There is a strange sensation from my hand, and I look down to see the fingers of my right glove tugging free of their own accord. Finn clears his throat loudly, slamming his cane down against the floor, and immediately the tugging ceases, my glove no longer possessed.
“Now he is simply being petty,” Finn says with a scowl, covering my hand with his own.
“It would appear Lord Downpike is intent on getting your attention,” Lord Rupert says conversationally.
“I had noticed.” Finn’s tone is polite and unconcerned.
“Have you given any more thought to what he is proposing?”
“I cannot say that I have. What was wrong two years ago is still wrong today, and you will find my position unchanged.”
“Yes, but the good of the country . . .”
“Is the good of the country, and I will always do my part to protect it. Why should we stretch further than needed? We have been independent and strong for decades now. The Continent holds nothing we cannot do for ourselves. I find myself perfectly satisfied with the amount of power we currently hold. Aggression would lead to war, which would benefit no one, least of all our own citizens. Oh, look! They’re about to begin.”
Finn still has not moved his hand from where it rests on mine. My stomach does not know how to feel about this development. Fortunately, I’m soon distracted as the lights dim and the music begins.
The symphony is like nothing I have ever seen. Six women and seven men in glittering black sit with their instruments, but when the first note—a long, deep pull across a cello—sounds, it is accompanied by a wavering flash of deep blue light. A violin joins, its light dancing up to join the cello’s, on and on up to the drunkenly flickering pink hue of the flute. As the song progresses, the lights shift in and
out and around each other, a dance as complex as the marriage of notes from so many instruments. A man on the end has a drum beneath his legs, which emits bursts of brilliant white when hit with his foot pedal, and cymbals that crash together and send all the colors popping like Queen’s Day fireworks.
Finn leans in close to my ear. “Do you like it?”
“How is it done?”
“They’re all royals; Albion does not have a monopoly on magic blood. Though we have far more magical blood, it’s also more generally diluted. This concert happens once a year as a sort of demonstration to remind us that other countries are working with the same advantages we are.”
“The Hallins.” I remember the name from my history text. It’s the family that all the Iverian continental countries pull their royalty from.
“Very good. There are only two royal lineages: our ancient Crombergs, and the Hallin line.”
“So that’s why some of the smaller continental countries will buy royal family members to be their monarchs. I thought it was simply for show, an issue of pride.” A few years back some of the more influential families on Melei began talking of pooling our resources to buy a royal family for the island. The notion was quickly dismissed by the magistrates—and deemed treasonous to prevent it from coming up again.
I wonder now if the people behind the idea knew about magic. How would Melei have been different if we had been working with the same advantages as Albion?
Finn continues. “It is all a matter of balance. We have magic, so do they. Though many wars have been fought in the past, the last century has seen an uneasy peace. The two lines do not share secrets or knowledge, and the scales remain relatively even. Crombergs have strength of numbers, but Hallin magic is far more powerful.”
“So Albion and the Iverian continental countries can ward each other off. But what of the rest of the world?”
“It is a problem,” Finn answers, then leans back, effectively ending the conversation. I try to lose myself in the swirling lights and stirring melodies again, but I keep coming back to that: it is a problem. For whom?
The music is over far too soon. Real lights, the electric ones that anyone can see and appreciate, come back on. Sir Rupert’s wife startles awake with a tiny snort, and I marvel that this is so mundane in her world.
We walk down a grand, red-carpeted staircase to the main floor where the chairs have already been cleared and servers are making the rounds with trays covered in drinks. Finn takes one for me, but I haven’t the stomach for it. It reminds me too much of the gala and what happened afterward.
Several of the visiting royals go out of their way to wish Finn well. There is an odd sort of tension there, like they are not sure how friendly to be with him. One woman kisses his cheeks and murmurs something about his mother, but the room is so loud with conversation that I don’t catch most of it. Many of the Albens around us watch Finn’s interactions with narrowed eyes.
Other than Finn, the visiting royals seem content to talk to no one. The atmosphere between them and the Alben gentry is tense, buzzing with the same undercurrent as the lights above us.
Then Lord Downpike enters the room with a woman on his arm.
Eleanor.
She’s wearing blue, her hair pulled back to expose the creamy expanse of her neckline, her lips painted dramatic red. She meets my eyes and though her smile does not move, her eyes are screaming with terror.
Twenty-one
“FINN.” I SQUEEZE HIS ARM SO TIGHTLY MY FINGERS cramp.