The man warning her away from what Rowen might offer.

Jordan sighed. “I will make the appropriate choice if and when it is offered.”

“That’s my girl,” Lord Astraea proclaimed, dropping his hands to her arms. “You will make a fine match. To a fine fellow.” He leaned in and kissed her, his whiskers tickling her cheek so she smiled. “Now go, have a wondrous time!”

Rowen stood statue still, hand yet extended waiting for her.

With a swallow, she got her racing heart under control.

“My lady,” Rowen whispered, his eyes snaring hers as he caught and raised her hand, his lips skimming the top of her knuckles. A tremble ran the length of her arm.

Her dress was too tight—it was obviously cutting off circulation to her arm and causing it to shake.

“Don’t you look dashing,” Catrina said, raising her hand for Rowen.

He released Jordan’s hand long enough to pick up Catrina’s, give it a cursory kiss, and drop it again to retrieve Jordan’s. “Come, my lady,” he said, guiding her past his parents, her parents, and many of the gathering guests.

Catrina trailed behind them.

Everyone had arrived as expected. Although the Astraeas were Fifth of the Nine, their parties were touted in the papers as events to be seen at. The entertainment was always first-rate as no expense was spared.

If you weren’t known for your rank, you had to be known for something. The Astraeas chose to be known for their hospitality.

Jordan, knowing her limitations, chose to be known for her beauty.

Such as it was.

Both seemed to work in the family’s favor, lower-ranked guests curtseying to Jordan and Rowen as they passed by and offering hearty compliments on her hair, her visage, her grace … as higher-ranked guests inclined their heads ever so slightly and murmured quiet words of praise for what promised once again to be a memorable event.

“So how long have you been here?” Jordan asked, adjusting her arm to drape more comfortably across Rowen’s. It was not hard to be comfortable with Rowen. He was well-shaped enough by the muscles he’d developed fencing, hunting, and horse riding but still a little soft from imbibing on his evenings spent socializing with his fellow gentlemen. Potentially tending toward a slight jowliness like his father, Rowen was still quite pleasant to look upon now.

Jordan tipped up her chin. Considering her well-proportioned features and appropriate bone structure, and respectable rank, she could choose nearly any man of like rank she wanted.

Still, here was Rowen. Already attained. Safe, bright enough for pleasant conversation, and good enough looking to provide her with a suitable escort to events. And—she looked him up and down from beneath her eyelashes—the man knew how to dress. If nothing else could be said of Rowen, he at least cut a sharp figure in trousers, vest, and coat.

Catrina cleared her throat.

“Oh. Yes, Catrina made a gift of this dress for me.”

Rowen raised his eyes to Catrina for a moment. “It’s lovely. French lace and metallic thread from the Orient, yes?”

“You’re so perceptive, Rowen.”

His eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Catrina.”

A seventeenth birthday celebration was one of the sweetest events of a young person’s life, so sweets were showcased in quiet recognition of a person’s escape from a most ominous possibility—that of being a Witch. And their caterer, an ex-slave named Thomas Dorsey, had proven to the Philadelphia elite that events he catered were quite sweet!

A fountain burbling with wine stood in the center of the main hall so guests coming in could quickly imbibe the intoxicant of choice. On a central table jumbles smelling of lemon were stacked beside a jiggling velvet cream molded in the shape of the old Independence Bell. Small chocolate custards topped with Caledonian cream peeked out of porcelain dishes, ladyfingers lined a silver tray, and dainty French cakes sporting tiny spots of champagne jelly vied for guests’ attention among German puffs and gold and silver puddings aplenty.

Not far beyond the buffet of delicacies stood several young gentlemen (some Rowen’s friends) who called on Jordan occasionally. Rowen guided her away from them, smirking. Also nearby were cages filled with all manner of exotic bird and beast, making for a colorful menagerie.

Closer, though, someone glimmered in the light beneath the main chandelier, and Jordan could not help but stare.

Catrina leaned in, whispering, “Well that is a bold fashion statement! Who does he think he is—a cast-off of some distant maharajah?” Tiny cut crystals wound round the young man’s throat and wrists, creating twisting streams of softly glowing purple light, the shimmering ensemble finished off with a subtle (if one might call such a thing subtle) circlet of gold holding one last, larger crystal between his dramatic brows and raven-dark hair.

Jordan glanced from her best friend to the boy she had always adored—the boy everyone adored. The black sheep of his conservative family, Micah Vanmoer dressed in the clothes of a mourner and had poetic and musical leanings of a nearly riotous sort, and that was precisely what Jordan adored most about him. Micah was a younger (sober) Edgar Allan Poe.

While she was often mute, young Micah was an orator of the most expressive sort. If his new choice in adornment was yet another reflection of his personal taste, then more power to him.

Rowen watched her reaction before clearing his throat and patting the hand she rested on his arm. “Let us go greet our friend, Micah.” He led her so it appeared it was not she who made the choice to support the boy, but Rowen.

Jordan smiled at Rowen, knowing somewhere her father let loose a sigh of disappointment.

Their conversation was brief and oddly stilted considering Micah’s normal verbosity, and he apologized, saying, “I fell ill recently and still have not returned to rights.” As the trio turned from the boy to mingle with others, Jordan noticed that if Micah glimmered with jewels then Lady Liradean dazzled as if she were constructed only of light. It must be a growing trend, Jordan supposed, noting several other guests sporting jewels.

“She glows like an angel,” Jordan murmured, her mouth close to Rowen’s shoulder.

Catrina overheard and sniffled in contempt. “If she appears to you an angel, I daresay all Heaven is far gaudier than ever I expected.”

Jordan’s brows knitted together at the assessment. Rowen bent so his face was between the two girls’ faces.

“Should not all angels sparkle beyond mortal means? If Jordan judges her to be angelic, I second the notion, for there is no lady here closer to heavenly than our own Jordan Astraea.”

The words were a clear challenge to Catrina’s attitude. And her social standing. Yet, uttered by Rowen, they were a challenge she chose not to accept.

Instead Catrina sniffled again, her gaze locking with Rowen’s as she muttered, “Too true,” an instant before looking away.

Men of the highest ranks mingled nearby, chattering on about things they felt important. Whereas they often frequented the city’s coffeehouses for stimulants and stimulating conversations, on evenings of social occasions they brought their debates along, regardless of the beverage lubricating conversation.

“I do so wish they would overlap the timing of the Pulse. We are the Athens of the Western world,” Lord Liradean said. “How truly difficult is it to be a Weather Witch? Are you not essentially kept by our own good government, your needs supplied for, food, clothes, and shelter never a worry? Considering such things you might assume they could overlap so that there is no stutter of power associated with the Pulse.”

“True, true,” his companions muttered, nodding.

“Have you seen a Weather Witch, Lord Liradean?” Micah’s voice cut through the amiable conversation like a knife.

Lord Liradean sputtered into his wine glass. “I daresay not,” he answered tersely. “It is not my place to deal with such a class of characters. Of this one can be certain—they are far better treated now than their forbears in Salem village.”

“Do they even have a class,” Micah wondered aloud, “or do we strip them of that as well as rank when they are declared a Witch?”

“You, lad, do nothing related to them either,” Lord Liradean’s voice rang out, “and nothing related to anything else of any true value to society from what I can tell.”

Micah raised and lowered one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I merely suggest, gentlemen, that we know of what we speak before speaking.”

“And where would the fun be in that, Micah?” Rowen challenged. “I daresay”—he briefly adopted Liradean’s tone and timbre—“that adopting such a suggestion as the rule would lead to the quietest parties upon the Hill.” He winked at the blustering Liradean and dropped Jordan’s hand to grab Micah and steer him from the muddle of older men in a joking fashion that left the group chuckling.

“You seem to be recovering your old self now, but you, dear Micah,” Rowen whispered, “must needs learn who to encourage into thinking new thoughts and who has never had a thought in his head.”

Micah nodded. “Are you then of the opinion that one cannot teach an old dog new tricks?”

“More strongly of the opinion that one should let sleeping dogs lie. Because that is all politicians do anyhow. Lie.”

“True, true. Perhaps I should sit and relax. I feel a bit off,” Micah mentioned. “Even my complexion's coloring seems off of late.”

Rowen nodded while behind them Lord Liradean continued to bluster, “And that boy Rowen of yours, Burchette, when is he due for service?”