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She watched them as they arrived, and she wondered.

How did one choose, how did a woman know?

There were so many kinds, and yet in her whole lifetime, a woman could possess but one.

Or two, perhaps, if her husband died young and left her a widow while she could yet bear children.

Still, she supposed, if one truly loved her husband, she wouldn’t hope for that to happen, no matter how curious she might be.

Still. It did not seem fair. There, on the black horse, pulling him in so abruptly that the horse’s hooves clattered on the paving stones, that was Roed Caern.

His hair flowed down his back in a black stream, as glistening as his horse’s mane and as unbound.

His shoulders strained the seams of his tailored coat.

He had a sharp nose and narrow lips, and Delo had shivered when she spoke of him.

‘Oh, but he’s a cruel one,’ she had said so knowingly, and then only rolled her eyes when Malta had demanded to know what she had meant.

Jealousy gnawed at Malta’s heart that Delo knew such things and she did not.

Delo’s brother frequently invited his friends to dine at his home.

Roed was one such. Oh, why couldn’t she have a brother like Cerwin, who rode and hunted and had handsome friends instead of doltish Wintrow with his saggy brown robes and beardless chin?

She followed Roed’s striding steps with her eyes, and marked how he gave way suddenly with a deep and courtly bow to allow a young wife to precede him into the hall.

Her husband looked none too pleased at his gallantry.

Yet another carriage pulled up. The Trentor family’s, the crest on the door proclaimed it.

The white horses that pulled it had ostrich plumes on their headstalls.

Malta watched the family alight, the parents dressed so sedately in dove grey, followed by three unwed daughters, all in shades of goldenrod and holding hands as if they feared some man would try to separate such devout sisters.

Malta snorted softly at their fearfulness.

Krion came last. He was dressed in grey, like his father, but the scarf at his throat was a deeper gold than that his sisters wore.

His hands were gloved in white tonight. Krion always wore gloves, to cover the terrible scars where he had stumbled into a fire as a child.

He was ashamed of his hands, and modest, too, of the poetry he wrote.

He never read it aloud himself, leaving that task to his devoted sisters.

His hair was auburn and as a boy he had been as freckled as an egg.

His eyes were green. Delo had confided to Malta that she thought she was in love with him.

Someday, she said, she hoped to be the one to stand before chosen friends and read his latest verses aloud.

Such a gentle spirit, Delo had breathed, and then sighed.

Malta watched him ascend the steps, and sighed herself.

She longed to be in love. She longed to know more of men, to speak knowingly of this one or that, to blush at the mention of a name or frown sternly at the glance of dark eyes.

Her mother was wrong, wrong when she said there was plenty of time, to wait to be a woman.

The years of being a woman with a choice were far too few.

All too soon women married and grew fat with babies.

Malta did not dream of a solid husband and a well-filled crib.

She hungered for this, these nights in the shadows, these hungers of the soul, and the attention of men who could not claim to possess her.

Well, it would not happen to her hiding in the shadows.

Resolutely she took her cloak from her shoulders.

She bundled it up and tossed it under a bush to retrieve later.

She almost wished that her mother and grandmother were here, that she were arriving in a carriage, certain that her hair had not been disarranged, that the paint on her lips was straight and fresh still.

For an instant she imagined them all arriving here together, her handsome father presenting her his arm to escort her into the Ball.

But with that thought came an image of awkward little Wintrow trotting along behind them in his brown priest’s robe, and Mother in some stiflingly modest dress.

Malta winced. She was not ashamed of her family.

She would have enjoyed having them here, if only they knew how to behave properly and could dress well.

Had she not asked, over and over, for her mother to come to the Ball this year?

Well, they had refused her that. If she was to enter life as a woman, Malta would have to do it on her own.

And she would be brave, allowing only a hint of her tragedy and loneliness to show on her face.

Oh, she would be merry tonight, laughing and charming, but in an unguarded moment, perhaps one knowing eye would look at her and know the neglect she suffered at home, ignored and passed over by her family.

She took a deep breath and walked towards the torchlight and the wide, beckoning doors.

The horses pulling the Trentor family carriage clopped away.

Another took its place. The Trells, Malta realized with both delight and dread.

Delo would be in that carriage. Her parents and older brother Cerwin, would, unfortunately, be with her.

If Malta greeted them as they alighted, Delo’s parents would be bound to ask where Mama and Grandmother were.

Malta was not ready to face awkward questions just yet.

Still, it would be such fun to go in arm and arm with Delo, two dazzling young women of the Bingtown Traders entering society together.

She ventured a step closer. If Delo’s parents and brother preceded her, there was a chance she could hist to Delo and have her wait for her.

As Malta had hoped, Delo’s parents got out first. Her mama was dazzling.

Her gown was simple and deep blue. The neckline left her throat and shoulders bare save for a single silver chain with a row of pendant perfume gems. How Malta wished her own mother would appear, just once, so elegantly dressed.

Even from where she lurked, she could smell the heady scent of the gems. Delo’s mama took her papa’s arm.

He was tall and thin. His linen jacket and trousers were also blue, flattering his wife’s gown.

They ascended the steps to the hall like folk from a legend.

Behind them, Cerwin waited impatiently for Delo to clamber out of the carriage.

Like his father, his coat and trousers were blue, his boots a softly gleaming black.

He wore a single gold earring in one ear, and his black hair was daringly curled into long locks.

Malta, who had known him all her life, suddenly felt an odd little shiver in her belly.

Never before had he looked so handsome to her.

She longed to astonish him with her presence.

Instead, she herself was astonished when Delo finally appeared in the carriage door.

Her dress echoed the colour of her mother’s, but there the resemblance stopped.

Her hair was plaited into a crown decked with fresh flowers, and a flounce of lace graced her short skirts to make them almost mid-calf.

Matching lace trimmed the high collar and cuffs. She wore no jewellery at all.

Malta could not contain herself. She swept up to Delo like an avenging spirit. ‘But you said you were going to wear a gown this year! You said your mama had promised you would,’ she greeted her friend. ‘What happened?’

Delo looked up at Malta miserably. Then her eyes widened in astonishment and her mouth opened. No sound came out of it.

Cerwin stepped protectively in front of her. ‘I don’t believe you could know my sister,’ he said in a haughty voice.

‘Cerwin!’ Malta exclaimed in annoyance. She peered past him at Delo. ‘What happened?’

Delo’s eyes widened another fraction. ‘Malta? Is that you?’

‘Of course it’s me. Did your mama change her mind?’ A nasty suspicion began to unfold in Malta’s mind. ‘You must have had dress fittings. You must have known you weren’t going to be allowed to wear a gown!’

‘I didn’t think you’d be here!’ Delo wailed miserably, while Cerwin Trell asked incredulously, ‘Malta? Malta Vestrit?’ His eyes moved over her in a way that she knew was rude. Rude or not, it made another shiver run over her.

‘Trell?’ Shukor Kev was dismounting from his horse. ‘Trell, is that you? Good to see you. And who is this?’ His incredulous glance went from Malta to Cerwin. ‘You can’t bring her to the Harvest Ball, friend. You know it’s only for Traders.’ Something in his tone made Malta uncomfortable.

Another carriage had pulled up. The footman was having trouble opening the door, the catch appeared to be stuck.

Malta tried not to stare. It was not ladylike.

But the footman caught sight of her and appeared to be so struck by her appearance that he completely forgot his task.

Within the carriage, a portly man thudded his shoulder against the door, which flew open, narrowly missing her.

And Davad Restart, in all his clumsy glory nearly tumbled out into the street.

The footman had caught at her arm to steady her as she stepped hastily back from the wide-flung door.

Had he not had hold of her arm, she could have easily stepped away and avoided disaster.

Instead she was there as Davad caught his balance by snatching at the door and then trod squarely on the hem of her dress.

‘Oh, I beg pardon, I do,’ he declared fervently, and then the words died on his lips at he looked her up and down.

So transformed was she that for a time she was sure he did not recognize her.

She could not resist. She smiled at him.