By nine the following morning, the patrons were beginning their departures from Magnalia. The footmen started to ascend the stairs, gathering each girl’s cedar chest and packing it away in the coach of her new patron. I stood amid the flurry in the sunlight of the courtyard and watched, waiting with my basket of poetry booklets. By then, it was no secret that I had not been chosen. And each of my sisters had reacted in the same manner during breakfast. They had hugged me with sympathy, reassured me that the Dowager would find me the perfect patron.
As soon as breakfast was cleared away, I retreated outside, knowing that my arden-sisters were about to receive their cloaks. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them officially gain impassionment; I merely thought it best if I was not there. I did not want to be the awkward observer when Cartier gave Ciri her cloak.
Sweat was beginning to dampen my dress by the time I heard Ciri’s voice. She was descending the front stairwell, her pale blond hair tamed in a braided crown. At her back fluttered a blue cloak, a color for midsummer days. She and I came together without words; we didn’t truly need them, and when I smiled she turned about, so I could see the constellation Cartier had chosen for her.
“Yvette’s Bow,” I murmured, admiring the silver threads. “It suits you, Ciri.”
Ciri spun back around and gave me a toothless smile, her cheeks flushed. “I only wish that I could see what he picks for you.” And there was no longer spite in her voice, no envy, although I heard the words she didn’t say. Master Cartier did favor me, and we both knew it.
“Ah, well, perhaps when we meet again,” I said.
I gave her the book of poetry, which made her eyes alight. And then she gave me a beautiful writing quill, which swarmed me with a sad pleasure.
“Good-bye, Brienna,” Ciri whispered.
We embraced, and then I watched her walk to Monique Lavoie’s coach.
I bid farewell to Sibylle and Abree next, who both gave me bracelets as their departing gifts as I admired their cloaks.
Sibylle’s green cloak had the stitched emblem of a spade, for wits adorned their cloaks with one of the four suits according to their strengths: hearts for humor, spades for persuasion, diamonds for elegance, clubs for opposition. So Mistress Therese had given Sibylle a spade, and I had to confess it suited my sister very well.
Abree’s black cloak had a golden crescent moon nestled in the sun—the dramatics’ crest—stitched over the center. But I also noticed that Master Xavier had sewn pieces of her past costumes along the trim of her cloak, to commemorate the roles that had gotten her to this moment. So it was like beholding a sumptuous story of colors and threads and textures. Perfect for my Abree.
Oriana emerged next for the farewell. Her red cloak was extremely detailed and personalized; all passions of art had a bold A stitched to the backs of their cloaks, which commemorated Agathe, the first passion of art. But a master or mistress of art would then design something to be stitched within that A, and Mistress Solene had outdone herself. For Oriana, Solene had designed the story of a girl ruling an underwater kingdom, complete with sunken ships and treasure. It glistened in silver thread as I gazed at it in awe, honestly not knowing what to say.
“I have a gift for you,” Oriana said, shyly withdrawing a sheet of paper from the portfolio she carried. She set the parchment in my hands. It was the portrait she had drawn of me, illuminating my Maevan heritage.
“But Ori, I thought this was for you.”
“I made a copy. I felt like you should have one.” And then to my surprise, she pulled out yet another sheet. “I also want you to have this.” The caricature of Cartier she had drawn years ago, the one of him emerging from rock when we all thought him mean.
I started to laugh, until I questioned why she was presenting this to me. “Why not give this to Ciri?”
Oriana grinned. “I think it would fare better in your hands.”
Saint LeGrand, was it that obvious? But I had no time to ask her further about it, because her patron was waiting for her in the coach. I slipped the poetry into her hands and watched her leave, my heart trembling as the weight of these good-byes spread an ache in my bones.
Patrice Linville’s coach was the only one remaining in the courtyard. I set Oriana’s drawings into my basket and turned to the front doors, to the stairs, where Merei stood waiting for me, a glorious purple cloak fastened about her collar.
She was weeping by the time she reached the final stair, as she rushed to meet me on the cobblestones.
“Don’t cry!” I fussed, folding her into an embrace. My hands tangled with her passion cloak, and if I hadn’t already emptied myself the night before, I would have wept again.
“What am I doing, Bri?” she whispered, dashing the tears from her cheeks.
“You are going to see and play for the realm, sister,” I said, tucking a curl of her dark hair away from her eyes. “For you are a passion of music, Mistress Merei.”
She laughed, because it was so odd to know she now had a title fastened to her name. “I wish you could write to me, but I . . . I do not think I shall be in one place for too long.”
“You should, of course, write to me from wherever you are, and perhaps I can get Francis to track you down with my letters.”
She drew in a deep breath, and I knew she was calming her heart, girding herself for this next phase. “Here, this is your song. In case you would like to hear it played by another.” Merei handed me a roll of music, bound by a ribbon.
I accepted it, although it hurt to imagine another instrument, another set of hands, playing this song that she had borne. That was when I felt the fissure in my heart. A shadow was creeping up my back, making me shiver in broad daylight, because this farewell might mark something everlasting.
I might never see her again.
“Let me see your cloak,” I said, my voice thick.
She turned.
There was music stitched upon the violet fabric, a song Mistress Evelina had written just for Merei. I let my fingertip trace the notes—some of them I remembered; some were now a mystery.
“It is lovely, Mer.”
She spun back around and said, “I shall play it for you, when you come to visit me on the island.”
I smiled, taking hold of the fragile hope she extended of future visits and music. Let me believe such, I thought, if only to get me through this farewell.
“I think Patrice Linville is ready for you,” I whispered, feeling his eyes on us.
I walked her to the coach, to her new patron, a middle-aged man with thistledown hair and a charming smile. He greeted us both and offered his hand to help Merei up into the open coach.
She settled on the bench across from Patrice, her eyes finding mine. Even as the coach began to clatter over the stones, she watched me as I watched her. I stood in the courtyard, as if my feet had grown roots, and watched until I could no longer see her beneath the shadows of the oaks, until she truly was gone.
I should return to the house. Acclimate myself with how quiet it now would be, how bare, how lonely. I should go back and flood myself with books and studies, with anything to keep me distracted.
I walked to the stairs, hollowly looked up at the front doors. They still sat open; I could hear the murmuring of voices—the Dowager and the arials debriefing, no doubt. And I suddenly could not bear to be enclosed within walls.
I couldn’t even bear to hold my basket any longer.
I set it on the stairs and walked, walked until I craved to go faster, and then I ran deep into the gardens. I tore open my collar, too impatient to fuss with the buttons, and then decided to also rip the buttons from my sleeves, forcing the ugly gray fabric up my forearms.
I finally came to a stop at the farthest acre, deep in the maze of hedges, where the roses bloomed wild and bright, and there I surrendered wholly to the grass, lying down on the damp earth. But I still wasn’t satisfied, so I conceded to yank off my boots and my stockings and pull my dress up to my knees.
I was watching the clouds, listening to the quiet murmur of the bees, the rustling wings of the birds, when I heard him.
“She walks with grace upon the clouds, and the stars know her by name.”
I should have been flustered. Here my master had found me, boots and stockings gone, my legs revealed, my collar broken and my dress muddied. And he had just recited the poem that I loved best. But I felt nothing. And I did not even acknowledge him until he had done the impossible and lain down beside me on the grass.
“You will get muddy, Master.”
“It has been far too long since I have lain on the grass and watched clouds.”
I still had not looked at him, but he was near enough to me that I could smell the spice of his aftershave. We lay in the quiet for a while, both of our eyes to the sky. I wanted to put some distance between us, let a wide expanse of grass grow betwixt our shoulders, and I wanted to draw close to him, to let my fingers rush over him as his had done to me. How was it that I could want two conflicting things at once? How was it that I did neither of them but remained, unmoving, breathing, captive in my own body?
“Did the Dowager tell you?” I eventually asked, when the desires became so entangled that I needed to speak to loosen them.
Cartier took his time responding. For a moment, I thought he had not heard me. But he finally said, “About you staying on for the summer? Yes.”
I wanted to know what he thought about the arrangement. But the words caught in my throat, and so I remained quiet, my fingers weaving through the grass.
“It eases my mind, knowing you will be here,” he said. “We do not need to rush. The right patron will come in time, when you are ready.”
I sighed, time no longer hastening about me but stalling, moving slow as honey in winter.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “you should resume your studies, keep your mind sharp. I will not be here to guide you, but I have faith that you will continue to master on your own.”
I tilted my chin so I could look at him, my hair spreading out around me. “You will not be here?” Of course, I knew this. All the arials left for the summer after a passion cycle, to vacation after seven solid years of teaching. It was only right to let him go and relax, go and enjoy himself.
He angled his face to meet my gaze. A hint of a smile was on his lips when he said, “No, I will be away. But I have already told the Dowager to alert me as soon as she finds your patron. I want to be here when you meet them.”
And I wanted to exclaim that I would never get a patron. That I should never have been accepted to Magnalia. But it was the grief that wanted my voice, and I would not give it power to speak. Not when Cartier had given so much to me.
“That is kind . . . that you would want to be here,” I said, casting my eyes back to the clouds.
“Kind?” he snorted. “Saints, Brienna. You realize that I wouldn’t dare let you leave with a patron I have not met face-to-face?”
I glanced back to him, wide-eyed. “And why is that?”
“Must I answer that?”
A cloud passed over the sun, covering us with gray, drinking away the light. I decided I had lain here long enough and rose to my feet, brushing clumps of grass off my skirts. I didn’t even bother with my shoes and stockings; I left them and began to walk, choosing the first path that opened to me.
Cartier was quick on my heels, drawing close to my side. “Will you walk with me, please?”
I slowed, inviting him to adjust to my pace. We took two turns in the path, the sunlight returning with vengeful humidity, before he spoke again.
“I desire to be here to meet your patron because I care about you, and I want to know where your passion leads you.” He glanced at me; I kept my eyes ahead, afraid to yield to that gaze of his. But my heart was like a wild creature inside of me, desperate to escape its cage of bone and flesh. “But also, and perhaps more important, so I can give you your cloak.”
I swallowed. So he was not going to give it to me yet. Part of me had hoped that he would. Part of me had known that he wouldn’t.
The thought of my cloak came about me as gossamer, and I stopped in the grass, trapped in a web of my own making.
“I cannot help but tell you, Brienna,” he murmured to me, “that your cloak is made and is tucked away in my satchel at the house, waiting for when you are ready for this next step.”
I looked up at him. He wasn’t much taller than me, but in that moment, I felt hopelessly small and fragile.
I would not be impassioned until I received my cloak. I would not receive my cloak until I gained a patron. I would not gain a patron unless the Dowager actually found one who saw my value.
My thoughts fell into this downward spiral and I forced myself to keep walking, if only to give me something to do. He followed, as I knew he would.
“Where will you go this summer?” I asked, eager to move on to a different topic. “Will you visit any family?”
“I plan to go to Delaroche. And no, I do not have any family.”
His words made me pause. Never had I imagined that Cartier was alone, that he did not have parents who fawned over him, that he did not have brothers or sisters who loved him.
I met his gaze, my hand moving to my neck, to the broken collar of my dress. “I am sorry to hear that, Master.”
“I was raised by my father,” he said, opening his past to me as if he were a book, as if he—at last—wanted me to read him. “And my father was very good to me, even though he was a grieving man. He lost my mother and my sister when I was very young, so young I don’t remember them. When I turned eleven, I began to beg my father to let me passion in knowledge. Well, he did not like the thought of sending me off to a House, away from him, so he hired one of the finest passions of knowledge to teach me privately. After seven years, when I turned eighteen, I became impassioned.”
“Your father must have been so proud,” I whispered.
“He died, just before I could show him my cloak.”
It took everything within me not to reach out to him, to take his hand and lace my fingers with his, to comfort him. But my spine remained locked in place, my status still a student beneath his mastery, and to touch him would only unfetter the longings we both felt. “Master Cartier . . . I am so sorry.”
“You are kind, Brienna. Saints know I have grown up quickly, yet I was saved from much. And I found a home here at Magnalia.”
We stood together in the quiet incandescence of morning, a time made for new beginnings, a time spun between youth and maturity. I could have stood with him for hours, hidden among green living things, sheltered by clouds and sun, speaking of the past.
“Come, we should return to the house,” he said softly.
I fell into step beside him. We walked back around to the front courtyard, where I saw in horror that the caricature of him was sitting upright in my basket. I rushed to turn it over as I looped the basket on my arm, praying he did not see it as we ascended the stairs into the quiet foyer.
His leather satchel sat on the entry bench, and I tried not to look at it, knowing my cloak was tucked within, as he took the bag into his hands.
“I have a gift for you,” I said, reaching beneath the parchment to find the last poetry booklet in my basket. “You probably do not remember, but one of the first lessons you gave me was on poetry, and we read this one poem that I loved. . . .”
“I remember,” Cartier said, accepting the booklet. He leafed through the pages, and I watched as he silently read one of the poems, pleasure flickering over his expression as sun over water. “Thank you, Brienna.”
“I know it is a simple gift,” I stammered, feeling as if I had removed a layer of clothing, “but I thought you would like it.”
He smiled as he slipped it into his satchel. “And I have something for you.” He brought forth a small box, letting it rest in the hollow of his palm.
I took the box and slowly eased it open. A silver pendant with a long chain sat on a square of red velvet. And as I examined it closer, I saw that a Corogan flower was carved into the pendant, a silver drop of Maevan whimsy to rest against one’s heart. I smiled as my thumb traced the delicate etching.
“It’s lovely. Thank you.” I shut the box, unsure of where to look.
“You can write to me, if you want,” he said, smoothing over the awkwardness we both felt. “To let me know how your studies fare over the summer.”
I met his gaze, a smile quirking the corner of my mouth. “You can write to me as well, Master. To make sure I am not dwindling in my studies.”
He gave me a wry look, one that made me wonder what he was thinking, as he slipped his satchel over his shoulder. “Very good. I will be awaiting word from Madame.”
I watched him step into the flood of morning, his passion cloak snapping behind him as he departed. I could not believe he had left so swiftly—he was worse at good-byes than I was!—and I hurried to the threshold.
“Master Cartier!”
He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned to look at me. I leaned on the door frame, the small pendant box clutched in my fingers.
“Your books! They are still upstairs on my shelf.”
“Keep them, Brienna. I have far too many as it is, and you will need to start your own collection.” He smiled; I lost my thread of thought, until I realized he was about to spin around and continue on.
“Thank you.”
It felt far too simple for what he had given me. But I could not allow him to leave without hearing it from my lips. Because I felt that fissure again, a cleaving of my heart. It was an admonition, as I had felt saying good-bye to Merei, a warning that I may never see him again.
He did not speak, but he bowed. And then he was gone, like the rest of them.