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

“You see, Mother? I told you she was nothing like Letilia.” Leato stood in the doorway; how long he’d been there, Renata couldn’t say. Long enough to lay a comforting hand on his mother’s shoulder as he approached, and to give Renata a smile as warm as the fire in the hearth.

Donaia put her hand over his, then shook herself and rose. “Now that we’re all here, let’s go in to dinner. Meatball, stay.”

It was still too early, but Renata wasn’t surprised she wanted to escape the sensitive moment. Leato offered Renata his arm. Leaving Donaia’s monster sprawled before the hearth like a hunter’s trophy, the four of them went through to the dining room.

It was by far the grandest place she’d ever taken a meal. The table and chairs were fine wood, polished until they gleamed; the upholstery was plush amethyst velvet; the carpet was thick enough that Renata’s shoes sank into it as she crossed to her seat. Even the molding around the edge of the ceiling and the chandelier chain was gilt, shining in the candlelight. It simultaneously made her feel small and grubby, and like she truly was an alta, born to dine in such lavish surroundings.

Dinner was as Liganti as her lunch had been Vraszenian. Not a single dumpling or grain of rice to be seen; instead it was duck sausage, mussels in cream, eels baked in pastry shells. Renata’s intent was to wait and bring up Vargo’s proposal toward the end of dinner, and while they were nibbling on the last pieces of fruit and cheese, Donaia unwittingly handed her an opening.

Leato mentioned that Fadrin, one of the Acrenix cousins, had heard of someone down in Dockwall selling exotic birds from Isarn. “I wouldn’t want to keep one here, of course,” Leato said. “Noisy things. But it would be amusing to see a bird that can talk like a human—”

“Absolutely not,” Donaia said, her voice unexpectedly sharp. “There’s pestilence in the Lower Bank right now, Leato.”

He rolled his eyes. “When isn’t there pestilence in the Lower Bank? I’ll be careful—I’ll wear a mask and everything.”

“A woman at the Gloria said she had masks that protect against disease,” Renata said. “Who knows how effective they are, of course, but Master Vargo bought one. Speaking of whom…”

She’d given it a great deal of thought that afternoon. Trying to obtain this charter through the Traementis was logical, but for all Vargo’s flattery, she found it profoundly unlikely that the foreign-born daughter of an estranged former relative was his first choice. And while she couldn’t guess at everyone he might have approached already, one candidate seemed obvious.

Renata caught Leato’s gaze across the table. “Altan Leato, I imagine you’ve heard something about this? Derossi Vargo has a plan for replacing the numinat that used to cleanse the waters of the West Channel.”

She left unsaid: Before your grandfather destroyed it.

Leato’s soft snort sent ripples across the surface of his wine. “So Master Vargo gave up on me and decided to approach you.” He savored the wine as he considered her. “Don’t be taken in by him, cousin. He might have charm enough to summon dreamweaver birds out of season, but he only flirts to get what he wants. And you may be certain that the person who will benefit the most from his plan is Derossi Vargo.”

“I’m not so green as to be taken in by a little flirtation,” she said evenly. Not even if he fed me chocolate. There was no way the man could possibly have known how much she adored it, and how long it had been since she tasted it. “I read the documents he provided. Removing the filth that washes down from upstream would undoubtedly increase the value of the properties he owns along the Lower Bank—but that’s hardly the only benefit. And I see no reason why others shouldn’t reap their own share of the profits.”

“I don’t understand,” Giuna said timidly. “Why would he approach you?”

Donaia arched a brow at Renata in an unspoken why indeed.

“Because it seems no one else will give his proposal a fair reading,” Renata responded, not backing down from Donaia’s silent challenge. “And he believes that House Traementis might stand to gain a great deal from this charter—if they gave it proper consideration.”

Pushing back her chair as though she was about to declare the meal over and send Renata on her way, Donaia said, “And what did he tell you to make you believe we need—”

“Mother.”

An entire conversation took place between Leato and Donaia, without a word being uttered. Then Donaia’s stiffness drained from her, and she waved one hand wearily in surrender. “Fine. Yes. House Traementis is not what it was when your mother was with us. You can blame it on my mismanagement if you like. But I would rather that not be common knowledge—though apparently it’s known to common men like Master Vargo.”

“I’d hardly call him common,” Leato murmured, sharing an amused glance with Renata.

Donaia’s wineglass struck the table slightly too hard. “And yes, we’re the ones who broke the original numinat, so yes, it would certainly do our reputation some good to replace it. But not if it means entering into business with a man who made his fortune through criminal activities.”

Giuna leaned over to whisper to Renata—a whisper that carried through the room. “She means he’s a smuggler.” Except she said it with a blush and a flutter instead of Donaia’s disdain.

Her comment at least gave Renata cover for the unpleasant jolt that went through her. Not just lower class, but criminal. That was what she had been missing. It explained the elegant clothes and the scars they couldn’t hide, the ambition to rise higher and the inability to get past the barriers in his path.

Associating with him didn’t make it any more likely that someone would uncover her own past. But a tremor still went through her at the possibility; rather