Their gowns were a kaleidoscope of hues and patterns, for the scarcity of society gatherings prevented any consensus on the season’s fashions. Each had chosen her very best and, seeing them, Emily knew that her own gown, made at such expense, was coarse and provincial. Some of these ladies probably dressed their servants in better. She did not care: she was here, and here at least was somewhere bright and lively. Here was somewhere her worries could not follow her.
If only Mary had come, she would have loved to see this. There had been no persuading her.
‘To think, I had almost forgotten what a man looked like,’ Alice declared, for amongst the throng of beautiful plumage there were men, perhaps one for every three of the ladies. They were all of a piece in their colours, of course. Who, with an invitation to Deerlings, would not have his dress uniform ready, resplendent in gold and red? Emily recognized but a few of them: there was Mr Markworthy, now a captain by the look of him. His head was cocked back, laughing, and he had three ladies half his age hanging on his arms. She spotted one of the Brossade brothers – the younger she thought – with a monstrously broad and moneyed widow entreating him to something. The woman tugged at his cuff, and Emily saw that the hand of his that she took was of polished brass, marvellously jointed.
She found Lord Deerling without effort; he was back from the Couchant front for this night only, or so rumour said. He was a tall man, not short of Poldry’s age, his thin face dominated by a silver moustache. A younger officer was recounting something to him, but his attention was mostly on his lady wife, clasping her arm in his own. Behind him in mute attendance stood two hulking men in feather cloaks: savages from some distant land.
‘But they’re all so old,’ complained Alice, having assessed each face in the room in only seconds. ‘Not one of them is under thirty, I’m sure.’
She was right, of course. These were the senior officers, the lords: those whose influence had wrested them away from the war for this.
‘Oh, look who it is!’ Alice exclaimed, pointing across the room and causing a few heads to turn. Emily followed her finger and saw a dark and shabby figure lurking by a statue. If she had not recognized the face, or the clothes, she would have taken him for a bailiff.
‘Mr Northway,’ she said softly. He looked resentful and ill at ease, and the people around him were doing their best to ignore his presence completely. Hateful little man’ she told herself, like a black cloud of misery set to spoil the night for us. But, in spite of herself, she found some sympathy for him. He was a public servant, a man of papers and underhand action, and here he was adrift in a sea of gentry and gallantry.
Alice was tugging at her again, though, sounding breathless as she said, ‘Look, Emily, look!’
‘Is it the King?’
‘Almost, look!’ A group of men had entered the ballroom by the far doors, and the glittering crowd of the well-to-do eddied away from them to allow a better look. One was silver-haired, Lord Deerling’s years at least, an elegant gentleman with a cane and a great red patch, like a birthmark, across his face. The others were of an age with Emily, or even younger. What marked all of them out, though, was their dress. Their jackets were blue – but the deep blue of an evening sky on the cusp of night. The garments were cut longer than greatcoats, falling in great sweeping folds to the floor. There was silver piping at their shoulders, tracing the outline of twin herons across their breasts. They bore no swords, unlike the bulk of the officers and noblemen there, nor even a dirk at their belts, but each wore a chain of white gold secured on the left side with a sunburst inset with blue stones. There were other details that Emily could not make out clearly across the breadth of the room, but she knew them already. She had seen that uniform before.
‘Warlocks!’ breathed Alice. ‘Wizards of the King!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘And young as well! What joy!’
‘And every other eligible young woman will be thinking exactly the same, and most will make a better match, and they will not be aiming so wildly beyond their estate,’