Midsummer Night Page 2

  A worm of guilt niggled at her gut. It had been her idea to buy those fireworks. And before that, to see if a person could ride a cow just as well as they could a horse. But Drummond had still lit the wick and saddled the animal.

  “Please, Drummond,” she clasped her hands under her chin and closed the distance between them. “Please just hear me out.”

  She glanced back at the door, ensuring it was shut.

  Letting out a long breath, Drummond rubbed the bridge of his nose again. “Fine. What?”

  She swallowed. “I ... overheard Celtin and Mr. Trundon talking.”

  “You were eavesdropping.”

  “I was opening a door and caught a few sentences.” She tried to sound indignant, but her the tremor in her voice made her sound like a child scolded. She knew Drummond had heard it, for he relaxed suddenly and concern lined his forehead. Rubbing a chill from her arms, she explained, “Mr. Trundon was talking about Celtin finding a wife at the ball.”

  His shoulders drooped. He knew, of course. Working in such close quarters, without a woman around to gush her thoughts to, Drummond knew the whole of it. “I’m sorry, Aster.”

  “Well.” She coughed, banishing the quake from her voice. “That’s the thing. There will be lots of eligible women at the party tonight. What’s one more?”

  He eyed her. “I think they’ll notice if you go. You don’t have a dress, besides.”

  “I have plenty of dresses, they just—never mind, that. I’ll just slip in, and no one will know. Not even Celtin.”

  “How would Celtin not know?”

  Aster looked at him hopefully.

  Drummond cursed and, this time, didn’t apologize for it. “Please tell me what I’m thinking is wrong.” He threw up his hands. “But of course it’s not. Because you’re Aster, who couldn’t sit demurely in a corner for a day if the queen herself asked you to.”

  “You’ve practiced under him for eight years!” She clasped her hands in pleading. “You’re practically a magician yourself. All I need is a few illusions—”

  “You want me to mask you so you can go to the ball? And do what, exactly? Shake your hips in front of Master Dereng?” He winced and said, “Sorry,” at the same time Aster barked, “Keep your voice down!”

  She turned away, wringing her hands. “I just ... if I can win him over ...”

  “You’d still have to confess if you did,” he pointed out. It couldn’t be a long-term ruse.

  She nodded. “I know. But I don’t have time to work it all out. The ball is in four hours, Drummond. It’s risky, but by the time I think of something else, it might be too late. At worst, I can just ... distract him. To buy myself more time.”

  Drummond leaned against the worktable. “And a year and a half hasn’t been enough time?”

  She flushed. It had taken her only six months to realize how utterly astounding Celtin Dereng was. The whole week after admitting it to herself, she’d barely been able to say a sentence to him without stuttering. “I can’t just ... declare myself. He’s my employer.” And above my station. And busy. And wonderful.

  Drummond ground his teeth.

  “Please? He’ll be occupied the rest of the night. I’ll set up everything you need for the performance, and that will leave us enough time for the spells.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can, if you take your time.”

  Drummond studied her. Folded his arms. Considered. For a terrifying moment, she was certain he would say no. That she’d be spending tonight in her bedroom surrounded by pastries, eating her anxiety until Celtin declared on the morrow that he’d met the love of his life, and then Aster would have to sweep up the broken pieces of her heart and find a reasonable excuse for why she had to go back home.

  When Drummond sighed, again, elation filled her from her crown to her toes. She knew the cadence to all Drummond’s sighs, and this was a good one. “Fine. Fine. But the show prep first, understand? And get your church dress. It’s easier to mask something that already looks close to what you want.”

  Aster bit down on a squeal and hugged him. “Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.”

  He peeled her off. “And if we’re caught, you’re putting your head on the chopping block.”

  But Aster was already dancing away, pulling out all the supplies Drummond would need for the show.

  Were anyone told the regal woman standing in the gilt hallway was actually the magician’s assistant, they would never doubt Drummond’s talents.

  Her gray Sunday dress now shimmered green. The illusion of lace trimmed its hem and the bodice. He’d even added volume to her sleeves and the light patterning of cream-colored lilies to the skirt. She wore the simple chain necklace he’d given her for her birthday last year, but now it appeared as pearls around her neck. She’d styled her hair herself, pinning it up simply but elegantly, but Drummond had turned her dark brown locks a soft shade of blonde. Aster had suggested auburn, but her friend had insisted it was too close to her natural color and likely to give her away. Admittedly, the honey color was quite fetching.

  The changes to her face had sounded slight when he explained them, but when she’d looked into the hallway mirror, she hadn’t recognized herself. Her nose was a little rounder, the bridge straighter. Her skin color was lighter. Her hazel eyes glimmered a blue so bright she almost turned back for the laboratory to demand they be changed. Surely such bright eyes didn’t look real! But the longer she stared, the longer they seemed to suit. And if anything could be a distraction to Celtin, it would be vivid blue eyes, just like the ones the Trundon women had. Men certainly tended to trip over themselves around them.

  Aster’s brows were thinner and higher, her eyes sharper and less round. Her cheekbones were prominent, as was her chin. Not something she would have chosen for herself, but they worked well with the other additions.

  She was no longer Aster, the magician’s assistant. She was ... well, she needed to figure that out, didn’t she? But she would feign shyness around anyone but Celtin. She wasn’t here to socialize or dance. She had one night only to win him over. And after that ... she’d figure it out, one way or another.

  She wished she’d had more time to plan as she entered the ballroom. The place was full of people in finery. Not two steps within the door was a group of people around her age chatting with one another. A woman laughed while fanning herself. A man offered to take his companion’s empty champagne flute.

  No champagne, Aster told herself as she pushed through, her green-enchanted skirts rustling as though they were entirely real. Drummond really had outdone himself. She’d be a fool to undo his hard work by letting herself get silly with alcohol.

  Chairs lining the walls of the ballroom held mothers and grandmothers, as well as a few maids too shy to interact. An empty seat called to her, but Aster turned away. She needed to find Celtin. Find him, then ... say something. Something general, that Aster wouldn’t know. But what about Master Celtin Dereng was common knowledge, and what was her own? That he was renowned, yes, and that he worked here. That a lot of the decoration lighting the ceiling and windows was of his own making—surely that wasn’t a jump to make—and that he’d be performing tonight. Everyone knew he’d performed for the queen. She could bring that up. Yet Aster also knew he tired of talking about his work, and surely every person he conversed with tonight would ask after his magic. Aster needed to stand out. She needed to talk to the person, not the magician.

  The musicians played a waltz in the corner. The music was lovely. Pausing by a pillar, Aster let the notes wash over her as she scanned the room. But with so many clusters of people and the main floor occupied by dancers, she couldn’t find him.

  She headed toward the refreshments, moving aside to let two women pass. A small group of three lingered by the next pillar, two women and a man. Aster caught a snippet of their conversation.

  “And you hale from Wetherby?” the man asked.

  The woman—a beautiful creature with ha
ir pale as beeswax—nodded. “Just north of Leeds.”

  “I hear the industry there is booming.”

  The woman shrugged. “Perhaps. But it’s the poppies that have everyone talking.”

  Aster pushed past, memorizing the information. Wetherby. Leeds. To her left, an older woman cried out, “Oh Mr. Gurney, what a pleasure it is!” and to her right, “—and my daughter, Meriwether.”

  And so, by the time Aster reached the far side of the room, she’d become Meri Gurney from Wetherby, just north of Leeds.

  She declined a drink offered by a servant and scanned the room a second time, clutching nervous, gloved fingers to her breast. They were real gloves, made more pristine by Drummond. She couldn’t very well risk someone feeling her fingers through an illusion and suspecting her.

  A tenor behind her startled her. “Are you hoping for a dance partner, miss?”

  Aster turned around, meeting the eyes of a tall gentleman with a kind face and broad shoulders. His waistcoat even matched her dress. He looked to be a couple years her senior.

  She understood, suddenly, the use of a fan, for she would have liked to hide behind one just then. “I’m afraid I’m quite poor at dancing. Simply looking for a friend.” She curtsied, hoping it was quick enough not to look unpracticed. She had practiced ... for about two minutes before leaving the laboratory.

  The man looked a little chagrined, but nodded politely and moved on. Aster let out a long breath. Hopefully he was merely bold, and she’d not need to worry about further requests to take to the floor. What she needed now was—

  Celtin. She spied him conversing with two men just behind the waltzers. Her pulse quickened, and she thanked her gloves for hiding moistening palms. It’s now or never, Aster. Don’t let Drummond’s efforts go to waste.

  She pushed confidence into her bearing and made her way toward Celtin, easing around groups, avoiding elbows and servants carrying silver trays. As she neared, she hung back, knowing it would be rude to interrupt. Her mind kneaded itself with what she would say.

  You know him, Aster. Talk to him like you would any day. But not about work. And not about his work. Or Drummond.

  You’re a refined lady from Wetherby who enjoys poppies and the countryside. You’re very interested in magic, not that you have a single bone for it in your body. But take the first chance to steer away from magic. Show him substance.

  The two men took turns shaking Celtin’s hand before departing. Celtin turned toward the dance floor. Aster thought she saw two women headed his way.

  Time for courage.

  “Master Dereng!” she called, lifting her voice just enough so she didn’t sound like herself. Celtin turned toward her. Forcing grace into her legs as she approached, she added, “It is Master Dereng, isn’t it? You match the description.”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he studied her face, then dropped his eyes down to the lace at the bottom of the gown and back up to her hair. That was good, wasn’t it? If he thought her pretty, she was already halfway there.

  “I am,” he said slowly.

  She curtsied. “Forgive my boldness. I’m Meri Gurney, from Wetherby. Just north of Leeds. I was hoping to make your acquaintance.”

  Nodding, he said, “I know the place. I was there last summer.”

  Oh, he was! She remembered scheduling that for him. He’d been gone eight days.

  He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You’ve got quite a few cotton mills up there, now.”

  “Oh yes, the industry is taking off.” Thank you, beeswax woman.

  He nodded, a glint of amusement in his eye. Why was he amused? “And how are you taking to it?”

  “Oh, well,” she thought for half a second, “I think it’s wonderful. Every new factory opens up dozens of jobs for the locals.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” He ran his thumb along the chain of his watch. “I’ve heard many complaining that the factories foul up the air and draw in crowds.”

  That gave her pause. Would Meri Gurney prefer bright summer fields to encroaching city factories? Well, she did now. Aster couldn’t backtrack unless she wanted to sound a fool. “Well, that’s unfortunate. My estate has not yet been directly affected.” Seeking to steer the conversation elsewhere, she said, “I’m sure you tire of the conversation, but I’m very intrigued by what you do.” She didn’t have to try to sound genuine; she loved Celtin’s work. “I very much look forward to your performance tonight. I was unable to watch when you were in town last, and I’ve been looking forward to it ever since receiving Lady Trundon’s invitation.”

  It was the lady who sent out the missives, yes? Aster thought she recalled one of the maids mentioning it.

  A small smile quirked his mouth—perhaps the night was too early for him to be exhausted by the topic. “Then I shall endeavor to make it my best. Miss Gurney, you said?”

  She nodded. The waltz ended, and applause from the guests thundered around them, forbidding conversation a moment. As she grasped for a new topic of conversation that wouldn’t give her away, Celtin asked, “Since you’re here, Miss Gurney, would you do me the honor of the next dance?”

  Lord pray Drummond’s spells hid the blood draining from her face. “O-Oh, you’re so kind.” She cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, I am a terrible dancer. My sisters all agree. Stiff ankles.”

  His lip quirked again. She loved that expression, that amused yet kind expression that lit up his eyes. “It’s a simple quadrille. You’ll catch on.”

  “I-I don’t think—”

  “You’re a smart one,” he insisted and held out his hand. His ungloved hand.

  Aster couldn’t help herself. She lifted her own and let him take it. She blinked and found herself on the dance floor, lined up with other women dressed similarly to herself, Celtin across from her. And the music played so beautifully.

  She tried to follow her line. The women stepped forward, then back. The men followed suit. Then partners linked both hands and rotated a full circle. She was half a step behind all of them. Turn around, link hands again—

  Celtin whispered, “Then you’ll step and trade places with the woman on your right, repeat, and trade back.”

  They broke apart. Aster did as Celtin instructed and kept up. When she returned to Celtin, the dance changed, but only for eight measures. Then it repeated itself. It was rather mathematical in its execution. And, indeed, simple enough that she felt rather graceful by the third repetition.

  He took her hands again as they turned about. She couldn’t help but notice the way their fingers joined. Again, she prayed that Drummond’s illusion hid her true face, for she could feel heat pricking her cheeks just as easily as she felt the heat from his fingers seeping through her gloves. Never had she interacted with Celtin thus. They’d worked together for two years, having reason to get close, but not like this. He’d never had a reason to dance with her. She’d never had a reason to ask if he would.

  But he had asked, and his brown eyes watched her as they moved. She thought she could feel his gaze on her skin even when they switched partners. Drummond, you clever man. He’d been with Celtin four times longer than Aster. He’d know what sort of women the magician conversed with, or even courted. He’d likely matched Aster to them. He had certainly seemed confident in his style choices when he enacted the spells.

  But had she succeeded in wooing him intellectually? She’d have to find a second chance to wrap him in conversation. After the dance?

  They pulled together for the last turn, but Aster couldn’t bring herself to engage him then, though the couples beside them chatted. Celtin was so close. So warm. And even in this crowded room, she picked up his scent of sage and lemon. This was so different from the laboratory. These simple dance steps were nothing like when she’d been close to him before, transcribing, handing him ingredients, helping him brainstorm. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  She felt like a little girl who’d finally blossomed into a woman. And she wanted
it to last forever.

  But it was not hers to have. The music came to a close, and seeing the other women in the line curtsy to their partners, Aster quickly followed suit. As the dancers cleared the floor, Celtin took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

  Aster’s blood ran so hot, she was sure she’d faint.

  “Many thanks, Miss Gurney,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for the show.”

  “And keep your word,” she murmured.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  She smiled. “To make it your best.”

  He mirrored her grin and nodded. “But of course.” Releasing her hand, he departed into the crowd. It took several seconds for Aster to realize she stood, gaping after him, in the middle of the dance floor. Coming to herself, she quickly fled as newcomers filled the space.

  Now she did allow herself an empty chair at the edge of the room and again wished for a fan. He’d taken to her, hadn’t he? Aster wasn’t incredibly experienced with men, but he’d asked her to dance, and she was sure the kiss on the back of the hand was not mandatory. She hadn’t seen anyone else do it ... but then again, she hadn’t paid attention to anyone but Celtin.

  Did he think her clever, what she’d said about the show? She could be cleverer than that. So long as she didn’t sound like Aster.

  She spent the next song trying to string together astute things to say. Topics she thought Celtin might bring up and ways she could reply to them, editing out anything only Aster would know, or idioms she used frequently. Slowly, moment by moment, Meri Gurney formed a soul. By the time the song finished and the lights dimmed, Aster almost felt the disguise was a real person.

  She was up from her chair in an instant, pushing with the rest of the crowd toward the stage previously occupied by the musicians. Not too close—Celtin was known to borrow color from bystanders on occasion, and she couldn’t risk him accidentally pulling off her illusion. But she pushed close enough to see most of the stage, if she stood on her toes. She had the thought to drag a chair over, but surely Meri Gurney was too polite to try such a thing.