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“May I see the guest list?” she asked.
Her mother handed her a sheet. Therez read through the list of names, written in her father’s plain square handwriting. Galt, the head of the shipping guild, of course, and various other guild masters. Maester Gerd Bartos, the current head of the City Council, whose eldest daughter was contracted to marry Galt. A dozen of the most influential merchants and liaisons to the City Council, Klara’s father among them. The list covered an entire page.
“Papa’s invited half of Melnek,” she commented.
r /> “Yes. We must extend ourselves more than usual.” Her mother called up a brief unconvincing smile. “Though it won’t be all work. We shall have music and special dishes and dancing afterward. You are to pick the musicians yourself.”
She took back the list of guests and went through Petr Zhalina’s orders for the dinner, which were more exacting than usual—not only whom to invite, but also how many courses to serve, how much to spend on musicians and decorations, how long the dancing would last. It was unnecessary for Therez’s mother to emphasize that Petr Zhalina wished to make a good impression. The length and detail of these instructions were evidence enough.
Therez absorbed all these implications for a moment. One dinner could not ruin their business, but clearly any future success would build upon its outcome. Every guild head invited. Every leading merchant—
Then it struck her. “I didn’t see Maester Friedeck’s name on the list. You might want to add him. Or no? What’s wrong?”
The habitual crease between her mother’s eyes deepened. “No. When your father heard the news about Maester Galt and Maester Friedeck, they … quarreled.”
Therez bit her lip. Suggestions were a delicate matter, even with her mother. “Could you convince Papa to change his mind and invite him? Maester Friedeck, I mean.”
Her mother dipped her pen in the inkwell, still frowning. “Why?”
“Because if the rumors are true, Papa will want Maester Friedeck as an ally, not a rival. He could use this evening to win his goodwill, if not his support. And if the rumors are false, and we snub him, then Papa would needlessly antagonize an important man. You did say this dinner was the key to next year’s success.”
Isolde Zhalina studied her daughter a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I can see why Maester Friedeck should come. But let us have Ehren make the suggestion. That will do better.”
She nodded firmly. That, too, was out of character, Therez thought. A sign that all was not well in this household.
It never was.
Be quiet. It can be.
Still arguing with herself, Therez wrote down the name of a prominent musician. She immediately drew a line through the name, unhappy with her choice. Her pen hovered over the paper. When was the last time her mother had laughed or smiled without care? How had she looked, nearly five and twenty years ago, when Petr Zhalina courted her? Had he promised his love and all his heart? Had she, like Lir, laughed with delight? Or was theirs a marriage of gold and politics, even from the beginning?
The scratching of her mother’s pen ceased. She was staring at the guest list and frowning harder than before.
“A problem?” Therez asked.
“No. But I always find it hard to pick the right words. Especially for certain guests.”
Ah, so the list was not the complete list. Somehow this did not surprise Therez. “Who else is coming?” she asked.
Her mother wrote a line, paused. Her glance flicked up and back down to the parchment before her. “Baron Mann, if he accepts,” she said at last. “A few others.”
Therez exhaled softly. Baron Josef Mann had recently come from a season at Duenne’s Court. Her father must have special plans indeed.
“Paschke,” she said. “We must engage Launus Paschke for the evening. With him and his company, we won’t need any other musicians.”
“Paschke would indeed make a favorable impression,” her mother murmured. “I only hope—”
She broke off and frowned again. Therez reminded herself that a failure meant more than disappointment for herself and Ehren. Failure also meant a lecture from Petr Zhalina to his wife, delivered in a soft monotone that would wash all emotion from her mother’s face. And he would not drop the matter after one or two days—or even a week, Therez thought. That anyone could endure. But her father would bring up the subject weeks and years later—small pointed reminders of his wife’s failings. Strange how a whisper could wound so deep.
It would come out right, Therez told herself. They would dazzle their guests, her father would secure his contracts, and she would see her own plans to fruition. But every detail must be perfect.
* * *
BY LATE AFTERNOON, Therez had planned the wines and most of the decorations. She had written to various artists for advice with the finer details; she had also sent a letter to Launus Paschke, asking to meet and discuss hiring his company. In turn her mother had completed the invitations and given them over to Petr Zhalina’s senior runner for delivery.
“We are done for today,” her mother told her. “Go and visit your grandmother. I know you want to.”
Therez did not wait for her mother to repeat the suggestion. She ran to her rooms to store away her notes, then hurried down the corridor to the lavish suite where her grandmother lived alone. Nadežda Zhalina called these rooms her empire, and there she had once ruled with vigor. But in the last year, age and illness had overtaken her—the empire had shrunk to her bedchamber, invaded by nurses and maids and companions. Therez came into the richly ornamented sitting room that formed the outer defenses of that kingdom.
