By the time we reached our lodging, it was late afternoon. Our temporary home in Adoria was a house called Wisteria Hollow. It seemed small and plain after the venerable Blue Spring, but I was told that by Adorian standards, it was a grand residence. It boasted a rare three floors and had real glass windows, which were also uncommon in Adoria. The land had mostly been cleared around it, but a few apple trees grew prettily near the front door, as well as the wisteria that gave the place its name. The wisteria vines were brown, and the buds on the apple trees were barely discernible, unlike the fuller ones back in Osfrid. Adoria’s more severe climate brought a slightly later spring.

Warmth hit us inside the house, and we were finally offered blankets and cloaks to shake off the cold. A middle-aged woman with tightly bound dark hair and a pointed chin waited in the foyer, along with a well-dressed older man in spectacles. He embraced Jasper and Cedric, and I realized this must be Charles Thorn. He beamed at all of us until Jasper murmured something in his ear. Charles paled, and I realized he was learning about the Gray Gull.

“This is a tragedy beyond words,” he said.

Jasper nodded but then shared his earlier revelation. “Indeed. It will increase the demand for this group.”

Cedric shot his father a withering look and then turned to Charles. “Uncle, we told the girls they could have some time before beginning their social season.”

“Yes, yes, certainly,” said Charles, nodding his head. “My poor jewels—of course you must recover. But then you will have such fun once the season begins! Your promenade was only a taste of the delights to come.”

Mira and I exchanged glances at that. Charles had seemed totally sincere. He might be more kindhearted than his brother, but he was also obviously more naïve about the glamorous lives we lived. I could understand why Jasper was the dominant force in this business.

“This is Mistress Culpepper,” said Miss Bradley, nodding to the woman with the pointed chin. This felt vaguely like my arrival at Blue Spring.

Mistress Culpepper looked us over with a critical eye. “No doubt many of you think the New World is a looser place, where you will be allowed to run wild. But not while I am in charge of this house. You will follow all rules I set and adhere to their every detail. There will be no inappropriate or uncouth behavior under my roof.”

I stared. Had she never seen the procession by the docks? Did she really think we were the ones who might be uncouth?

The Thorns and a few of the hired men had lodging in a downstairs wing. Our rooms were on the upper floors. We would’ve normally been placed three or four to a room, but with our numbers reduced, we were being roomed in twos. I was grateful I’d have privacy with Mira, but it only served as another slap in the face about Tamsin’s fate.

“Change and rest,” Charles told us cheerily. “We’ll have supper soon and then help you prepare for the social season to come. Then, my jewels, the real fun will begin.”

Chapter 13

I don’t know if it was Jasper’s intent or not, but our mourning period ended up being a good business move.

Our disappearance after that initial procession drove our prospective suitors into a frenzy. They’d seen us once and wanted to see more. Jasper, realizing the advantage this presented, became enigmatic about when our ball season would begin. Our mystique increased, and messengers constantly came on behalf of their masters, looking for more information. And soon, the masters themselves began to arrive.

I was one of the most despondent over the Gray Gull’s loss, but even I couldn’t keep my curiosity at bay. The Thorns had a private office downstairs but would meet prospective clients in a luxury sitting room with a high ceiling that was open on one side to a walkway above. Here, we could crouch in the shadows behind a slatted railing and covertly observe the goings-on below. With no other contact with the outside world, aside from outlandish stories about pirates and Icori that our guards carried to us, this became grand entertainment for us. I welcomed the distractions, though they could never keep Tamsin far from my thoughts.

Some of the suitors came with general inquiries, and the Thorns slipped into their best sales modes to suggest possible matches to these suitors. Cedric was excellent at this, and not even Jasper could fault him. I was reminded of the Cedric from our first meeting, rather than the troubled religious dissident I’d come to know.

“Well, Mister Collins, a magistrate like you needs to be especially mindful of the kind of wife he chooses,” Cedric said to an inquiring gentleman one day. Several of us were crowded above, trying to get a good view. A magistrate was of particular interest to us.

“I’ve put it off,” the man admitted. He seemed to be older than us, mid-thirties if I had to guess. Cedric was handling the meeting alone, as was common. “I had been in talks with Harold Stone about his daughter, but then you arrived.”

“I know of Mister Stone,” Cedric said. “Good man, from what I hear. Successful farm, right? And I’m guessing his daughter is a pleasant, respectable girl, raised and educated at home with good values.”

“Yes . . .” Mister Collins spoke warily, uncertain of where Cedric was leading.

“But is a pleasant farmer’s daughter really going to help get you where you need to go?”

“What . . . what do you mean?” asked Mister Collins.

Cedric gestured grandly. “Look at you. You’re a man in your prime, your career still rising. Is magistrate the most you want to achieve? There are almost certainly higher posts in the government that you’d be in the running for—in Denham and in some of the other fledgling colonies where they need capable men the most. A man hoping to rise needs to stand out. He needs every advantage he can get—including his choice of wife.”

Mister Collins fell silent for several moments. “And you have someone in mind who would be suitable for this?”

Cedric’s back was to me, but I could picture his winning smile. “I have several.” He picked up a stack of papers and rifled through them. “Why, there’s Sylvia, a petite brunette who charms everyone she knows. Received very high marks in social planning—exactly who you’d want to arrange dinners and parties to impress your friends. And then we’ve got Rosamunde. Golden blonde hair. Excellent knowledge of history and political affairs. She can hold her own in any conversation with the elite classes—in a genteel, ladylike way, of course.”

Sylvia and Rosamunde, sitting near me, leaned forward eagerly.

“I do like blondes,” said Mister Collins grudgingly. “Is she pretty?”

“Mister Collins, I assure you, they’re all pretty. Beautiful. Stunning. Men are still reeling from the day they arrived in Cape Triumph.”

“I wasn’t there . . . but I’ve heard the stories.” Mister Collins took a deep breath. “How much would someone like this Rosamunde cost?”

“Well,” said Cedric, again going through the papers. I knew it was for show. He had all of our dossiers memorized and tended to make recommendations based on which girls simply hadn’t been pitched to prospective clients, in an effort to give us all exposure. I had yet to be suggested. “Her starting price would be two hundred gold dollars.”

“Two hundred!” exclaimed Mister Collins. “She’d cost two hundred gold?”