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“Trouble below decks, Lady P.”
Her husband was peering around the door of her dressing room, pretending to look cowed. Although he may actually have been cowed; there had been enough rumpus and disorder over the last few weeks to intimidate anyone, even a ship’s commander of whom his subordinates spoke as having nerves of steel. Even a ship’s commander who had been newly raised to what he would have once considered an unimaginable rank.
Lady Pitchiner turned away from her mirror, where she’d been brushing out her long black hair as she prepared to retire for the night. “Let me guess,” she laughed. “The ‘tween-stairs maid is carrying on with the footman, the cook is berating the butler, and the housekeeper is threatening to have them all flogged?”
“All that, and more, my love,” Lord Pitchiner replied, as he stepped into her chamber and closed the door behind him. He flopped ungracefully into one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Whose brilliant idea was it to rescue a bunch of scurvy sailors and try to turn them into socially acceptable house guests a mere two weeks before giving a formal dinner dance for some of the most illustrious… and by illustrious, I mean snobbish… members of the Lunanoff retinue?”
“Yours, mine, and ours, dear.” Ebony rose and went to sit on his lap, laying her head on his shoulder. She sighed, half blissfully, half wearily, and her tone grew more serious. “Kozmotis, I hope we’re doing the right thing. I know neither of us is Royal Court material, but you did earn your promotion to Lord Admiral due to your service record, and that should be considered just as important as a pedigree that goes back sixty generations of Constellar families. Are we giving this dinner dance to honour our social obligations, or are we doing it to thumb our noses at people?”
Kozmotis tightened his arms around his wife and buried his face in her fragrant hair, enjoying the lavender soap she used. He took some time to phrase a thoughtful answer. Finally he said, “It’s a bit of both, I warrant. Yes, it’s only proper that we reciprocate some of the invitations that we’ve received, but I also need the Otina survivors to be SEEN as real people… by the Court at least, and particularly by the Tsar and Tsarina. Otina paid a heavy price for defending Moon Clipper from the Dream Pirates, after all.”
He felt more than heard Ebony’s sigh. “On that score, we’re in complete agreement. I’m not as worried about m’lady Tsarina’s reaction to old salts like Almaaz or Markab… She’s got the common touch with everyone. But there are too many puffed-up proud stars at Court who have the Tsar’s ear, and have cut him off from the realities of daily living that ordinary people have to go through.” She rubbed her head against her husband’s jawline. “I for one am very happy to be an ordinary person along with you, my dear heart, despite our current exalted titles.”
“And I’m just as happy to be your ordinary seaman, darling. I much prefer being an Admiral than I do being a Lord. You look better in court dress than I do, anyway.”
“Flatterer. Fortunately, since this little soiree is being held in our own home, court dress is not required. So are you going to wear your dress uniform, or shall we both go with evening attire?”
“Oh, evening attire suits me.” Lord Pitchiner yawned tremendously. “At least we have a little time to get our ‘house guests’ togged out before the big night.”
“Mmmmmm,” Lady Pitchiner agreed. “We don’t have to make all the decisions right now. Shall we call it a night?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Two weeks later, as the bells in the town square chimed the start of the evening watch, the surviving members of the Otina crew stood with their hosts and formed a receiving line in the foyer of the Pitchiner manor. Two lines of servants stood respectfully to the sides near the double doors, ready to take outer garments to be hung up carefully, and to lead the guests to the refreshment tables.
Lady Pitchiner wore a plain gown of dark green, with flounces of paler green peeking out around her ankles, but no other frills or furbelows. Lord Pitchiner wore an evening coat of an equally dark green over black pantaloons, with an unadorned waistcoat of deep blue. Neither ensemble was in the forefront of Constellar fashion; they had discussed their outfits ahead of time and had agreed that tonight was about making a point to the ruling class. Therefore they looked much of a piece with Phecda the chief mate, Auva the ship’s cook, Markab the boatswain, and all the rest of the former sailors clad in coats and dresses of broadcloth and muslin.
The first guest to bow over Lady Pitchiner’s hand and to acknowledge her husband with a stiff nod was Matar, a Pookan architect who had helped to design the Summer Palace where the Royals withdrew for a few months each year. His ears quivered in opposite directions as he went down the receiving line, but he courteously acknowledged each and every one of the Otina survivors when introduced, as though they were all equal in rank to himself.
Those in line behind Matar took their cues from him, suppressing any distaste they might have over sharing the same air and being in company with persons not worth their notice.
Adhil, the Lady Marshal, and Situla, the Lord Secretary, were almost the last guests to pass through the receiving line, both of them far more familiar with the Otina’s sacrifice and thus much warmer than many of the nobles who’d preceded them. Both shook Lord Pitchiner’s hand with significant looks exchanged, and both had kind words for each and every one of the sailors.
Lady Pitchiner breathed a sigh of relief as she gave a sincere smile and held out her hands to her two friends. She had grown up with Adhil and Situla as playmates, their families’ estates flanking her father’s on either side. Adhil had always been the strongest fencer and the fastest runner among the three of them, but had kept up with Ebony and Situla in academic studies when Ebony turned to art and Situla to mathematics.
Adhil gave Ebony’s hand a squeeze of solidarity, while Situla leaned in to whisper to his hostess, “Just a word of warning. The Tsar might be a little… distracted this evening. It concerns the Tsarina. He’ll be making an announcement tonight at the dinner.”
Ebony grinned back at him. “Oh, I know. She told me herself. But I’ll wait for both of them to make the announcement, and I’ll act as surprised as anyone else.”
“Good.” The Lord Secretary moved along, taking the arm that the Lady Marshal offered.
“Good?” Lord Pitchiner murmured in his wife’s ear, as both of them readied themselves for the approach of the Tsar and Tsarina, who were just disembarking from their coach with the aid of their own footmen, eschewing the aid of the manor’s servants.
“Yes, good. We’ve got an unbeatable card to play now, with the Tsarina being in expectation of an interesting event. After dinner, over the port but before the dancing, you should appeal to the Tsar’s love of family, with this additional happy news, and remind him of how many families were saved from Dream Pirates by the Otina, especially his own growing family, before the Sunstrider was able to lend aid. Then move the conversation towards just how many families lost loved ones among the Otina’s casualties. THAT should make him loosen the Treasurer’s purse strings and make sure that the survivors and relatives are taken care of.”
“Agreed.”
Kozmotis looked upward to the gallery, where his daughter’s nursemaid held Seraphina in her strong arms. Both Ebony and he had promised Seraphina that she could stay up late to look at all the glittering guests as they arrived, as long as she promised to go to bed right afterwards without a fuss.
He felt himself shudder, unexpectedly, and his wife asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, love. Nothing. Just shadows walking over my grave.”
She stroked his arm in silent sympathy. Then Lord and Lady Pitchiner schooled their features into smiles of welcome as the Tsar and the Tsarina swept across the threshold.