more easily under the Prospero roof?’

He was used to this. She enjoyed being bold, speaking in a manner designed to shock.

‘It’s crossed my mind a few times.’ She returned his smile, eyes lingering on his face. Her overtures were enchanting, even exciting, yet he lacked the motivation to make their joining an official one. Something held him back from surrendering to her completely.

Lucien padded through the gavotte easily. So easily in fact he had time to take in the other guests. Only the Majordomo was conspicuous by his absence. And Rafaela. She’d not have received an invitation, but it was an unspoken courtesy that the maids of Orfani were allowed to attend. Stephania cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

‘I think Mother will press you for a decision soon,’ she said casually. Lucien had been expecting this.

‘We’re still so young,’ he mumbled, more to himself. They turned and bowed to each other, and the dance dragged on.

‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Well, I’m glad it’s not Golia.’ She smiled again. ‘And Dino is much too young. I suppose I could make do with someone like you.’ She raised an eyebrow. Lucien forced another grin. Damned by faint praise. Again.

‘You don’t have to marry an Orfano,’ he replied. ‘You do know that?’

‘Who do you suggest?’ Her smile slipped, an edge in her voice. ‘Not exactly a wealth of men in Demesne, is there? Not of my status, anyway.’

‘Is there someone you want, someone you find yourself thinking of?’ His eyes searched the crowd for Rafaela.

‘It doesn’t work like that,’ she said, all trace of her previous good humour now departed. ‘Not for my mother, and not for me.’

Lucien took in her face, the corners of her eyes narrowed with the barest hint of anguish.

‘Besides,’ she said, ‘we might grow to love each other. Perhaps if we gave each other a chance, something might flourish. At the very least we might be friends.’

He regarded the fuchsia-clad girl for a moment. Hers was an optimism rooted in resignation, someone trying to make the best of a situation she had no control over. He respected her for that, he realised. The music drew to a close. Lucien bowed while Stephania smiled from behind a fan before bobbing a polite curtsey. She melting into the crowd, rejoining her coterie. He watched her go, the swish and sway of hips in rich fabric distracting.

We might grow to love each other
– was such a thing even possible?

Lucien retired to the side of the room, folding his arms and leaning on one of the many pillars. A tap on the shoulder brought him face to face with Anea. Lucien found himself at a loss for words. People nearby moved away, whispering behind fluttering fans, exchanging knowing glances. Vestiges of old gossip and rumour kindled and took flame around them.

She was wearing the same outfit she had worn at his Rite of Adoption. The white dress had been let out slightly to accommodate the ripening of her figure. Her headdress looked more splendid than he remembered it, matching the ultramarine veil she wore across her nose and mouth. Gold thread conspired to make her green eyes look more piercing that usual. She held out her book, opened to a page bisected by single line of her handwriting:
Are you just going to roll over like a dog and marry the first girl they throw at you?

Lucien raised his eyebrows and blinked.

She flicked the page over where more script lay in wait:
I can think of far better things to be doing than maintaining the status quo. Can’t you?

Mistress Corvo interrupted them, clucking and cooing.

‘Anea, darling, I have the
capo
here for you. Won’t you dance with him?’

Anea glanced at Lucien, eyes hard as jade, before allowing Guido to take her hand. The
capo de custodia
led her onto the dance floor. Was there a hint of resignation in the set of his shoulders? Where was the smirk that all-too-frequently perched on his lips? Lucien watched them dance, sipping wine and giving Dino single-syllable responses He ignored Mistress Corvo entirely as she provided a commentary. Sadness descended about him. He realised the
capo
would not dance with Anea if he knew what lay beneath the veil. Still, there was much about Anea that was lovely. Lovely yet furious. The stiffness of her steps betrayed the full extent of her indignation. Her gaze flickered back to Lucien. The eye contact caused her to misstep, angering her further.

‘Well, if it isn’t the most pathetic weakling in all of Demesne.’ Golia’s voice came from behind them, very close. Dino turned and staggered back a step, awed by the sheer physical presence of the older Orfano.

‘Fuck. Off. Golia,’ said Lucien, each word a study in boredom, not bothering to face his tormentor. His left hand tightened on the handle of the sword cane, drawing the blade an inch from its scabbard. Mistress Corvo uttered a pained exclamation. She hurried away, blacks skirts rustling around emaciated legs. The conversation in the grand hall fell silent even as the quartet continued playing, ignorant of the unfolding confrontation. Guests stared as the mood curdled around the Orfani.

There was a handful of uncomfortable seconds and then Dino spoke: ‘He’s gone.’

The tension around them dissipated; the taut crowd relaxed, resuming their chatting.

‘Will it always be like this?’ asked Dino, staring after Golia, who pressed his way through the courtiers.

‘Only until someone dies.’

‘That might be sooner than any of us think,’ said the younger boy, the sweep of the music threatening to drown his words.

Duke Prospero approached, smiling amiably. He wore a powdered wig, as ridiculous as it was hideously out of date. Lucien suspected him to be the worse for drink, judging by his gait.

‘Lucien, my boy,’ he boomed cheerily. Stephania stood on the other side of the room, surrounded by House Prospero functionaries. She gazed at Lucien over the top of her fan. It was not contentment in her eyes, he realised, but hope. Lucien and Dino bowed to the duke.

‘Are you enjoying the party?’ asked Lucien.

‘I’ll say. A very fine time indeed!’ Lucien couldn’t help flashing a lopsided grin at Dino, who had to look away from the tipsy duke for fear he be consumed by laughter. Suddenly Lucien felt the great weight of the duke’s arm around his shoulders. The wine on his breath was pungent. Guests raised eyebrows at the display. Physical contact between nobles was uncommon, between men it was unthinkable.

‘You’ll take care of her, m’boy. Tell me you’ll take care of her?’

Lucien looked at the duke. He’d whispered, and in that whisper had been the tiniest of cracks in a facade. Where was the almost-deaf duke he knew so well? Where was the jovial and stentorian leader of House Prospero?

‘Tell me you’ll take care of her. You two have a chance I never had. You’re the same age. Don’t make the mistake I did. Her mother cats around with that insipid
capo
and thinks I don’t know. But I do.’ Bloodshot eyes brimmed with drunken tears. ‘I do.’

‘Duke Prospero, I’m so sorry,’ Lucien replied, voice hushed. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Don’t worry about me, m’boy. But by the love of all that’s righteous, look after my sweet Stephania.’ He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed, blinking back tears, tremulous lips stained with wine.

‘She’ll be fine, my lord.’

Duke Prospero lurched away, wig slipping from his head as he departed, the hairpiece on the floor behind him, a chorus of laughter rising at his passing. A page snatched the wig from the floor and crammed it onto his head, mimicking Prospero’s drunken amble. The sorry form of the duke located a side door and exited into the dark corridors beyond, oblivious.

The
capo
sidled over to Duchess Prospero as soon as the music stopped, leaving Anea alone. The party was in full swing now, but Anea might just well have been stranded on a deserted island at that cruel moment. Lucien recalled the time he had left her after they had first danced. The night of the porcelain ears.

‘Dino, go to Anea. Escort her. Be sure to walk her back to her room at the end of the night.’

‘Why me?’ he muttered. Achilles flicked out a tongue and flexed his claws on Dino’s epaulette.

‘Because I’m leaving.’ Lucien fixed him with a stern look. ‘Take this.’ He held out the sword cane. ‘If anyone lifts a finger against either of you, kill him.’ Dino stared at the weapon as if it were made of solid gold. Lucien was struggling to keep his temper. There seemed to be nothing about Demesne that didn’t sicken him in some way.

‘Go to her, Dino. Do it now.’ Then Lucien followed the duke through the side door.

For a large drunk man unsteady on his feet, the duke did an admirable disappearing act. Lucien sought him for many minutes, eventually calling at his chambers. The page on duty shrugged his shoulders, telling him he had assumed the duke was still at
La Festa.
Lucien sighed, troubled by thoughts of the future as he began the journey back to House Contadino. Inevitably he and Stephania would tire of each other, remaining wed in name only, pursuing intrigues and infidelities as diversions. It was clear to him now why the nobles were so unhappy. Political marriages bore sour fruit.

He arrived outside his apartment. A cold wind gusted down the corridor; shutters clapped and boomed in the distance. He shivered, pulling the collar of his jacket closer around his neck and drawing his chin down to his chest to ward off the chill. Golden light emerged from under the door.