The Freckentop entourage rushed forward to help the princess up. The rest of her family was frozen in place, uncertain. They were deeply committed to an impression of untouchable dignity right now, and scrambling on the floor was incompatible with the image they were pursuing. But every second that the princess was a splat on the ground, their image was eroding fast.

  I watched with satisfaction. The shame of this was that I probably wouldn't be able to get away with that again, it is all but guaranteed that from now on Lachel, if not her whole family, was going to be wearing wards against sorcery whenever they went out in public. It would be bonkers expensive to get permanent sigil wards that could recreate the kind of defenses Magister Braux was using, but they've got the money for it.

  Not that I don't intend to try, in any case. Who knows, maybe they'll get warded jewelry that protects their person but not their clothing. Or that they define their terms in such a way that I can still use a curve of air to mess with them. And I doubt they'll be able to stop me from lifting part of the floor for a second, then settling it back down.

  I am under no obligations to play fair.

  They finally got the princess back on her feet without mussing her any more than she already was. She took her place back in the duckling-line and the Freckentop procession proceeded, heading for the best seats before the stage.

  This whole time we've had a graveyard of silence. Every single eye was posted directly on them, and not a single word spoken. Nobody breathed in the room for several seconds, and even after she was up and they were walking, it took a long pause before the conversations started to come back up.

  One of the members of Leighton House that I had been chatting with was wincing hard. "Oof. That's pretty tough, she lost a lot of face there."

  "Not as much as if she hadn't gotten her arms under her," I said in a half-murmur.

  She made a small strangled sound. "Ack. Don't make me laugh right now! I shouldn't be laughing at the princess!" She held her face as if to restrain her humor.

  Petunia was side-eyeing hard. "Princess-?" she said, inclining her head. "What did you do?"

  "Less than I should, more than I ought," I said. "Now that the royals are seated, I suppose the rest of us are supposed to take seats?"

  The fashion show was just what it was. Designers I don't know showing off collections I don't care about. This isn't really my party, this is for the larger community. The Nesdors and Thurls and the third-cousins who only attend a few social calls per year. The ones wealthy enough to take designer clothes in a setting that is trapped between medieval and renaissance, but not so wealthy that everything they own is assembled bespoke and tailored just to them. The average citizen had nothing to buy on that stage, and neither did I. Hearstcliff's equivalent to a middle class would be the target audience.

  Still, I saw that necklines were indeed coming down a bit, and more shoulders were showing. There was more emphasis on lace edging and scalloping of the fabric than I would have guessed, and I was not excited about that innovation. It looked uncomfortable. Still no indication that we're getting rid of laced bodices any time soon, or ankle-length skirts, or four frickin' layers of clothing everywhere.

  If I chose to eschew all of this, it's not like there's a law requiring me to conform to fashion standards. I could step out of that box if it was really important to me. I don't live under the Duke's roof, he can't ground me, and if I didn't get disowned for going to prison I'm probably not going to be disowned for refusing to wear laces and skirts. I've seen several women in this place that wear trousers and jerkins. And when I'm playing camogie I'm running around in mid-thigh shorts and a sweaty jersey tunic.

  Nobody would arrest me if I decided I'm going to be the Princess of Pants and wear boot-cut denim jeans for the rest of my life. They would not lock me out of the school for slacks and a t-shirt.

  But people would talk. And that sounds trivial. It should be trivial. But I would attract a whole different class of ally if I decided that comfort and pockets were my fashion decision. None of the allies I have now. I might get the rebel types, the ones that don't fit in. I could be a hero to the marginalized and dispossessed, the mavericks and eccentrics. Honestly, they'd be a lot more fun than the Elicas and Bruces and Nesdors I've been surrounding myself with.

  Unless you're in a story about how the mavericks and madcaps managed to overcome the predominant force through pluck, wit, and the power of friendship, generally speaking underdogs lose. And this isn't one of those stories. In Glitter, we climb the rankings and find as much power as we want to have. We do not surprise everyone by surging to power from nothing. Not that kind of story.

  So the Princess of Pants could gather the misfits and iconoclasts and the nonconformists. I'd probably make one hell of an adventurer like that. And when the ground cracked open and hordes of monsters stream out, I'd be an extremely high-level sorceress with a high-level party of rugged individualists who are helpless to save more than a dozen people at a time.

  I need influence. I need politics. I need the loyalty of armies. The Houses. And for that, I need to show willing. I need to meet them halfway. I need them to feel comfortable with me. I need to fit into their culture.

  And in this culture, people are frankly more comfortable with a cruel, power-hungry sorceress witch in haute couture than they are with a friendly, helpful amazon in buckskin breeches.

  The armies of Hearstwhile will line up to take orders from a vicious and malevolent duchess who fits into their culture, but arguing against social norms means I would need to knock sense into the skull of every single person I ever work with. Frankly it sounds exhausting. The skirts are easier.

  Still not sure about lacework right at the edge of the collarbone. Looks itchy.

  The show did end, after previewing lots of different gathers, silhouettes, patterns, necklines, boning, ruffles, rickrack, bustles and bows. The house lights came up, some master control sigil that operated all the candles around the room. And the social side of the party started in earnest, this time with everyone chatting about what we had seen and what we had planned. The designers themselves came out, flamboyant and fabulous, to speak to the crowd and hype their products.

  And as soon as they did I slipped out the aisles and headed for the washroom. I hit immediately before the big crush of bodies, and managed to get in without having to flex rank and its privileges. The problem with using a drink as a prop to keep in hand is that you have to remember not to drink it, but I often forget that, so I was in a hurry and grateful to get in with no waiting.

  Not everyone was so lucky. But of those, some did have rank, and the attendant privileges. I was standing at the sink washing my hands when one of them did exactly that. A flurry of "excuse me, I really must", and "of course Your Highness" came from the line waiting at the door, before someone shifted out of the way and Princess Lachel finally cut her way to the front of the line.

  She stared at me.

  I stared back. She got the better end of the arrangement.

  "Why-" she started, then flushed deep red. It went well with her dress. "You!"

  "Me," I deadpanned, and accepted a hand-towel from the washroom attendant. In addition to this meek little maid handing out towels and offering brushes and bottles for anyone that needs a touch-up of perfume or make-up, the room was still jammed full. Every stall, and lines in front of the stalls, and every sink, and lines in front of the sinks, and the vanity mirror too. Hundreds of people at this show event and it seemed like half of them were in this restroom. With this much attention, I feel like I should be self-conscious. Nervous even. This time last weekend I was covered in blood and worn out from killing monsters.

  The princess did not seem to appreciate how much I was not intimidated by her. "You again, you're always messing things up for me! Everywhere I go you are right there, week after week and -"

  "Princess, we go to the same school. Your dorm room is next door to mine, but we do not have a single class in common. Half the time I'm not even in the commons after classes. I physically cannot encounter you less often than I do." I patted my hands dry, one with the other in front of my chest, glaring at her over the terrycloth. The eyeliner helped with the glare.

  "As soon as I started talking with your brother you've been troubling me! You and your lackeys! Even when I'm on the other side of school I can feel your shadow! It's all these whispers and plots! I have to go to sleep knowing there's a murderer next room over, and I go to class wondering when you'll strike! And now you- you-you tripped me!"

  "Princess Lachel," I said, taking a slightly too-familiar tone. "I have been going out of my way to attend to my own relations this evening. That was the advice given me by my mentor, to mind my own house and to be careful of the impressions that I gave people."

  "I just wanted to do a spring preview!" she blurted out, and a sob caught there. Oh, she was about to cry. This could get pathetic fast. I came here ready to be the rival, not the villain. Spring Fashion Week is a terrible place to make a princess cry. Her fists were balled up, and her eyes were puffy but not yet spilling. "I came with my family, and we worked so hard- and you tripped me! I had to lay on the floor while everyone stared and-"

  I used my gentlest soothing-a-toddler voice. "Your Highness, the fall was hours ago, and after the show we just saw, the dresses, we had all forgotten about that. If you had allowed, this would already be lost in the past. But now that you've come here to accuse me of hexing you to fall down in front of everyone," I looked around the room at all the eavesdroppers, most of them shamelessly staring at our public drama, "this is now fresh on everyone's minds again, and sure to be the talk of the party."

  "But but but you-"

  "What would you do if I wasn't around to blame?" I asked her, gently still. "Whose victim would you be then?"

  Somebody's gasp choked off in a squeak. I could see some dowager aunt shocked to speechlessness, delighted at the gossip she's collecting, clamping her hands over her mouth to keep from making enough sound to interrupt. My work here is done.

  Time to go.

  The part that makes that scene really suck is that she really is a sweet girl. She wants people to like her but that's no crime, she likes my brother and more power to her. She's got nothing to do with her parents trying to crush my family and our duchy, she's not responsible for the sick greed that drives her House to its crimes. Left to her own devices in times of peace she'd be the perfect inoffensive noblewoman. She gives generously to charities. I don't want to smear her in public. But she represents a bad ending. We can't afford a Bad Ending.

  Now I just have to get back to this party. The same waiter spotted me and intercepted me, passing off my lemon-wedged ice water.

  Honestly I had hoped that the fashion industry itself would leave me well enough alone. I've already got a ton of stuff to deal with. But the designers seemed to consider this their party and they felt free to do whatever they liked. I was chatting away with some of my cadets when a man shouldered through a pair of my extended cousins and presented himself, butting into the conversation. "So what did you think?" he demanded. He tilted his head towards the stage, indicating the show. "I would love to have a princess's input, after all."

  I'm guessing the other princess is not available right now. That's fine.

  He looked like a very bland man who had worked very hard to become someone exciting and remarkable. He was doing something very fussy with his hairstyle (she said, with her own hair styled into a crown and ram's horns), his clothing was loud and mismatched in a way that looks awful unless you're so amazing that you can ignore social convention or that anything you wear becomes trendy simply because you wore it but in this case it just looks awful. Oh, and sunglasses indoors, at night.

  The first eight hours of my day today started with a dunk tank, sneers and jeers and participating in my own humiliation because it was supposed to get me some positive attention from Kurumi Lautan. And now this pipsqueak was thrusting himself into my attention and making demands without even basic pleasantries. Well, some of those pleasantries serve a purpose, like sounding out the other party to find out what sort of temper they are in. And me?

  I was in no mood.

  "Gharie, right? The second showing? I think every one of your models was fighting not to scratch welts into her own skin," I said. "This was a show put together by people who have no intention of wearing their own designs. You're using a starched knit-lace flush against the skin! There's a reason that lace at the throat or the cuffs is flared out and puffed, and worn soft not starched. You're pursuing a dramatic new look but there's a reason that this has not been done before and you don't recognize that. The day your little boy's club gets taken over by someone who actually wears dresses there's going to be a revolution. Your industry is made of men telling women what to wear, and it is working out just as well as it always works when men make it their business to tell women what to wear!"

  The cadet errant gave me a fast nervous bow and excused himself. I was aware of Petty looming behind me. I wasn't quite done.

  "Trying to adapt chiton styles with a dropped sleeve looks like you're not brave enough to admit you're reinventing the pinafore dress. And that gathered-hip look is going to require custom-made petticoats that I'm not sure you're going to be offering, which is likely for the best because a petticoat you can wear with only one dress is a waste of time. You use ribbons in a corded eyelet, you're using geometric boning instead of following a life-model, and that blue piece would require a woman to walk sideways to get down a flight of stairs. Your use of diagonal stripes was tired after the second instance, you are trying to use hook-and-eye closures to do a button's job like you only ever learned one fastener, and I hate your tie!"

  He was rocked back on his heels. Stunned, speechless. And then he did the unthinkable.

  He groveled.

  "Ah, thank you princess!" he blurted out, bowing his head, hands clasped under his chin. "This is exactly what we need from the public shows! We work in isolation for months to encourage our creativity, but we need the perspective of others to see what we have blinded ourselves to, the forest to our trees! We get so used to our own voices, ah! but yours! A new voice, fresh and honest! With your help, I'll be able to redesign the -"

  "Nope."

  "Well of course you'll be credited for the collaboration! We'll have your name right up-"

  "Desist," I said.

  "If you would only look over the redesigns so we could-"

  I had to stare at him. "I am fifteen years old. I am a full-time student at the academy. I've got two full-time jobs as well. I have friends that need my time, I am sometimes reconciling with my brother, I am adapting to freedom after three years in prison, I'm receiving my membership to the Adventurer's Guild, I have a social calendar to keep up, I am sorting out my romantic prospects, I'm a regular church attendee and I'm in the planning stages of a new project for transit logistics! I don't have a single hour to spare for your spring collection!"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "But princess! Lady Harigold! You may be just what the fashion world needs!"

  I chilled the air around him until his breath puffed visibly. "Just once," I snarled, "someone around me is going to solve their own problems without adding to mine. Now push off!"

  I turned around, and Petunia was there with her hands clasped over her mouth. The fussy little man with the fussy little hair made an undignified retreat. I looked up at Petty, who was staring down at me with the hugest eyes. "Sorry, I went too far, didn't I?" I said. "Shit. I just had such-"

  "That was the greatest thing I've ever seen!" Petty exclaimed, her eyes shining. "Thank all gods I was here to see that!"

  I sighed. "I am glad you enjoyed. I'll confess, I really do try to keep my temper in check. I've just got a sore spot for men who won't take no for an answer twice in a row. And I've had a crap day. And, I was entirely honest with him, I don't have an hour to spare. My friend Vancy wanted my help to check out some missing persons, which is much more important than diagonal stripes, and I had to disappoint her because I just cannot make that time."

  Petty's expression softened, saddened, then darkened. "Missing persons?"

  "A pair of girls at the Cerulean Circus," I said. "And more before that. It seems to be part of a long-running operation. At any other time I'd jump at something like this, but I've got too many things I can't let go of-" I ran down, my voice tapering off. I looked at her face. "Hey, Petty? Would you like to knock heads and get some answers?"

  "I'd love ta," my cousin said, grinding one fist into her other palm. "But if something like that is really a long-running scheme, then odds are they're connected up high. That's how things work."

  "Ah. But if you were knocking heads in my name?"

  She grinned. "Well, that's different. If I've got the authority of a ducal princess behind me, I can get cooperation. I bet these guys don't bribe well enough to keep the authorities from responding to the title of a princess."

  Bruce parted some people and arrived at our sides. "Cousin Natalie, I'm disappointed. I've only heard three rumors about you so far this evening. You're lagging way behind, the rest of the houses are generating far more drama than we are." He was balanced between his cane and a martini glass. I have no idea where he got that, I haven't seen any like it in Hearstwhile.

  "Really?" I was surprised. "I haven't heard a thing!"

  He smiled patronizingly. He's really good at it. "You wouldn't, would you? You've been biding the advice to keep yourself ensconced in Harigolds. You are making a great show of strength, but doing so keeps your ear from the ground. To catch the elusive gossip, one must be nimble and quick, as I am. But you move from cousin to cousin and cadet to cadet, you hear nothing but Harigold news all night. No, the Skyback representative has actually sent a runner to get her attorney because of what the Kadot members have been saying. You've only made a princess cry and assaulted a designer, but the Aumerje is probably going to attempt a murder tonight. These seasonal events are always a pressure cooker."

  "Probably best that I'm isolated and sequestered then," I mused.

  "Oh my gosh!" Wendy gasped, popping through the crowd with almost audible release of pressure. "We should go to the foyer, there's plenty of room there!" She swatted at her brother's arm. "I told you to wait for me!"

  "He's too fast and nimble for us," Petty said, nudging him with an elbow. "Honestly, I don't want to credit Bruce, but he is right. This is the most comfortable I've ever been in a fashion environment. This is the sort of event that everyone sends out their spies and saboteurs."

  "Provocateurs and false-flags," Bruce nodded. "It's savage, sneaky, and uncompromising. Probably best to stay out of the mix until you're used to it."

  I was looking around this party with new eyes. I had been focusing only on one thing at a time, whatever problem was in front of me. When I stopped treating this as a social environment to drink and discuss clothing, it was easier to see certain movements. The way that certain nondescript types would move against a current, would dip into a conversation without speaking. I had built layers of buffer around myself so none of these intruders were making it to me, but they continually made forays into the outer layers of cadet Harigolds.

  Odds are every one of them is at least as good as Nathan at getting what they want out of people. With an expert conversationalist, you could accidentally spill secrets you did not even realize you had given up.

  I raised my glass to drink, to give myself a moment to reflect. A light caught my attention. I glanced down at my thumb, specifically at my brightly-glowing thumb ring, and then I looked around, worried.

  "All right, without panicking, how do we figure out which one of us has been poisoned?"