Page 58 of Homegrown Magic

“Darling, you can’t believe that any of that was personal! That was business. Margot’s parents made poor investments, defaulted on their loans, and cost the company money we had to recoup elsewise. Poor choices must have consequences, and you cannot reasonably expect us to bear them. Did she tell you everything, then?”

“Of course she did.”

Their mother studies them, dark eyes burning out of her golden mask. They flare a cold, bright purple at the center, and Yael shifts uneasily under her attention, which seems to fill their head with smoke, fogging their thoughts for a sliver of a moment. Then she blinks and smiles, seemingly satisfied. “Well, it’s Margot’s great fortune that she’s smarter than her mother and father by far, and with real talent. A natural caster, darling; this family could do far worse.”

“Don’t act as though you know the first thing about her,” Yael snaps, their façade collapsing.

Menorath laughs, as light as the bubbles in her champagne flute, and waves at a guest in a whiskered dragon mask from across the room. “Someday, Yael, when you’re grown, you’ll understand that everything this family has done, they’ve done for you. Every decision of ours that you so righteously spurn was made so that your choices will be easier. And devils know you’ve always preferred the easier path.”

Yael is just about to protest, to find some way to object to what feels horribly true, when a familiar voice asks, “Can I claim this dance, cousin?”

Araphi stands before them, radiant in a fluttering, lilac-colored gown. It’s a moment before Yael realizes the fluttering is due not to the dress’s layers of tulle or wispy sleeves caught in a draft but to silk butterflies sewn along her gown from neckline to hem, each seemingly enchanted to flap its wings independently.

Yael draws in a steadying breath. “You’d better.”

As Yael follows their cousin onto the floor, the violin players begin a lively tune, and Yael and Araphi bend the knee to bow to each other.

“What have you been up to this midsummer eve?” they ask, appraising the lace mask made to look like a broad pair of deep-purple butterfly wings resting askew on her lovely face, and the artful pile of dark hair that’s come slightly unraveled atop her head, and the glittering blackberry lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth.

She presses her palm to Yael’s as they circle to the right. “A Clauneck never confesses,” Araphi answers, smirking.

“Just between us, have you left Denby in a closet somewhere?”

She snorts. “Whomever I’ve left in a closet, you of all people have no right to judge me, Yael Clauneck.”

“The heart wants what it wants, I’m sure, and I’ll not judge you for it. But…Denby?”

The pair drift apart to weave among their fellow dancers in the predetermined pattern, reuniting to spin each other in turn. “Alas, the heart has little to do with it,” Araphi continues, low enough that the nearest couple can’t hear them; Yael can just make her words out over the music. “Alviss Oreborn is the only person who knows what really happened the night of your graduation party, aside from this family. The guests were all told that you’d drunk too much and taken to your bed, and our parents spread word of your supposed accident in the days after. But Oreborn’s mount was gone when he and his son went to leave that night, and when pressed, the stable hands admitted they’d not checked on the animals for three hours—just about the time you’d disappeared from the party. He’s not a stupid man, however thick his boots.”

Yael’s impressed with Oreborn, actually, until the implications sink in. “Good gods. Did he blackmail us?”

“Of course not,” Araphi scoffs. “And risk being found at the bottom of one of his precious silver mines?”

“They wouldn’t…”

“Oh, wouldn’t they? No, Oreborn swore not to say a word. What happened next was your parents’ idea, passed along to mine. The Claunecks don’t like debt—their own debt, anyway—and Oreborn’s silence was a commodity more precious than his missing steed. Our family thought it needed to be properly purchased.”

“So you mean to say…” Yael stops in the middle of the floor until Araphi prompts them into their next turn. “You mean they offered you to Denby?”

“They proposed a match,” she corrects them, “no less than what Alviss Oreborn intended to propose to them before you fled, only it would’ve been between Denby and you. Anyway, there were worse bargains to be made. The son of a mining empire is a solid match.”

“I’ll say Denby’s solid.”

“Don’t, Yael,” she scolds, her eyes sharpening behind her mask as she dips in a graceful curtsy.

“All right, all right. But even so, you’ve not yet graduated from Auximia! You can’t possibly want to marry so young.”

“Oh, what is the point of wanting? We aren’t all lucky enough to ride off into the sunset—quite literally—and stumble upon some better, blissful life.” Araphi says this not with disdain but as though explaining the world to a very young child, even though she’s seen no more of that world than Yael has. “Do you think our family hasn’t given me the ‘where does the true power in Harrow lie’ speech? The Claunecks thought they’d let their heir, their greatest asset, slip between their fingers. They needed to conjure up another, and that’s what I was raised for.”

So, then, Araphi has outpaced them in seriousness, after all.

“Is that what we are, Phi?” Yael murmurs as they guide her backward across the floor. “Company assets?”

She sighs. “You’re asking bigger questions than I can answer after this much wine.”

Yael’s had nothing to drink yet this evening, they’re suddenly and keenly aware. Their mouth feels parched as a dragon’s hide. Where are those servants with their champagne trays? Yael could use something strong to wash down the idea that their leaving had consequences beyond their own happiness, for which their cousin is currently bearing the cost. And the pressure on Araphi to perform will only increase once Yael leaves Ashaway again for good.

“Oh, don’t look so gloomy, cousin.” Araphi breaks their grip to reach up and pinch Yael’s cheek. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll find another dance partner to pass the evening with once you’ve rescued Margot from your father’s clutches.” Her gaze darts across the floor toward Margot and Baremon. “And…take care of her, all right? I’ve never been in love before, you know—wouldn’t want it if I had it—but I think it looks marvelous on you.”