“I was reading a poster when we met,” she said. “How do you folks always discount us, even when proof you’re wrong is right there?”
I winced, flushing, and nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That was instinct, and a terrible instinct at that.”
Her top lip twitched, as if she were about to sneer, but her face remained impassive. She was such a good stoic lady of Demeine already.
“Pedigree is more important than artistry or wealth anyway. You’re the sole heir to one of the twelve families of the sword. If anyone ever questions you, simply remind them of your name.”
She stared at me, shocked, and I took her by the shoulders.
“Enjoy your months of astronomy, embroidery, and whatever else they teach you.” I plucked an orange from a nearby tree and dug my nails into its skin. “Madame des Marais, comtesse de Côte Verte.”
She could be the perfect lady, the pristine calm of Demeine my mother had always wanted from me, and I could be the avalanche lurking underneath.
Four
Annette
I was fixing to get hanged. Emilie might be able to pass for some merchant’s runaway girl, but I didn’t belong here. Even my hands looked out of place as I lifted the overdress from the branch.
“I have never really worn cosmetics, so I think you can get away without them.” She tilted my head up and to the left, healing the little cuts and burns along my cheeks. Solane was a hack, but they did mostly surgery these days, not using their healing arts training unless they had to. Cost an arm and a leg too. I’d never been hurt bad enough to warrant the expense. “There. Try to stay out of the sun for a few days.”
The last of her magic slithered out of my skin, and I shuddered.
“You’ve never been healed by a physician before, have you?” she asked and scrunched up her face. As if that were something I’d lie about. “But your arm? That was such a bad break.”
“Vaser’s got a hack, but they’re retired and healing arts are expensive.” I raised my arm, the little scar mostly gone thanks to Solane’s salves. Beneath the sleeves of Emilie’s dress, no one would notice it. “Wasn’t worth it.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You weren’t worth a proper physician?”
When she put it like that, it sounded worse than it was.
“I’m not a genius or strong or pretty. I’m just Annette,” I said. “I’ve got nothing but magic.”
We sat on a little stone bench a few paces away, me pulling on the hose and testing out Emilie’s slippers, and her finger-combing my hair so she could put it into place as hers had been. She did it more gently than I’d have thought she would, working out each knot instead of ripping through it. When I was little, Alaine had always brushed my hair.
“There was an accident when I was little,” I said. “There aren’t many artists in Vaser. My siblings and I all are, but we’re it, and I’m the only midnight artist. It’s easier for people to divine big things, like disasters, but I didn’t foresee this.”
“You were a child,” Emilie said. “Children can barely understand what’s right in front of them, much less divinations.”
“We can’t afford not to be perfect.” I shrugged, and she hooked the last pin through my hair to hold it all in place. “I’m not good enough to get out of Vaser on my own. I’m a failure there.”
Life in Vaser was like scrying—I was always outside of everyone else. Always watching. Never taking part.
Emilie stood first. She offered me her hand, the gesture odd. Even without all the clothes and silver, even in my elbow-patched dress, she still looked like a comtesse. I let her help me up, stepping carefully into the slippers, and she settled the overdress over me. It was like wearing winter air, and she laughed when I smiled. Her nimble fingers tucked the waist and shoulders in, so it wouldn’t giveaway how big it was. She curtsied to me.
“You will belong here, Madame Emilie des Marais,” she said. “And if Vaser does not miss you, it’s the one missing out.”
The word madame burned. Only noblewomen had the right to be called that, and folks hardly ever bothered to use mademoiselle with me. It was always you or girl. The title made our half-thought-out plan more real.
I tugged at the sleeves. “I don’t look—”
“Half of looking like a comtesse is acting like a comtesse, so act like you know