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Chapter 21

Imogene still wasn't convinced she wasn't dreaming when she found herself once more waltzing with Jean-Paul in the emperor's ballroom four nights after her return from Cylienne. It had been a dizzying week, between continuing her work with Ikarus and Jean-Paul discreetly putting himself in her path at every opportunity. She hadn't yet returned to his bed. She was trying to be smart. To wait a little and see what happened when they got to know each other better.

But with his hand holding hers and his body close enough for her to feel the heat of him, she wasn't sure how long she could resist.

She tried to distract herself with the other dancers, to enjoy the whirl and spectacle of them. Her third imperial ball in a month. Hardly what she had expected when she had returned from Reyshaka. The Imogene then would have laughed at the thought of taking so much as a step in the direction of a duq-to-be, let alone agreeing to contemplate marrying one.

But she couldn't regret choosing Jean-Paul, even if she was baffled as to how exactly he had come to lodge himself so deeply into her affections in so little time. The simple truth was that her heart lifted with joy every time she saw him, and she liked him more with every moment they stole together. Those might become harder to steal. He had said he would introduce her to his parents tonight.

The thought of that was enough to make her palms clammy, and she was grateful when the music came to an end, giving her a chance to catch her breath.

"You're thinking too loudly again, Lieutenant," Jean-Paul said as he escorted her off the floor. "And though I find your face deep in thought enchanting, I would like to see your smile. It's a ball. You're wearing a gown that I find deeply fascinating." He cast a quick glance toward the swooping neckline of the emerald brocade dress she was practically stitched into. "Let us enjoy the night."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not meeting my father tonight," Imogene said. And even if he had been, her father was unlikely to express the same concerns as to his suitability that she knew, despite Jean-Paul's assurances, his father would have about hers.

Just thinking about it made her stomach flip.

[Patterns.] Ikarus's voice was a rumble in her head.

[What patterns?] she replied, attention still half in the ballroom.

[Humans. Music.]

[Dancing?] Then she halted. [Wait. You’re here? We discussed that.]

[You said not be seen. Not to stay away.]

She flushed. That was true. She should have been more careful with her words. She wasn't part of the Imperial Guard, and they were the only people who could call a sanctii in the emperor's ballroom without causing an uproar. Of course, if a situation arose where the Imperial Guard needed to summon a sanctii, there would be an uproar regardless.

[You must not be seen,] she reiterated in her head.

A snort of agreement, as though telling her he knew very well how to behave, was all the reply she got. It wasn't entirely what she had expected, this sanctii business. There was more give-and-take. More...friendship.

Friends with a sanctii and engaged to a duq. Strange days.

Her attention came back to the ballroom, and she realized Jean-Paul was leading her toward the imperial party. The duq was not the only important man she would meet tonight. She was to be formerly introduced to the emperor—she couldn't quite bring herself to think of him as just Aristides, as Jean-Paul seemed to—as well. But that didn't feel quite so intimidating.

And sure enough, when she curtsied for the emperor and empress and rose again, she felt far calmer than she had been expecting to.

"Lieutenant Carvelle," Aristides said, his voice smooth. "We are pleased to meet you." His gaze flicked to Jean-Paul, who stood behind her. "The major speaks highly of you."

He looked somewhat entertained. Was he pleased that Jean-Paul was...involved? Would he remain pleased if he knew one of his future duqs wanted to marry someone like her? And what in the name of the goddess had Jean-Paul been saying to the emperor? It would be a horrendous breach of protocol to turn her back on the emperor and roll her eyes at Jean-Paul, but she was tempted. But she resisted the urge and offered a murmured "Thank you, Your Imperial Highness."

She caught the gaze of the empress seated beside her husband. She also looked amused, a dimple flickering in her cheek. Her dress was the shade of a new anden leaf, a color that flattered the bright green of her eyes. It was draped to hide her stomach, and the gold leaves rioting over the bodice were placed to draw the eye away, too, but there was no mistaking that there would be another imperial prince or princess sometime in the fall. The crown prince was not yet eighteen. His youngest sister only six. Five children. Imogene couldn't imagine it. And yet Liane looked younger than Aristides, though they were close in age. Perhaps she had a touch of the illusioner's art.

"Your dress is lovely," the empress said.

Kind of her, Imogene thought. Her dress was beautiful, but simple, relying on line and drape and the beauty of the floral brocade to overcome the lack of expensive lace and embroidery and jewels that decorated the gown of the nobles. Imogene's mother's clothier was very good, but there was still a limit to what any dressmaker could do without the unlimited funds required to produce gowns like the empress wore.

"Thank you, Your Imperial Highness." She curtsied again and back up a few steps, hoping Jean-Paul might join in the conversation. She could think of nothing just then that seemed like suitable conversation for an empress.

He seemed to take the cue and moved to stand beside her. But before he could add anything to the conversation, there was a slight commotion from behind the emperor. A door opened in the wall behind them, and three black-clad Imperial Guards walked through ahead of a group of four Andalyssians. Including, Imogene saw, her stomach sinking, the Ashmeiser.