“How can you say that?” Alma replied, clutching her hands against her chest. “I’m your mother! I nearly died giving birth to you. You are my darling, my own beautiful jewel. Dress it up however you like, but the fact remains that you owe me your life, and your father as well. We have asked nothing of you, and spoiled creature that you are, you take that as your right. But it is a child’s duty to mind her parents, and you will abide by me on this.”
It was the duty comment that undid her, and Miranda clenched her fists. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “But as soon as this party is over, I’m going back to Court.”
“After this party, you won’t be my problem,” Alma said, ringing the little bell on the table beside her. “Now go upstairs and put on something that doesn’t look like you stole it off a farmhand. We leave after lunch.”
Miranda gaped at her mother, but before she could get a word in, the door clicked open and the maid entered.
“Take Lady Miranda to her room,” Alma said. “And watch to make sure she puts on the dress I bought her. Also, see if anything can be done to her hair.”
The maid curtsied and looked at Miranda. With a deep breath, Miranda got a firm handle on her anger and motioned for the maid to lead the way.
* * *
Six hours later, Miranda was dressed in the most uncomfortable, frilly contraption she’d ever worn in her life; her hair was pinned back so tightly her face felt stretched; and her feet had been squeezed into tiny shoes half an inch too small to fit her toes. But all of that would have been bearable had she not been in a carriage with her mother, father, and sixteen-year-old sister.
“Really, Miranda,” Alyssa said, twirling her own strawberry blond curls. “Your dress is yellow and still you’re wearing that ugly green rock on your thumb?”
“That is Durn,” Miranda said, staring pointedly out the window at the rolling farmland that surrounded Zarin. “And he’s a stone spirit large enough to crush this carriage without noticing, so mind your tongue.”
“Are all Spiritualist rings so mannish?” Alyssa continued, leaning across the carriage. “I heard you showed up at the door wearing trousers. What kind of nonsense is going on at your Court anyway? Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re a Lyonette, they wouldn’t even let you in to a party like this.”
“Were you always this much of a snob?” Miranda snapped.
“Girls,” Alma said with a sweet, warning voice that hid murder. “That’s enough.”
Alyssa flopped back with a dramatic huff, but she kept her mouth shut. Miranda was glad. All this family time was wearing her thinner than any Enslaver. The only reason she was still in this carriage at all was because her mother had said she could leave after this party. It was her shining hope, and she clung to that promised escape with everything she had until the carriage finally turned through a pair of stone pillars onto a long drive that ended at the largest house Miranda had ever seen.
It was like someone had decided to build a city in the middle of nowhere. The main house was in the Zarin style, an enormous, soaring structure of white stone and tile roofs with white-painted timber supports, but unlike Zarin, which was ancient, this building was entirely new. Every inch of it shone like a snowflake against the green, green grass of the lawn surrounding it. The large windows were all glass, the front drive was paved with a mosaic of a seashell, and though it was barely five in the evening, all the torches were already lit.
They were hardly the first to arrive. There were five carriages already waiting on the drive and a dozen more pulled around by the stables. Miranda was the first one out when the footman opened their door, pulling her absurdly large skirts along with her and cursing her mother for every one of the frilly petticoats the woman had made her wear. The tiny pointed heels of her too-small shoes sank into the soft grass, making walking difficult. She was getting ready to kick them off altogether when a man’s voice cut through her black thoughts of shoe destruction.
“Lady Lyonette?”
Miranda looked up to see a man standing just a few feet away. He was dressed far too nicely to be a servant, but he didn’t have that effortless snobbery of a noble. He was tall but not handsome, though not ugly either. He mostly looked put-upon and bored, like he’d rather be doing anything else besides standing here, though he did manage a smile at her.
“Miranda!” Her mother cried as she came out next. “Where are your manners?”
“I have no idea,” Miranda muttered, looking back at the man. “Who are you, sir?”