"Invitations. Sergeant Gorse didn't get one. Or Sergeants Covet, Biersley, Dogwood, Ellis, and Slays. They're all outside-they were sure you'd meant to invite them-but little Sarajane at the door wouldn't let them in, or call you."
"But of course they're invited," Primula said. "Though I did think that tropical fruit surprise trick wasn't funny. Now who was it, who should have had their names…?" She closed her eyes, evidently trying to remember. Mirabel touched her arm.
"Thing is, they're out there in the cold now. Don't you want to let them in?"
"Oh. Of course." She bustled away. Mirabel let the shawl drop again and looked around for people she knew. An eye-patched pirate with a red beard and moustache appeared in front of her, his visible eye twinkling.
"My dear, I am tempted to live up to my costume and carry you away into tropical captivity-you are delectable."
She didn't recognize his accent, or his face, but what did that matter? "Sirrah, I fear you admire only my jewels, and not my face-"
"T'would be useless to deny the beauty of your jewels, but you-" His eye raked her up and down, and his hand stroked his moustache. "You are the pearl beyond price, compared to which your emeralds are mere baubles of colored glass."
Mirabel blinked. With that glib tongue, he ought to be a horse trader, but she knew all the horse traders in town. "I fear, sir, I know you not."
"I'm Harald Redbeard," he said.
"I wrote your invitation," Mirabel said. "I've been wondering who you are. Shall we dance?"
"With a will," he said, and offered his arm.
In the course of the first two dances, Mirabel discovered that Harald suited her perfectly as a dance partner. Tireless, nimble, quick-witted, familiar with all the standard dance patterns and variations… and with unflagging appreciation of her charms, which he described in terms that made her fantasize about the latter half of the ball.
She would happily have danced more with Harald Redbeard, but Nuttin Broadaxe tapped her firmly on the shoulder at the end of the second, and she remembered that she'd promised him a dance last week.
"Excuse me," she said, giving Harald a last squeeze of the hand and significant glance from under her lashes. He bowed.
Nutty was, after Harald, a letdown. A competent enough dancer, he felt no obligation to flatter someone he already knew beyond, "Gosh, Mirabel, this dress doesn't have any back at all!" and "Good thing that necklace isn't real; some thief would have it off you in no time." Instead, he regaled her with a description of the Queen's emerald necklace: "a lot like that paste thing you're wearing, actually, but of course hers is real." The last thing Mirabel wanted to hear about was the Queen; the Queen didn't like women soldiers in general, and Mirabel in particular.
Mirabel parted from Nutty at the end of that dance, pleading a need for something to drink, and went in search of Harald. Before she was halfway to the drinks table, Primula had caught her by the arm. "Mirabel, didn't you have Sergeant Gorse in your list of names?"
It took a moment to think what Primula was talking about, and then she shook her head. "No-I'd have remembered. At least half mine were people I'd never heard of."
"Oh." Primula let go and wandered off. Mirabel made her way to the drinks table, handed in her chit for a free drink, and spotted the chancellor, Sophora Segundiflora, chatting with two ministers of state, and a banker. Mirabel edged that way, keeping an eye out for Harald.
"Mirabel… what a lovely gown," Sophora said. "And necklace, too. So like the Queen's, did you know that?" Her voice had the slightest edge.
"No… it's borrowed."
"Ah. I'm glad you didn't wear it just to annoy her. It's amazingly good-it hardly looks like paste at all."
No one ignored Sophora's hints. "Do you think I should take it off?"
"Perhaps-oh, dear." Sophora looked past Mirabel and then murmured, very fast. "It's too late, be sure you tell her it's a cheap imitation and that you borrowed it." Then, in her usual ringing tone, "Good evening, Your Majesties. What an honor to have you at the ball."
Mirabel turned. The Queen's face squinched up as she recognized Mirabel-then paled in fury as she recognized the necklace.
"Where did you get that!?" the Queen demanded. "What are you playing at?"
Mirabel looked at the Queen's necklace-as like her borrowed one as if it were spell-doubled, except that the emeralds seemed somehow diluted of their rich green color. Perhaps that was because of the taupe gown the Queen wore, perhaps the colors cancelled out or something. "I'm-I'm sorry, Your Majesty," she said, attempting a curtsey. "I just borrowed this-I didn't know-"
"Borrowed! From whom, may I ask?"
"A-a friend." Instinct, racing ahead of thought, warned her not to give a name. "A-a dancer. It's only paste, Your Majesty, and I didn't know it was a copy of yours-"
"A likely story," the Queen sniffed. She turned to the King. "You promised me mine was unique. No other like it, you said, an exclusive design. And now I see it around the neck of a muscle-bound swordswoman who got it from some bawd. What do you say to that, eh? I demand that you take this up with the Royal Jeweler; if he's selling copies on the sly-"
Mirabel glanced at the King, who looked paler than the Queen. He patted the Queen's arm. "It's not like that-" he began.
"Not like what?" the Queen asked. Her brow furrowed. "Did you know about this? Did you intend for me to be humiliated in front of everyone?"
Mirabel edged away from what promised to be a royal spat of epic proportions, and bumped into a large well-muscled man in barbarian costume of fur and leather, who leered straight down her cleavage. She vaguely recalled seeing him with Krystal, but couldn't think of his name.
"You're… stunning," he said, dragging his gaze back up to her face, but only momentarily.
"Who are you?" Mirabel asked.
"Skyver Twoswords," he said.
Another one whose invitation she'd addressed, and wondered about. "You're a friend of Krystal's, aren't you?" she asked.
He gulped, blushed, and said, "Well, sort of. More than, actually."
Mirabel eyed him with more interest. "Sort of?"
"Well, she's… you know… she's different."
Different was not the adjective Mirabel would have chosen. Just then the band struck up "Granny Morely's Wedding," one of her favorite pattern dances, and she smiled at Skyver. "Want to dance?"
"Er… I'm sorry… Krystal told me to stay here."
"Do you always do what Krystal says?" It was on a bright May morning… when Granny Morely came… Her foot tapped the rhythm.
"Well… er… yes. I'm supposed to… "
… With all her friends and relatives… to change her maiden name… Skyver looked glum and embarrassed all at once, and Mirabel didn't want to miss the dance. She looked around for another partner.
"There you are!" Sergeant Gorse said. He beamed at her, not his usual expression. "May I have the honor?"
They set off into the pattern: She had pink ribbons in her hair… she had them on her shoe… and Sergeant Gorse inserted his words where he could. "I wanted to thank you… for getting us in. Some mistake… just as we thought… "
"My pleasure," Mirabel said, ducking under his upraised arm twice for She turned herself about again, as shy maids often do, and caught sight of Krystal in the middle of the next row. She was dancing with Harald, and Mirabel almost tripped to see the same look given to Krystal that he had given to her. Then she shrugged-what did she expect from a smooth-tongued stranger at the ball? She continued the figure with her usual enthusiasm, all the way to And so you see, dear children, was never such a sight, as Gramps and Granny Morely, upon their wedding night, which ended with a whirling embrace.