The Glittering Court (The Glittering Court #1) - Richelle Mead Page 0,18

thin. Maybe they’d never eaten much of anything.

I purposely selected a fig-and-almond tart, something that required a little effort. It was traditionally eaten by being first cut into small, equally sized pieces, and I used the delay as an excuse to study my companions. The first thing I noticed was a uniformity in their clothing. Sure, the dresses varied in color and fabric choices, but my guess was that they’d all gone through the outfitting process Mistress Masterson had spoken about. The dresses were pretty and flirty, as opposed to the more serviceable one I’d inherited from Ada. The fabric quality in mine was at least as good, however, if not better. Mira and Tamsin’s attire didn’t even warrant comparison to the rest of us, though I had to assume most of the girls had arrived in a similar state.

The others also appeared to have had a few rudimentary etiquette lessons already, which they were trying to implement with varying degrees of success. They might be dressed and styled decently, but these were the daughters of laborers and tradesmen. A couple of girls managed the ten-piece silverware setting reasonably well. Others made no effort whatsoever and ate largely with their hands. Most fell in the middle, visibly struggling to figure out which utensil to use, no doubt trying to recall whatever Mistress Masterson had taught them in their brief time here. Tamsin, I suddenly noticed, was eating a fig-and-almond tart too. Unlike other girls who were simply lifting and biting it, Tamsin cut hers perfectly, with exactly the right tools. Then I realized her eyes were locked on my plate, imitating everything I did.

“What are you?” one girl asked boldly. “Myrikosi? Vinizian? Surely not . . . Sirminican.”

There was no question about whom she was speaking to, and all eyes swiveled to Mira. She took several moments to look up. She’d been nicely cutting her lemon roll but was using the wrong fork and knife. No one else knew any better, and I certainly wasn’t going to point it out. “I was born in the City of Holy Light, yes.”

Santa Luz. The grandest, oldest city in Sirminica. I’d learned about it in my governess’s history lessons, how it had been settled by the ancient Ruvans centuries ago. Philosophers and kings had lived and ruled there, and its monuments were legendary. At least, they had been until revolution ravaged the country.

A girl at the opposite end of the table regarded Mira with undisguised derision. “There’s no way you can get rid of that accent in a year.” She glanced around knowingly at some of the others. “I’m sure they need servants in the New World. You won’t need to talk much if you’re busy scrubbing floors.”

This brought a few snickers from some, uncomfortable looks from others. “Clara,” warned one girl uneasily. I carefully set down my fork and knife, crossing them in a perfect X, as a lady did when pausing in her meal. Fixing a level gaze on the girl—Clara—sitting at the end of the table, I asked, “Who did your makeup today?”

Startled by my question, she turned from smirking at her neighbor to study me curiously. “I did.”

I nodded in satisfaction. “Obviously.”

Clara frowned. “Obviously?”

“Well, I knew it couldn’t have been Mistress Masterson.”

A girl beside me hesitantly offered: “We haven’t been here long. Cosmetics haven’t been part of the curricu—curricu—”

“Curriculum,” I said, helping her with the unfamiliar word. I glanced back at Clara before returning to my tart. “Obviously it hasn’t.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” she demanded.

I drew out the tension by eating another piece before answering. “Because Mistress Masterson would have never directed you to use cosmetics like that. Red lips aren’t in style in Osfro anymore. All the highborn ladies are wearing coral and dusky pink. And you’ve applied the rouge in the wrong spot—it goes higher, up on your cheekbones.” That’s what I’d heard, at least. I’d certainly never applied my own cosmetics. “Where you’ve got it right now makes you look like you have mumps. You’ve got a steady hand on the kohl, but everyone knows you have to smudge it to get the proper look. Otherwise, your eyes look beady. And everything—everything—you’ve applied is far too dark. A light touch goes a long way. The way you’re wearing it now makes you look . . . how shall I put it . . . well, like a lady of questionable morals.”

Two spots of color appeared in the girl’s cheek, making her badly applied rouge