Chapter 42 – A Vision in Winterlight / Instructor Valentina Amos

Chapter 42

A Vision in Winterlight / Instructor Valentina Amos

            The day after my visit to the Royal Conservatory of Art and Antiquities is, for the most part, uneventful.   With Izzy and Mari at St. Astra’s, Angus occupied elsewhere, and little interest in burying myself in assigned reading sent over from the academy, the afternoon leaves me with far too much idle time.  So here I am, rather bored and not really in a mood to even read one of my novels.  After the date with Angus yesterday, I have found it hard to focus.  My mind keeps circling back to that painting. 

            According to Angus, the artist, Élise Beauchamp, was known for her works depicting grief.  According to her, the scenes come to her when she sleeps and, upon waking, she has to rush to get a preliminary sketch done, else she’ll forget.  That is the reason the focus of her paintings is so strong, while everything else fades into either the foreground or background.  After Angus’s explanation, I became even more convinced she had somehow seen me and my mother on that day.

            To pass the time, since I don’t feel like studying or reading, I am working on one of the original Beira’s needlepoint projects that she’ll never get to finish.  I am rapidly finding out that, while I have the memory of what to do and the pattern she was attempting to make, the task may be a bit too advanced for me.  Mother, who is sitting close by, her own needlepoint in hand, is watching me as she has been doing these last couple of days and has had to thread my needle for me.  Right now, it feels as if she is scrutinizing me for the monstrosity I am turning this project into or just trying to figure me out by extended stares.

            That’s not to say that she has been rude or any stricter than usual, in fact after our visit to the school she has lightened up a little.  A part of me understands that she is concerned that I might do something uncharacteristic around others, which will lead to questions and possibly hurting my image, so she is watching out for clues regarding that, but I wish she would go back to being the mother that she was in Braemar Keep and on the road to Aberling.  She was still a bit cold and standoffish then too, but that was equally balanced with warmth.  Now, those occasions of warmth seem few and far between, to the point I even overheard my dad talking to her about it.  She had assured him that it was primarily because she was nervous about my return to high society, and promised him that she would try to hide her nerves from me better.  What do I say to that? 

            It’s not like I can call her out on her behavior now.  Still, it did seem like she was making an effort.  The attempts to help with this needlepoint project, for instance.  I just wish I didn’t feel so much like I am under the microscope.

            “Ouch!” I exclaim, having pricked my finger for the fourth time.

            “Sweetie, you are supposed to pierce the canvas, not your flesh.” She says again, for the third time.

            I sigh and set the project to the side, as I pinch my fingertip to stop the bleeding.  I don’t want to get blood on my hard, if incomprehensible, work.

            There is a knock on the door and a moment later it opens.  An older man, whose name I have learned is Bartholomew, steps into the room and clears his throat.

            “Duchess Braemar.  Lady Beira,” he says formally.  “The Royal Tailor, Sterling St. Clair, is here to see you.”

            “We shall receive him in Beira’s dressing room.  Call Mary and Hilda to meet us there,” my mother commands.

            The older man bows deeply. 

            “As you wish, Duchess Braemar.” He says before performing a sharp about face and leaving the room.

            My mother stands quickly, a twinkle in her eye, and holds out a hand to me.

            “Come, let us hurry so that we don’t arrive last,” she says.

            I nod and take her offered hand, standing.

            By the time my mother and I reach my dressing room, Sterling St. Clair is already there, standing in the center of the room as if he belongs nowhere else.  To the side are the two assistants that were with him before.

            He turns the moment we enter; one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.

            “Duchess Braemar,” he says, dipping into a sweeping bow.  “Lady Beira.  At last, I am able to correct the greatest injustice of my career.”

            I blink.

            My mother, already moving toward the dress form positioned near the center of the room, arches a brow.

            Behind us, the door opens again and Mary enters with my mother’s personal maid Hilda.  They silently take up position behind us.

            “And what injustice is that, Mr. St. Clair?” she asks.

            He straightens and gestures grandly toward the gown.

            “Allowing either of you to spend even a single unnecessary hour believing I had failed you,” he says, his face filled as if with grief.

            My mother exhales through her nose, though the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth tells me she is amused despite herself.

            “Then explain the delay,” she says, her tone measured.

            “With pleasure,” he says, clapping once, sharply.

            One of the assistants beside him steps forward carrying a lacquered box no larger than both of her hands together.

            “The gown was completed on schedule,” he says, as if unveiling a great secret.  “However…”

            He lifts the lid from the box with theatrical care.

            Nestled atop dark velvet is a delicate silver necklace, pale blue stones set into it in a pattern like frozen droplets.  Matching earrings rest just above it, elegant and understated, their shimmer catching the light with every slight movement.

            I stare, shocked.

            “Her Majesty,” St. Clair says, his voice smoothing into something almost reverent, “felt the gown deserved proper accompaniment.”

            The room stills.

            My mother’s expression sharpens, not with displeasure, but something far more measured… understanding.

            “The Queen commissioned them?” she asks.

            “Personally,” he replies.  “The stones were selected to complement the gown.  The setting was designed to flatter Lady Beira’s neckline and frame the face without overwhelming it. Her Majesty was quite specific.”

            I feel something tighten in my chest.

            This is no longer just a dress… no, this… this is presentation.

            “I see,” my mother says, and though her tone remains even, I can hear the shift beneath it.

            She understands exactly what this means, as do I.  This is no longer simply Izzy’s ball, this is a stage, set by Her Majesty, and I am expected to play my part.

            St. Clair, blissfully undeterred by the weight that has just settled over the room, claps his hands once more.

            “Now then,” he says brightly, “if Lady Beira would be so kind as to try on the gown, we can all stop suffering needlessly, no?”

            His assistants move at once, carefully removing the gown from the dress form before directing me behind one of the privacy screens.  They bring over the dress and jewels, as Mary and Hilda help me out of my current clothing behind the screen.  Once free of my dress, Hilda helps me into the gown while Mary goes to my room to retrieve something.  As Hilda is lacing up the back of the gown, Mary reappears with a brush and several hair pins.  When I am secured into the gown, Mary sweeps my hair up with practiced ease, quickly brushing out the couple of tangles that always seem to work their way in, before wrapping my hair into a stylish twist, pinning it in place with the hair pins which, to my surprise, match the earrings and necklace, which Hilda has put in place while Mary worked on my hair.

            As I step out from behind the curtain, St. Clair gasps in delight and claps enthusiastically.

            My mother just stands, arms crossed as she examines me from toe to head, working her way up and finally settling on the matching hairpins in my hair.  A hint of a smile crosses her face before she nods her approval.

            “Since Her Majesty gave you those matching hairpins last year as a gift for your birthday, it seems only fitting you use them,” she states.  “It’s almost as if she matched them to the other jewelry intentionally.”

            At that moment, St. Clair seemed to find his voice.

            "Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle, your beauty is the kind that inspires bards! It is ethereal," Mr. St. Clair breathes, stepping back slightly, his hands clasped tightly together as if holding in his artistic ecstasy.

            He moves around me, doing a final inspection of the masterpiece he has created.  It is the final fitting, and the gown of pure snow-white fits like a second skin.

            "Look here," he says, gesturing to the bodice where the fine silver stitching catches the light, tracing the precise, off-the-shoulder neckline.  "The silver holds the structure, it demands perfection, but..."  He gently adjusts the waistline, where the faint, delicate threads of gold embroidery spread outward.  "The gold brings the warmth, just as I promised, Duchess," he nods to my mother, who is studying the hem with a critical eye.

            "It is all about contrast, ma chère," he whispers to me, admiring how the pale blue, translucent top layer shimmers over the white.  "It makes you look as though you have been dusted with moonlight and ice crystals."

            "Perfect. Simply perfect, no?"  St. Clair murmurs, turning me toward the full-length mirror.

            I stare at the reflection.  It is not just a dress anymore; it is a vision in winterlight.  The layered skirts wave around me, soft yet voluminous.

            "The layering is correct," my mother finally says, her voice echoing the statement from the first fitting where the toile was revealed.  She touches the fabric, nodding slowly.  "It does not overwhelm her. It is... magnificent, St. Clair."

            Mr. St. Clair beams, a look of utter triumph on his face. "Of course it is, Duchess. I would not allow it to be anything less."

******************************************************************

            By the following morning, the glamour of the previous afternoon has settled into something quieter.

            The gown is carefully stored away, its meaning no less heavy for being out of sight, and in its place comes a different sort of preparation.

            Less elegant and more dangerous.

            Mary dresses me simply at my mother’s instruction, and for once there is no discussion of color, silhouette, or presentation.  Today, appearance matters less than control, which is somehow far less comforting. 

            Today I am to meet Valentina Amos, future alchemy instructor, light affinity mage, and, if Headmistress Ardel is to be believed, a woman my mother may be willing to trust with one of my more dangerous secrets.

            Apparently, the headmistress had reached out to her at my mother’s request so the two of us might meet in private.

            Officially, it is to determine whether she is a suitable instructor.

            Unofficially, it is to determine whether she is safe.

            My mother and I move to one of the smaller sitting rooms to recieve Instructor Amos rather than her office, which somehow does little to make the meeting feel informal.  The room is quieter than most, modestly appointed and absent the theatrical excess of rooms meant to impress guests.  It feels deliberately subdued.  We have not been waiting long when the door opens and Mary steps aside to admit our guest.

            Valentina Amos enters without flourish.

            Where Sterling St. Clair had entered like a performance, Valentina arrives like a hypothesis waiting to be tested.  She is younger than my mother by several years, though not so young as to be easily dismissed.  Her golden-blonde hair is pinned neatly back, practical and severe in a way that somehow suits her.  A pair of thin-framed spectacles rest low on her nose, and her dress is conservative enough to border on academic.  It is well-made, modest, and entirely without excess.

            She does not look severe; she looks precise and well put together.

            “Duchess Braemar,” she says, dipping into a measured curtsey.  “Lady Beira.”

            Her voice is calm and even, carrying none of St. Clair’s performance and none of Catalina’s sharpened sweetness.  It is the voice of someone accustomed to being listened to only after proving she should be.

            My mother inclines her head.

            “Lady Amos. Thank you for agreeing to meet on such short notice,” she says.

            “Headmistress Ardel implied the matter was worth prioritizing,” Valentina replies, her tone neither warm nor cold, simply factual.

            My mother gestures for her to sit.

            “Then let us not waste each other’s time,” she says before continuing a moment later, “Do you know why you are here?”

            Valentina does not answer immediately.  She sits with careful economy, smoothing one gloved hand over the skirt of her dress before folding both neatly in her lap.

            “Officially?” she asks.

            My mother’s gaze sharpening just slightly.

            “A cautious answer,” she says.

            “A practical one.”  Valentina’s gaze shifts, settling on me for the first time with something more assessing than polite.  It is not rude, not invasive, just… clinical and measuring.

            “Officially,” she says, “I was told that Lady Beira may return to St. Astra’s next term and that, given recent circumstances, Her Grace wished to personally evaluate the woman Headmistress Ardel intends to place in charge of her alchemical instruction.”

             Her eyes flick briefly to my hair, first the pale blue, then to the gold.  Her expression does not change.

             “Unofficially,” she continues, “I assume I am here because something about Lady Beira’s circumstances requires a degree of discretion not ordinarily expected of an academy instructor.”

             Silence settles over the room.

             My mother studies her and Valentina meets the scrutiny without flinching.

             “And what,” my mother asks at last, “led you to that conclusion?”

             “You requested privacy through Headmistress Ardel rather than the academy proper,” Valentina replies evenly.  “You requested me specifically, despite the fact that I have yet to formally assume the position.  You arranged this meeting off campus, in your private residence, and did so before contracts for the coming term have even been finalized.”

             She folds one hand over the other.

             “That suggests this meeting has less to do with curriculum and more to do with confidence,” she concludes, looking my mother in the eyes.

             My mother says nothing, which, somehow, says quite a lot.

             Valentina turns her attention to me again.

             “May I ask a question, Lady Beira?”

             I glance at my mother.

             She gives a single nod.

             “Y-yes.” I answer.

             Valentina adjusts her spectacles with one finger, her expression unreadable.

             “Are you in control of it?” she asks as calmly as one would inquire about the weather.

             The question is so direct that for half a second, I do not realize what she means… then realization hits and I do.  My pulse stutters.

             She knows, or at least suspects enough to ask.

             “Enough,” I answer carefully, keeping my tone measured.

             “That was not my question,” she says, her gaze sharpening.

             My mother does not interrupt which means she wants to see how I answer.

             “N-no,” I say, more honestly this time, straightening in my seat. “Not completely.”

             Valentina is quiet for a moment, then she nods once.

             “Good,” she says.

             “Huh?” I say unable to help myself, while blinking in surprise.

             My mother’s brows lift, only slightly.

             Valentina folds her hands again.

             “Overconfidence in unstable magic is considerably more dangerous than inexperience.”  Her gaze remains on me.  “Inexperience can be corrected.  Arrogance is much harder to teach out of someone.”

             There is a short pause, then my mother breaks the rather tense silence.

             “You don’t seem surprised,” she says, her face expressionless and her voice flat.  When she gets like this, I can see the family resemblance to Maribelle.

             Valentina adjusts her glasses then looks my mother in the eye.

             “I’m honestly quite shocked,” she states before continuing, “but it has been theorized that changing one’s affinity could happen under the correct circumstances.  That said, nobody can agree on what those circumstances are, but there has been a debate in scholastic circles for quite some time on the topic.”

             “My daughter is not to be the subject of any academic papers,” my mother adds quickly, her tone biting.

             “No, I don’t suppose she would be.”  Valentina pushes her glasses back up.  “Considering this meeting is in confidence and I’m good at keeping secrets.”

             “Also, my daughter’s affinity didn’t change per se; she still possesses her original affinity,” my mother says.

             “Dual affinities?” Instructor Amos’s face shows genuine surprise this time.  “My, my, this is shaping up to be quite the interesting meeting…”