what inspired the child to cooperate. Whatever it was, may it only continue!
Head tingling with the warmth of good wine, Grace threw herself into dancing till the soles of her feet throbbed and ached. When it came time for the ladies to unmask, Grace revealed herself to be one of the bare-armed dancers! Lord Hal’s eyes widened in mock astonishment as he toasted his wife.
“You are full of surprises,” he told her, drawing her close.
“I have to keep up,” Grace answered before she could stop herself.
Hal’s eyes lit with sadness. He averted his head. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Grace squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Hal,” she said in gentle tones. “Isn’t Brey charming? Look at him dancing with little Cecily and the others. They are splendid together. She’s such a dear child.”
“Indeed,” Hal returned, his face soft as he regarded the children. “And Mirabella. Your choice of gown was exquisite. I have never seen such a stunning creature.”
Grace stiffened. “No, I suppose not,” she said blandly.
From across the tent she eyed her decanter of wine. She began to pull away.
“Grace, please, I didn’t mean—” Hal attempted to seize her hand, but Grace jerked away from him like a horse gone skittish. “Grace. Don’t.”
“What?” she asked him. “Have I not the right to enjoy my own revels?” She sauntered toward the table, lifted the decanter, and held it to her lips. At once a collective thrill of murmuring was heard among the gathering.
Grace had forgotten to use a cup.
It did not matter to her. Face flushed in a mingling of rage and embarrassment, she tilted it back and drank. And drank. Her throat burned, her gut ached.
Still she drank. She would drink till it went away.
But it would come back, in spite of everything; it always came back.
Cecily watched the night unfold in frightened fascination. It had all been so magical at first—the golden hue of the lanterns playing off the masked ladies, the gauzy costumes that clung to their forms so rounded and splendid, capturing the very essence of spring and fertility, all those things that were woman.
The food had been delicious. Cecily and Brey had stuffed themselves, then hid under the table afterwards to play with the pile of caterpillars they had collected throughout the evening and feed them crumbs. The children were hoping to build a house for them to keep in the nursery that they might watch the caterpillars’ transformation.
Even Mirabella was having a good time. She danced, favouring the guests with her rare smile that was a transformation as stunning as that of the caterpillars, which Cecily and Brey anticipated with such eagerness. Her solemn, earnest face was made radiant with that smile, her eyes shone like emeralds, infecting Cecily with the need to laugh. She was thrilled to see her so happy.
Then something went terribly wrong.
The ladies unmasked, revealing Lady Grace to be the lead dancer. This in itself was a thrilling display and Cecily clapped at the sight. The countess was beautiful, as intoxicating as a faery with her white-blond hair falling around her shoulders in ringlets made limp from the dew of evening.
When she took to Lord Hal’s side, the night that had begun as a fantasy faded into a horrific charade. Words were exchanged; Lady Grace pulled away. She strode toward the high table, seized a decanter of wine, and drank straight from it.
This was not unusual to Cecily. She had seen Lady Grace do it many times. But she knew it was not something Lady Grace would ever do in public. It was forbidden. It was unseemly.
Cecily and Brey had been searching out more caterpillars and heard the murmurs of the guests—unkind, snide remarks muttered with cackles of laughter.
People liked to see such things, Cecily realised with a heavy heart. She could not imagine such a display bringing pleasure to anyone. Yet they laughed.
“Why feign surprise?” one gentleman could be heard saying as Cecily and
Head tingling with the warmth of good wine, Grace threw herself into dancing till the soles of her feet throbbed and ached. When it came time for the ladies to unmask, Grace revealed herself to be one of the bare-armed dancers! Lord Hal’s eyes widened in mock astonishment as he toasted his wife.
“You are full of surprises,” he told her, drawing her close.
“I have to keep up,” Grace answered before she could stop herself.
Hal’s eyes lit with sadness. He averted his head. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Grace squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Hal,” she said in gentle tones. “Isn’t Brey charming? Look at him dancing with little Cecily and the others. They are splendid together. She’s such a dear child.”
“Indeed,” Hal returned, his face soft as he regarded the children. “And Mirabella. Your choice of gown was exquisite. I have never seen such a stunning creature.”
Grace stiffened. “No, I suppose not,” she said blandly.
From across the tent she eyed her decanter of wine. She began to pull away.
“Grace, please, I didn’t mean—” Hal attempted to seize her hand, but Grace jerked away from him like a horse gone skittish. “Grace. Don’t.”
“What?” she asked him. “Have I not the right to enjoy my own revels?” She sauntered toward the table, lifted the decanter, and held it to her lips. At once a collective thrill of murmuring was heard among the gathering.
Grace had forgotten to use a cup.
It did not matter to her. Face flushed in a mingling of rage and embarrassment, she tilted it back and drank. And drank. Her throat burned, her gut ached.
Still she drank. She would drink till it went away.
But it would come back, in spite of everything; it always came back.
Cecily watched the night unfold in frightened fascination. It had all been so magical at first—the golden hue of the lanterns playing off the masked ladies, the gauzy costumes that clung to their forms so rounded and splendid, capturing the very essence of spring and fertility, all those things that were woman.
The food had been delicious. Cecily and Brey had stuffed themselves, then hid under the table afterwards to play with the pile of caterpillars they had collected throughout the evening and feed them crumbs. The children were hoping to build a house for them to keep in the nursery that they might watch the caterpillars’ transformation.
Even Mirabella was having a good time. She danced, favouring the guests with her rare smile that was a transformation as stunning as that of the caterpillars, which Cecily and Brey anticipated with such eagerness. Her solemn, earnest face was made radiant with that smile, her eyes shone like emeralds, infecting Cecily with the need to laugh. She was thrilled to see her so happy.
Then something went terribly wrong.
The ladies unmasked, revealing Lady Grace to be the lead dancer. This in itself was a thrilling display and Cecily clapped at the sight. The countess was beautiful, as intoxicating as a faery with her white-blond hair falling around her shoulders in ringlets made limp from the dew of evening.
When she took to Lord Hal’s side, the night that had begun as a fantasy faded into a horrific charade. Words were exchanged; Lady Grace pulled away. She strode toward the high table, seized a decanter of wine, and drank straight from it.
This was not unusual to Cecily. She had seen Lady Grace do it many times. But she knew it was not something Lady Grace would ever do in public. It was forbidden. It was unseemly.
Cecily and Brey had been searching out more caterpillars and heard the murmurs of the guests—unkind, snide remarks muttered with cackles of laughter.
People liked to see such things, Cecily realised with a heavy heart. She could not imagine such a display bringing pleasure to anyone. Yet they laughed.
“Why feign surprise?” one gentleman could be heard saying as Cecily and
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