Page 15
He wasn’t far wrong.
Maelin had managed to avoid most of the activity, firmly believing that at times like these, those who lived in the house needed to keep out of the way of those who looked after it.
So she’d stayed in her rooms, occasionally opening her gown cupboard just to make sure her fabulous Storm Deep dress was still there, safe and sound, and the rest of the time reading the newspapers, and chatting with a few people via her new Whisperseal talker device.
She’d seen these things in action at the Tidehold Conservatory but never imagined she’d have her own until her aunt announced that it was pretty much mandatory for all the Crownborne in Caelemar these days, and presented Maelin with one, laying it on her skin and smiling as it made itself at home.
The newly grown sigil curled across the inside of her wrist, a tiny wave picked out in white and blue—the ancient crest of Theryn.
Now she could talk to Alla almost face to face, as not only did the little sigil allow conversation, but it was also incorporating a visual representation of the caller, although to be truthful, that bit was still in its infancy.
However, a wavy and occasionally distorted picture of Alla’s face did nothing to deter the conversation.
“I can’t believe this guest list,” said Maelin. “I have this morning’s Caelemar Chronicle on one side, open to the top society rankings, and my aunt’s guest list on the other, and I swear that there has to be an almost complete overlap.”
“I’m not surprised, are you?” Alla raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about the gentlemen I’m going to meet tonight...I probably should review their statistics.”
Maelin laughed. “You mean their financial status?”
“No. That’s Lady Theryn’s job, and you can wager any amount you like that she’s already done that. Twice.”
That commented elicited a sigh. “You’re right, damn you. But I have to say there is quite an impressive list of bachelors here.”
“Names, darling girl. I need names.”
“Um...” Maelin perused the guest list. “Here’s one, Sir Albermarle Quentin. Shipping, apparently. Five Caelemar crowns.”
Alla frowned for a moment. “Shipping, I think. Five crowns put him into the extra-multi-gobs-of-money category.”
“How did I guess?” Maelin sighed. “Perhaps he’s nice?”
“Possibly. How about His Grace the Duke of Farthington?”
“Never met him, but rumour has it...”
“Oh good grief...”
Alla laughed. “I know, but rumour has it that he disliked the teeth he was born with, believing that they weren’t shiny enough for a man of his high-standing. The replacements? Not quite as top-row as they should have been.”
“He lisps?”
“He spits a bit.”
Maelin shook her head and tried not to laugh. “You are dreadful, dear friend. Poor chap. He’s probably quite sweet.” She thought for a moment. “Although rather vain...”
“We’ll find out tonight.” Alla sighed. “Anyone else interesting? And I mean interesting, as in not having some sort of quirk...”
“Hmm...” Scanning her lists, Maelin shook her head. “All pretty routine...wait. Here’s a name I don’t recognise...Drake. Lord Cyrus Drake.” She glanced at Alla’s image. “Know anything about him?”
To her surprise, Alla’s eyes were widening. “I’m...well, I’m shocked.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know...”
“Well there must be something?”
“It’s just that...” Alla paused.
