The Mask of Mirrors, M. Carrick; [best books to read in your 20s .txt] 📗

“Leato, that’s enough,” Donaia cut in briskly. “You’ll give Alta Renata the impression that the only law that rules here is power.”

If it weren’t for years of practice at forcing smiles at people like Era Traementis, Ren’s anger might have caused her to lose character entirely. Power was the only law in Nadežra, and the Traementis knew it too well to pretend otherwise. The only saving grace was that all three were clearly united in loathing Mezzan—because that meant Ren didn’t have to mouth words of approval just to continue ingratiating herself with them.

“How dreadful,” she murmured, trying to achieve the disinterested condemnation of someone unfamiliar with the parties involved. “Is the theatrical still playing? I’ve half a mind to go see it.”

“Sadly, no,” Leato said. “They couldn’t find another actor willing to take the role, so the backers pulled it to save face.”

“Are we talking about The Thief of the Old Island? Dreadful production. Mezzan did Nadežra a favor, getting it shut down. I don’t understand what Her Elegance was thinking, approving it.”

The woman who spoke reminded Renata powerfully of Letilia. Not in appearance—her hair was pale gold instead of honey brown, her face all sharp features in a heart-shaped frame—but she shared the same air of ruthless social dominance, always alert for the scent of a competitor.

Letilia, however, wouldn’t have shown nearly so much care to the elderly woman in the wheeled chair beside her. “You agree, don’t you, Grandmama?” the young woman asked. “The play was dreadful, you said.”

She’d pitched her voice to carry, and still a moment passed before the confusion cleared from the older woman’s oddly unlined face. “Ah yes. That thing. Dreadful. Couldn’t understand a word of it. Why are you bringing it up?”

“No reason.” Smiling, the young woman transferred her attention. “Giuna, dearest! If I’d known you were coming to the Gloria, I would have included you in our party. Grandmama has arranged for coffee and cakes later. Grandmama, surely room can be made to include Alta Giuna and her family?”

It was hard to tell if the old woman didn’t hear or was deliberately ignoring her granddaughter in favor of staring down Renata. Despite being in a chair, she managed to convey an impression of looking very much down.

Donaia stepped in before things grew more uncomfortable. “Alta Renata, may I present Alta Carinci and her granddaughter Sibiliat, heir of House Acrenix. Altas, this is Renata Viraudax, recently of Seteris.”

Renata’s smile as she curtsied was as much for Donaia’s words as for the people in front of her. Recently of Seteris—not a visitor from Seteris. Whether she realized it or not, Donaia was beginning to resign herself to her “niece’s” presence in the city.

And meeting the Acrenix women was a social coup. Their family had never held a seat in the Cinquerat, but their head, Eret Ghiscolo Acrenix, was the most influential noble in the city outside that council of five. “I’m delighted,” Renata said, quite sincerely. “I understand from my mother that your house is one of the oldest in Nadežra.”

“Mother?” Alta Carinci squinted at Renata, as much as a woman could squint when her skin seemed stretched taut over bone. “Ha! You said she couldn’t possibly look familiar,” she crowed, her bent finger pointing first at Sibiliat, then redirecting toward Renata. “She’s the image of Lecilla, except better-mannered and with a nicer voice. No wonder you look sour in the puss, eh?” That last was directed at Donaia, accompanied by a smirk.

Donaia’s expression grew even more brittle. “I don’t know what you—”

“Clearly, you don’t. Letting your poor niece wander alone. What were you thinking, allowing her to talk to that Vargo character?”

“Grandmama!” Sibiliat’s expression of horror was a little too delighted to be earnest.

Carinci was clearly the sort of woman who reveled in the freedoms granted by power, wealth, and age. “I’m not saying he isn’t pretty to look at, but you can’t wash off that Lower Bank dirt, no matter how hard you scrub.”

“Your pardon, alta,” Renata said, breaking in. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. It’s true my mother is Letilia—Lecilla—who was Gianco’s sister, but she’s no longer in the Traementis family register. So I am not Era Traementis’s niece.”

She let a touch of regret flavor the words. Carinci scoffed. “Registered or not, unless your mother is here with you—no? Of course she isn’t—then Donaia should be looking after you and who you associate with. Gossip leaves dirt on everything around it.”

“How fortunate, then, that Renata is joining us for dinner next week,” Donaia snapped. “I don’t need you, Alta Carinci, to remind me of my duty to my family—even those who aren’t in the register.”

Renata smothered a triumphant smile. Her flirtation with Vargo, though a misstep, had transformed into useful leverage. Where sweet words failed, public pressure succeeded. “Era Traementis has been very kind to me,” she hastened to assure Carinci. “The fault lies with my mother, and with myself. I don’t know my way around Nadežra and its people.”

“Then let me be your guide.” Sibiliat reached for her hands, and Renata controlled the urge to pull back. She’d seen Letilia engage in this kind of fight often enough to recognize it for what it was: claws sheathed in velvet. “We must make sure you have good stories to take back to Seteris.”

Want me out of your city, do you? Better and better. Judging by Donaia’s behavior, she didn’t like the Acrenix women—which meant she would like watching Renata threaten Sibiliat’s dominance of the social scene.

But Sibiliat was too clever to give Renata her back. As if an idea had just come to her, she made a small, delighted sound. “Leato! A few of us are going on a ramble tonight. You simply must join, and bring your cousin along.” Leaning close to Renata—a shift that emphasized her advantage in height—she said, “There’s a new card parlour on the Old Island that does pattern readings.”

Giuna perked at Sibiliat’s suggestion. “I’ve never had my pattern