Aufors? No. She didn’t want him to think her . . . odd. And this “talent” of hers was odd, very, very odd.
In a moment, she was herself again. In a moment she decided it was not foreknowledge she had had, but a vision of something that had already happened, maybe something she had read about, a memory that had been elicited by something Edoard had said.
Aufors sat down beside her. She blinked several times and tried to come up with a neutral topic of conversation. “What did you all talk about at your end of the table?” was the best she could do.
He recounted the conversation concerning P’naki, meantime keeping a close watch on her, seeing the color gradually come back into her cheeks, and with the color, awareness of where she was and what she was supposed to be doing.
She murmured, “I’d like to hear the rest of it later, Aufors, for father is giving me a very strange look.”
Aufors had the good sense not to look in the direction Genevieve had. He rose, bowed, and took himself away to be replaced almost immediately by the Duchess.
“What happened to you?” she asked without preamble. “You turned white as milk. Did that brat of Tansy’s say something rude?”
“No.” Genevieve shook her head, smiling. “No, he invited me to go to the concert as his guest, and then … I had this moment’s breathlessness. All this is too much excitement for one who was a schoolgirl up until a few days ago.”
“My mother had them, those breathless moments.” The Duchess took Genevieve’s elbow in her hand and turned her toward the corner where they stood, thus hiding her face from the room at large. “She would turn pale, as you are now, and stare off into the distance, saying she had seen a vision of a time or place not present. Her sister, my aunt, claimed it was all pretense, but my grandmother believed her as she, too, was said to have such spells. My daughter Lyndafal, has inherited the trait, though not I. Seemingly it skipped a generation. We are kinfolk, you know, Genevieve. My mother was related to your mother through a common ancestress back a few generations, Lady Stephanie, foster daughter of Duke Fitful of Merdune, who made her Marchioness of Wallachy.” The Duchess cocked her head, as though expecting a reply.
Genevieve faltered, “You mean Queen Stephanie? The Dark Queen? I know nothing about her except that her daughters and their daughters have shared her dark skin and eyes and nose. Their portraits hang in the great hall at Langmarsh House.”
“I know little about her myself. There was something most mysterious about her, she was a complete unknown, no family at all, but as a child she came to the attention of the Duke, he adopted her, and she became the wife of the Lord Paramount. Among the many children she bore him—almost all girls—were twin daughters, one of whom was Bricia, my great-grandmother, and the other was Mercia, your many times great-great-grandmother. Stephanie wrote a strange little book, a collection of tales that she called a history. I have a copy at home. I tried to read it once, but it was terribly dull. There’s probably a copy in the library here, for the owner of the house was also Wallachian and quite a collector, so I’ve heard . . .”
A voice at their side interrupted her: the Marshal. “Your Grace, I’m afraid Genevieve is monopolizing your attention.”
“Rather the other way round, Marshal,” fluted the Duchess. “I’ve been monopolizing hers. And do call me Alicia.” She took his arm, patted Genevieve on the shoulder saying she would call, soon, then drew him away, leaving Genevieve behind to catch her breath.
Genevieve felt for the moment overfed on information, everything from a P’naki scarcity to the fact that she and the Duchess were related through the legendary Dark Queen. Most fascinating was the news that there were others like herself. Another, at least. Lady Alicia’s daughter.
The rest of the evening went, if not swimmingly, at least not badly. The hired musicians played well, and a popular young songstress sang several delightfully mischievous songs in a polished and coquettish manner that much delighted the gentlemen. Yugh Delganor bowed himself away as early as politeness allowed—thoughtfully, as it happened, for none could depart until he had done so—and was shortly followed by the second and third in line for the throne, Prince Thumsort, and his son Edoard, at which point the party broke up in mutual pleasantries. Aside from Yugh Delganor’s chilly manner, the palpable frost between the Ladies Farmoor and Bellser-Bar, and the sullenly dyspeptic attitude of the Invigilator, everyone had seemed pleased, not least the Marshal.