Page 36 of Lady Like

Mariah is standing on the edge of the stage, just far away enough that Harry isn’t sure whether or not she’s heard her soft words. She’s wearing a frilled red gown, the one she wears when she wants Harry to take her to bed. Her red hair is down, and her arms are crossed, pushing up her breasts.

How desperately Harry wishes for a well-placed trapdoor to open up beneath Mariah at that moment.

The Palace’s mechanisms have never been reliable, and it wouldn’t be the first time the floor had spontaneously dropped away.

She holds up a finger to Emily, then hops down from the balcony and jogs across the stage, wondering if it’s too late to shove this proverbial jinni back into its lamp. “What do you need?” she asks Mariah.

“Nothing. I heard voices is all.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I have more right to be here than you.” Mariah gives Harry a smile so syrupy it would have rotted teeth. “You’ve quit.”

“Good evening!” Emily calls to Mariah from the balcony.

Mariah waves with just the tips of her fingers. “And who,” she says out of the corner of her mouth, “is that provincial virgin?”

“That dress makes you look like a haunted sofa,” Harry hisses in retort as Emily trips down the balcony stairs and across the stage, presenting her hand to Mariah.

“Emily Sergeant. I’m a friend of Harry’s.”

Mariah puts her hand in Emily’s, knuckles up, like Emily might kiss it. “I’m sure you are.”

“Goodness,” Emily says, gazing at Mariah. “You are so beautiful.”

Mariah presses a hand to her breast in a display of false modesty that is really a pretense to pull the neckline of her dress lower. “How kind.”

“Your skin,” Emily says, awe soaking her voice. “Your hair! I’ve never seen natural hair this color.”

“You still haven’t,” Harry mutters.

Emily takes a strand of Mariah’s hair between her fingers and flicks it like she’s cleaning a paintbrush. “You look like a goddess in a fresco.”

God, Harry thinks. She is so accustomed to Mariah’s beauty that she often forgets what a powerful aphrodisiac it can be.

Particularly when Mariah is putting on the show she is now, chin dipped, as though her beauty is a dress she had forgotten she owned and simply thrown on before coming down.

“How sweet of you. Isn’t she sweet, Hal? ”

“And a bit foxed,” Harry says.

“Not that foxed,” Emily says.

“Did you come to see the play?” Mariah asks.

“Yes, and you were so wonderful in it!” Emily says. “Better than Harry.”

“Oh, Harry’s rubbish,” Mariah says.

“And she had so many lines!” Emily presses her hands to her cheeks, a gesture of outsized horror befitting the critiqued performance.

“Well at least she’s quit now,” Mariah says. “So we won’t have to endure her again.”

Emily turns to Harry, eyes wide. “You quit?”

“I…” Harry attempts to set Mariah on fire with her eyes. This is not how—or where, or when, or in the company—that Harry planned to tell Emily about the prince and her plan to marry Alexander. “I did.”

“But you love the company!” Emily says. “You told me!”

“Love is not the word.”

“Because they’re all Sapphists!”

“Well, you’re not so innocent as I thought,” Mariah says. “Are you a Sapphist, Miss Sergeant?”

“I might be.” Emily bites her lip. “For tonight.”

“Perhaps tomorrow morning as well?” Mariah asks, and Emily giggles.

Harry gapes at Emily. This would have been helpful information to have several nights previous when Harry had gone to absolute battle with herself over the impropriety of climbing into the bed beside her, and whether Emily’s bare feet touching hers on the sofa were meant to be flirtatious or not.

Even just now, atop the canvas castle, what was she meant to make of that?

A declaration of real love or a scene in a play?

“Miss Sergeant.” Harry squeaks out the words through gritted teeth. “Could we go somewhere private and speak?”

“I thought we were going to the taproom,” Emily says.

“Oh!” Mariah touches Emily upon the arm. Both Emily and Harry stare at the spot. “Are you coming to our party?”

“Perhaps that’s not wise anymore,” Harry says.

Emily’s brow furrows. “Why? Because I’m only free to make choices when you agree with them?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m trying to look out for you.”

“By controlling where she goes?” Mariah asks.

Harry’s jaw throbs. “Mariah, please, this is not your concern.”

“You are so very controlling, Harry.” Mariah turns to Emily, their arms suddenly looped. “She’s always been this way. You cannot let her push you about.”

“Mariah—” Harry starts, but Mariah thrusts a finger at her.

“There, see? She’s doing it again.”

Harry throws up her hands. “Fine. Miss Sergeant, would you like to accompany me to the taproom? We’re overdue.”

“Why don’t we all go?” Mariah asks brightly. “I’m headed that way myself.” She holds out her other arm to Harry. When Harry doesn’t take it, Mariah says, “Suit yourself, then.” And tucks her hand into Emily’s instead.

Which is how Harry comes to walk behind Mariah and Emily to the taproom, listening to the two of them titter and chat the whole way.

—

At the taproom, Harry watches Mariah and Emily sit together in the middle of the raucous party, an oasis of quiet conversation with their heads getting closer and closer until both their faces are shadowed by the tricorn hat Emily is still wearing.

She watches them dance when musicians take up a fiddle and bodhrán, the way Mariah snakes a hand around Emily’s waist, fingertips pressed to the small of her back and their hips together.

She notices when Emily disappears for a moment, then returns with both their jackets, holding Mariah’s for her to shrug into.

They link hands as they slink together from the taproom, toward the doorway, where Mariah pauses and glances back.

Her eyes find Harry’s as though they are connected by a string, and her painted lips pull into a slick smile.

She kisses the tip of one finger, then wiggles it at Harry before she follows Emily from the taproom.

Harry stares up at the ceiling and wishes one of the rotted beams would fall onto her head and knock this whole bloody night from her memory.

For yes, she is well and truly in the soup now.