Chapter 42 - Writing [Part 1]

  If I haven’t any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then I can always write for myself.

  - Anne Frank.

  It did not take overly long to locate Rashana at one of her secondary residences nestled in the quieter quarter near the Academy grounds. The townhouse, like much of the surrounding district, bore the mark of old Meridian elegance—three stories of stone with wrought-iron balconies that curled like ivy, their railings adorned with copper and brass. It stood at the edge of a canal so pristine that it reflected the sky like polished glass.

  Seraphina paused just before reaching the stone arch of the entryway, taking a moment to gather herself. The late afternoon light cast long shadows over the water’s surface, and she found her gaze drawn to the serenelle as it glided by. Its hull, lacquered ebon and trimmed with mother-of-pearl, glistened. A boatsman in sleek uniform poled the vessel forward with practiced grace, while a couple reclined in the boat’s cushioned heart, their heads tilted toward one another in intimate conversation.

  Seraphina’s full lips pressed into a fine line. There was something so maddeningly effortless in their comfort, their closeness—the way the woman leaned against the man’s shoulder, the quiet laughter that rose and rippled across the water like birdsong. For a brief and unwelcome moment, envy twisted in her chest.

  With a small shake of her head, she approached the front steps of the townhouse. The residence was discreetly opulent. Polished brass knockers in the shape of lion heads flanked a double door of dark, heavy wood. Intricately carved columns supported a small awning where trailing ferns swayed in the breeze. Dark grey stone steps led up to the entrance, and to either side, ornamental urns overflowed with white lilies and deep red dahlias—elegant, dramatic, and very much in Rashana’s taste.

  The young girl adjusted her gloves, pressed a hand to her neatly styled hair, and lifted the hem of her dress ever so slightly to avoid brushing the stones. She had come to make a proposal, perhaps even a plea, and though she would never say such a thing aloud.

  She raised her hand and softly knocked twice.

  The door creaked open on silent hinges, revealing not Rashana but a woman of short and solid stature, framed in the warm glow of the entry hall. The servant’s face was broad and pale, her hair pinned in a haphazard coil beneath a once-white lace cap. Her apron strained slightly over her belly, and her small, deep-set eyes regarded Seraphina with polite suspicion, the sort reserved for unexpected nobility showing up unannounced.

  “Yes?” the woman asked, voice gravelly and practical.

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  Seraphina resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. The woman smelled faintly of onions.

  “I would like to speak with your mistress. Kindly inform Rashana de Lehman that Lady Seraphina de Sariens has come to call.”

  The servant blinked slowly at the name, her expression shifting as recognition—and a flicker of unease—settled in. She bobbed a stiff curtsy.

  “Very good, my lady. Please do step inside.”

  The threshold gave way to a tiled entrance hall, warm and thick with incense and candlelight. The air was heavy with perfume and faintly sweet—sandalwood and amber, with a cloying undercurrent of orange blossom.

  The maid scuttled off with surprising speed for her size, her steps muffled by thick embroidered rugs. Seraphina stood near the carved doorway to the sitting room, letting her eyes roam over the exotic appointments. The townhouse, though modest by aristocratic standards of Aranthia, bore Rashana’s unmistakable signature: an elegant, intoxicating chaos of velvet throws, lacquered boxes, and delicate glass curios from half a dozen foreign ports.

  From somewhere deeper in the house, she heard a faint call—Rashana’s voice, unmistakably amused. The servant must have delivered the message, and Seraphina could almost imagine her reaction: a lift of an eyebrow, and a delighted smirk or smile.

  A minute or so later, soft footsteps echoed on the polished wood of the upper landing, followed by the rustle of silk and the faint chime of jewelry in motion. Seraphina looked up just as the mistress of the house appeared at the top of the staircase.

  “Oh, how wonderful! It really is you!” Rashana beamed at her, making her way down. “I did not think you would find me here! This is one of my little secrets. And, it isn’t every day that little Sera graces one of my humble abodes.”

  The diminutive form of her name pricked Seraphina’s pride, yet Rashana, older by a handful of months and years of association, was permitted the liberty by the dictates of Aranthian society. Thus, Seraphina let the annoyance dissolve into a serene smile.

  The de Lehman girl clasped both of Seraphina’s hands in her own. “Please, make yourself utterly, utterly at home. Only the best for my best of friends!” Rashana’s voice was warm as spiced tea, and her dark eyes danced while she reclined against a pile of silk-fringed cushions. “Come in, come into the sitting room.” A trill of laughter escaped her painted lips, the gold bangles at her wrists chiming a bright obbligato.

  Following Rashana, Seraphina glided across the richly carpeted floor. Sunlight filtered through the large windows of the sitting room, mottling a cream-colored sofa which her host guided her.

  Then, at Rashana’s discreet nod, the butler, a handsome young man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, clapped twice. Two maids appeared, bearing a lacquered tray laden with freshly cooked rose-petal cakes, honeyed fruit dusted in sugar, and tiny tarts capped with sweet violets. The aroma alone was sinful.

  “You came at a marvelous time! I was just about to have tea and could have done with some company. Oh, and I have heard from a certain friend of ours that there have been quite a few goings-on in our little circle,” Rashana said, pouring amber liquid into porcelain cups for them. “I would very much like to hear your side of things.”

  “Michelié?”

  Rashana grinned broadly. “Just so.”

  “I should have known,” Seraphina sighed wearily, accepting the delicate cup from her friend.