“Do I not? I see you. I see someone who has ordered our blacksmith to make hundreds of horseshoes over the two weeks he has been here, when his primary value to us is weapons making, and when only a fraction of the horseshoes made can be found in the stables. What I do not see is where those surplus shoes have gone. I imagine I might find them on the market, sold for a nice profit. I might find them transformed into what is no doubt a lovely watch.”
Harman’s hand went to the gold watch chain that trailed out of his pocket.
“Do as I say, Harman, or you will regret it.”
Kestrel could have sent Arin to the kitchens upon their arrival at Jess’s house. Once indoors, she had no official need of an escort. But she told him to remain in the parlor while she and Jess sat, drinking chilled osmanth tea and eating hibiscus cakes with peeled oranges. Arin stood stiffly against the far wall, the dark blue of his clothes blending with a curtain. Yet she found him hard to ignore.
He had been dressed to society’s expectations. The collar of his shirt was high, the mark of Herrani aristocratic fashion before the war. All male house slaves wore them. But they did not, if they were wise, also wear expressions of obvious resentment.
At least his long sleeves hid the muscle and scars that showed a decade’s worth of labor. This was a relief. Kestrel thought, however, that the slave was hiding more than that. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. She had a theory.
“The Trenex cousins are at it again,” said Jess, and began describing their latest feud.
Arin looked bored. Of course he would, as someone with no understanding of the Valorian conversation. Yet Kestrel suspected he would look the same way even if he were following everything said.
And she thought that he was.
“I swear,” Jess continued, fiddling with the earrings Kestrel had bought that day in the market. “It’s only a matter of time before one of the cousins is dead and the other must pay the death-price.”
Kestrel remembered Arin’s one word of Valorian to her: no. How light his accent had been. He had also recognized Javelin’s name. Perhaps this was not so unusual; Arin was a blacksmith and probably had made javelins for Valorians. Still, it struck her as an odd word for him to know.
Really, it was the ease with which he had recognized it that had given her pause.
“I can’t believe Lady Faris’s picnic is in only a few days!” Jess chattered on. “You’ll stop here an hour before, won’t you, and come in our carriage? Ronan told me to ask you.”
Kestrel imagined sharing the close quarters of a carriage with Ronan. “I think it’s best if I go separately.”
“Only because you have no sense of fun!” Jess hesitated, then said, “Kestrel, could you try to be more … normal at the party?”
“Normal?”
“Well, you know, everyone thinks you’re a bit eccentric.”
Kestrel did know.
“Of course, people love you, they do. But when you freed that nurse of yours, there was talk. It would have been forgotten, except that you always do something else. Your music is an open secret—not that it’s wrong, exactly.”
They’d had this conversation before. The problem was Kestrel’s devotion. If she had played occasionally, like her mother, it would have escaped notice. If the Herrani hadn’t prized music so highly before the war, that, too, might have changed things. But in the eyes of Valorian society, music was a pleasure to be taken, not made, and it didn’t occur to many that the making and the taking could be the same.
Jess was still speaking. “… then there was the auction—” She glanced self-consciously at Arin.
Kestrel did, too. His face was impassive, yet somehow more alert.
“Are you embarrassed to be my friend?” Kestrel asked Jess.
“How can you say that?” Jess looked genuinely hurt, and Kestrel regretted her question. It had been unfair, especially when Jess had just invited her to attend the picnic with her family.
“I’ll try,” Kestrel told her.
Jess was relieved. She did her best to dispel the tension by predicting, in minute detail, which foods would be served at the party and which sweethearts were most likely to behave scandalously. “All the handsome young men will be there.”
“Hmm,” said Kestrel, turning her glass in a full circle where it rested on the table.
“Did I tell you Faris will debut her baby at the picnic?”
“What?” Kestrel’s hand stopped.
“The little boy is six months now, and we should have perfect weather. It’s the ideal opportunity to introduce him to society. Why do you look so surprised?”