Innocence Lost
Chapter 10
ALL OF A SUDDEN, Johanna found the hall too hot and too noisy. The smell of sweat mingled with perfume and food made her feel dizzy. The tight bodice of the dress constricted her breathing. Everyone seemed to be looking at her, and those haughty noble faces carried expressions of pity. She could hear their mocking voices. Poor simple girl. She really didn’t know what she let herself in for, didn’t she?
She pushed herself through the crowd until she came to the side of the hall.
Through a set of double doors, she ended up in the gallery that ran between the hall and the garden, a long corridor, with on the right-hand side doors that led into the hall. Muffled sounds of talk and laughter and music filtered through the closed doors. Moonlight slanted in through the arched windows on the left.
She stopped in front of one of those windows, seeing the beautifully sculpted garden and the golden statue of the Triune through a haze of tears.
She’d gone and undone all of Father’s hard negotiating work. He had every right to be furious with her.
And of course he was right. She was his only heir. If she didn’t marry, the company would stop with her. If she could put up with Roald, it was the best position for her to be in. The king seemed to like her. Roald probably didn’t have much of a say in it. Pretty much like herself. All she needed to do was . . . She shuddered at the thought of letting him touch her.
What was Father thinking?
She stood in front of the window bathed in pale moonlight, clamping her arms around herself and calming herself by leaning her forehead against the window. The glass fogged up where she breathed on it. She didn’t know what to do, and what she’d say to Father. She would have to apologise, but she wanted an apology from him, too. She might even have agreed to a meeting with the prince had he told her what was going on.
The sense of betrayal stung worse than anything else. That her father would sell her without telling her.
That’s what you get for failing to grow up, said the little voice that sounded like Nellie. Grown-up girls got married, plain and simple.
If she had to marry right now, she would choose . . . Master Willems. At least he knew how the business worked and wouldn’t want anything out of the deal other than to keep his job.
Yes.
It was silly. And impossible. He was just a shopkeeper’s son. And he was heavily involved in the Church. He probably didn’t even like her. She trusted him, and that was more than could be said for any other candidates.
She didn’t want to get married.
The way Roald stared at her breasts made her shudder.
This was a dreadful place and not one where she belonged. Loesie would be wondering where she was. She’d be hungry. Maybe she’d go wandering around the docks, with all the problems that would bring.
In the middle of the floor of the gallery was a large plain slab of marble with a carved inscription. Four pillars marked the corners, each with a candle on a sconce. A faint breeze made the flames flap, casting moving shadows over the stone.
Johanna pushed herself away from the window and walked over. The inscription on the marble slab said,
Born from dust, return to dust,
with underneath a name.
At the tender age of nineteen. Our beloved princess Celine Maraina Hestia Carmine de Lacoeur van Leeuwen.
No one ever listed all the royal family’s names and titles. You needed a whole page for that.
Celine, felled suddenly by a deadly infection. Celine, younger sister to Roald. Celine, first heir to the Carmine Throne.
Johanna remembered hearing the news of her death. She remembered the day of her funeral, how queen Cygna had broken down and collapsed on the dais. She remembered the king’s silent and emotionless appearance.
She remembered the talk about Roald and the speculation about his absence.
There had been whispers that he’d been glad she was dead. Some even said that he might have killed his sister. No one understood why he had been passed over for the throne anyway, although the reason for choosing Celine was widely rumoured to be to attract local princes in marriage, influential princes from large kingdoms. But the royal family had never confirmed this rumour. They hadn’t married Celine off as soon as she turned sixteen either. Knowing what Johanna knew now, it all made sense. The Carmines were a dangerously small family and they carried a curse that was worse than that of magic: that of madness. Potential suitors would find out about Roald, and would worry about any children Celine might have. That would have repelled a lot of potential candidates, especially those from other royal families. They’d been marrying each other’s cousins for so many generations that no royal family was unrelated to the other royal families.
Add to that the fact that King Nicholaos had made himself unpopular with the nobility of the surrounding lands by giving the Church of the Triune legal status, and you had a problem. A big problem.
And because of Celine, Johanna stood here. Because of Celine, she had failed her father.
She buried her face in her hands.
A voice behind her said, “Lady.”
Johanna gasped and turned around. “Who’s there?”
“It’s only me.” From the shadows of the porch came the red-haired man she had seen with the king’s guests. He bowed. “Excuse me very much, my lady. I seem to have startled you. That was not my intention. I merely sought the way to the garden. I’m quite hot.” He spoke with a curious accent.
“Oh . . . Down that way, I think.” She pointed half-heartedly to the end of the passage.
From close up, the prick of magic was so strong that it made the hairs on her arms stand on end. What kind of magic was it? Not willow magic because that was much more subtle. Not wind magic or he would follow the way to the garden by the guidance of the breeze. If she was to have any chance of finding out, she needed to touch his bare skin. His arms were mostly covered by long flowing sleeves. His hands were long-fingered, but hands were really not much good for magic transmission. Hands touched too many other things that they easily became contaminated.
His neck . . . She stared at the way the light danced in his hair. Felt that most horrible of feelings creep up on her: a blush. Fortunately, it would be too dark for him to notice.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced, my lady, my name is Kylian, prince of Gelre.”
“Baron Uti’s son?” Her voice sounded small and immature to her ears.
“The very one.” He bowed.
“I’m afraid I can’t compete with that. My name is Johanna Brouwer.”
“Oh, the famous merchant’s daughter.”
“You know me?” Surely he said that to humour her.
“Who hasn’t heard of the famous Brouwer river barges? They bring spices and tobacco all up and down the inland towns. And you were dancing with the prince just now. Your name was whispered all over the hall.”
“Um . . .” Johanna was going to say not in a good way, probably, but that would lead to all sorts of conversations she didn’t want to have. Also, it made sense that he’d know Father’s ships, important as the river trade was to the inland towns, but she had no idea why he would know her. She wasn’t famous at all. She had been to Lurezia once with her father, but no one knew the Brouwer Company there, except other merchants, whom Father had spent ages talking to. To the fourteen-year-old Johanna, it was nothing but a big, strange city that stank, where no one spoke her language.
In the hall, the orchestra struck up a tune called The Swan that involved a dance where the man held the woman by the elbows from behind and the pair moved across the dance floor in an elegant glide.
He bowed again. “Lady Johanna, I would be most pleased to have this dance.” He held his arms ready.
“Um . . . Isn’t the dance floor in the hall?” Except she didn’t really want to go back there, not to watch the embarrassing spectacle of petrified girls dancing with Roald if there were still any girls left who wanted to try, or to
see Roald throw more tantrums, or see Father’s pained face.
Johanna felt like an idiot. She was turning into another version of Nellie, always worrying about this or that and what people thought of it. Nellie never had any fun. And Johanna’s life was not much fun at the moment. What happened to the girl who two days ago danced down the church steps wearing clogs?
Kylian was handsome, and smiled at her with quiet intelligence. Not the predatory look of Octavio Nieland. Not the dumb look of Prince Roald. Not the expectant looks of all the nobles. Or the suspicious looks of anyone who knew about magic.
What was the harm of one dance? She had danced with plenty of young men at other occasions, albeit none as formal as this one. After tonight, he would go back to the baron’s castle. She would go back to being plain Johanna and she would never see him again.
But there is no one else here, the annoying little voice in her head said.
She forced that little voice to shut up and put her hands in his. His palms felt warm and dry. Pleasant, not at all like Roald’s sweaty hands.
And his magic—whoa! It swept her up in a maelstrom of visions, of his home, the town of Florisheim by the Rede River. She saw the castle high above the roofs of the town, with a forbidding entrance, a fat round tower on which flew the flag of the barony.
He turned her around and took her lightly by the outstretched elbows from behind. They danced, like a pair of silent and ghostly swans, across the vast empty floor of the gallery.
He whirled and whirled, remembering steps and patterns effortlessly, and she felt like she was flying. His magic made her steps light and her mind unburdened. He guided her with confidence, avoiding marble pillars and potted plants without breaking his step or any of the dance patterns. His touch on her elbows was light but sure. His body behind her radiated warmth, but never touched her.
It was all so proper and boring. Deep inside her, she yearned for the warmth of another person’s touch and for something not proper. That’s why she’d come out here, right? That was why she’d agreed to dance with him in the first place. If her stunt with Roald meant that she would remain a spinster for the rest of her life, would it be wrong to have a little taste of what she would miss?
Very wrong, the little voice in her mind said. It sounded like Nellie.
The music was finished, and half-hearted applause rang from the hall. Kylian let go of Johanna’s elbows and warmth lingered in those small spots where he had touched her. She turned around, meeting his brown eyes.
Silence lingered between them as the magic of his touch fled her body.
“Did you like that?” he asked.
“You’re a very good dancer.” She felt her cheeks glowing.
He smiled.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. What was she doing? She should be sensible and go back into the garden room. Father would be looking for her in the crowd. Or King Nicholaos. And all the nobles would be wondering where she was. Run home crying the rumours would go.
She hesitated, but the moment to end this encounter was lost. The orchestra started the next dance, a faster piece.
“Do you want another dance?” Kylian asked.
“Not really, I’m quite hot. I should probably—” Why was she still fighting?
“Come.” He took her arm.
“Where are we going?” Panic clamped around her heart. This wasn’t right. Young women got into trouble this way, and everything about him smelled trouble.
That’s what you wanted, right? It’s your own fault, the little voice that sounded like Nellie said.
“I was on my way to the gardens. Let’s get some fresh air. I’m quite keen to see this fabled gold statue that’s rumoured to be here.”
Johanna still protested. “I don’t really know how to get there. I’m not so familiar with this part of the building. I should go back to the ball—”
If only she could think clearly, but she was hot and cold at the same time and her cheeks glowed like they were on fire.
Kylian laughed. “Oh, those people in there are boring. Were you forced to dance with the prince? Did you know he was an idiot? The king did hide his son well enough, didn’t he?”
He had no right to call any member of her royal family an idiot, but at his words, her anger at her father re-surfaced. For all she knew, she should do something stupid, because . . . because she could. And she would probably be talking about this night for the rest of her life, so she might as well make sure that something good happened. Or at least something daring and not-boring.