Lady Berinthia sat on the window-seat in Saccharissa’s drawing-room one warm afternoon, trying not to think about the future. There was a book in her hands, and on a daybed behind her the Marchioness was dozing with her mouth open. The room smelt of peonies and beeswax, and the lowered blinds glowed mustard-yellow. From outside in the court there came the sound of young Maids of Honour laughing, but otherwise all was quiet. Tonight, there would be two strenuous parties for the Marchioness and her protégée to attend. It had taken Berinthia some time to realise that in spite of Saccharissa’s most pointed invitation to spend a season with her at Castle West, her marriage to Meriel was not a settled thing. Brought up in the discreet and formal traditions of the Island Palace, she had supposed that when the Marchioness wrote that her son was in need of youthful companionship and that she hoped he and Berinthia would become fast friends, it was simply a light-hearted Westmarch way of saying that marriage settlements had already been drawn up.
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