Page 50 of The Scarlet Ball

“I thank you, but no. Please convey my thanks to Mr. Rowe.”

After that, there were no more deliveries from strangers bearing gifts. It seemed as if Sebastian had given up, and I told myself what I felt was relief.

It did not last. I could count the days as well as anyone, and when Mrs. Howard finally summoned me to her bedside, I was only surprised it had taken so long. The curtains were drawn against the bright winter morning, and the only light came from a lamp turned low by her bed. Even resting against a mountain of pillows, she sat erect as if someone had slid a sword down her spine, and her hands folded over the novel in her lap had the look of deadly things at rest.

There was no chair, and I stood by her bed like a maid awaiting orders as she studied me before seeming to come to a decision.

“The Rose Ball is in three days,” she said without preamble. “I had not thought you would make it so far.”

“You expected me to run mad or to be eaten.”

She tapped the book in her lap. It was old and primitive, nothing like the sleek volumes in the library. The covers were made of wood and clasped together with metal.

“Some of us call them grimoires or commonplace books. Mrs. de Lange calls hers her studbook, which, poor taste. I call mine my good book, but we all have them,” she said. “We have them from our mothers and our grandmothers, and we add to them every time the cycle turns over. We record the names and descriptions of every demon lord we encounter, everything we know about them and what they are. We keep careful notes, never knowing when they might save a daughter or a granddaughter, or when we might be able to spare ourselves a disaster. I am telling you this because I want you to understand me fully when I say that nowhere in this book, nor in the books of Mrs. Edgars and Mrs. Jameson, can I find a mention of anything like Sebastian Rowe.”

I remembered what Mielle had said, about storms that would not serve. I stayed silent.

“We are in uncharted waters, and when you look at me and ask me for answers, you must understand that here and now, I do not know. What I do know is that the Rose Ball is this coming Saturday, and I wish to offer you a choice. Will you attend, or no?”

I gazed at her, this old woman in bed, her wrapper embroidered with a dizzying pattern of Moroccan tile work. Even with a daughter dead, a granddaughter missing, and a wildfire for a husband, she sat as serene as some ancient anchorite.

“Why are you giving me a choice?” I asked cautiously. “Are you hoping that I’ll cry off and you won’t have to pay me?”

It needled her as I intended it to. At the very least, it broke her out of the calm reserve she preferred to maintain while dealing with those below her, and she glared at me.

“I am offering you a choice because it is the human thing to do.” She paused, weighing her words. “The White Ball was the summoning. It was blood offered up to bring the lords in like wild animals from the forests and the fields. Once, our ancestors did the same with wolves, the first step in turning them into dogs.

“The Rose Ball, then, is the signaling of intent. You step forward, you allow yourself to be chosen, and you dance. They choose you, and, here is the key, you must allow yourself to be chosen, wholly and without hesitation. The White Ball was easy—”

“I nearly got ripped to pieces!”

“As I said, the White Ball was easy. You stood, you danced, you allowed the lords to see what they might have. You were part of the herd, no more special than any other cow.”

“And now we are allowing them to choose the prize cows. What happens if they don’t? Straight to the butcher’s shop, I imagine.”

She gave me a cold look, her fingernails tapping on the bound volume in her lap. I wondered suddenly if anyone had recorded anything like what I had learned of Sebastian at the Snowflake Festival, and I choked back a laugh.

“You wish to know what happens to unchosen girls? They limp home if they are able to do so. They lick their wounds. They make the matches they can, or they retire from the game entirely. Perhaps they breed dogs or become patronesses of the arts. If you are not chosen, that will be the end of it. You will have your money, you will have your house, and you need never concern yourself with what happens in New York again.”

“And if I am chosen?”

“If you are, then I have a better deal for you afterward, which we can discuss if that should happen.”

When it looked like she would say nothing else, I snorted.

“You know, when I was working in Paris, I never went out on credit. A wise woman demands payment in advance, or so I was always taught.”

“Whores do not extend credit. Do you know who does?”

“I—”

“Everyone else. And yes, sometimes they are cheated. Sometimes they are ruined. And sometimes, they marry lords. Sometimes they become queens, and they rule.”

“With consorts from Hell,” I said, just to watch her lip curl in distaste. “How do they come to be part of good society anyway? You said that there were contracts between the families and the demon lords, but at the White Ball, they were like bad impressions of men. By the time of the Gracens’ ball, they were something else. I saw some poor boy with one of them, talking about their fun in Chicago last year. He never saw that thing’s shadow, never knew the difference. How did they pull that trick off?”

“You don’t need to know—”

“Would Ginny?”