“The annual contest.”
Maggie’s father and mother appeared at a balcony that ran the entire circumference of the room and looked down on their congregated guests. “Friends,” her father intoned, “I’m sure those of you who have attended our annual artist’s house party know why we have called you here today.”
A chorus of cheers arose from the room. Maggie groaned.
Maggie’s mother stepped forward and held up a hand to ask for silence. She got it almost immediately. “For those of you who are with us for the first time, today is the day we compete. The prize? Pride!”
“I’ve got that already,” Tobias whispered for Maggie alone. “Can I win something else?”
Maggie smothered her laughter with a cough.
The marchioness continued. “All artists who wish to participate will use the same point of reference, creating a work of their own design and choice inspired by the assigned starting point.”
“Last year,” Maggie’s father said, “it was a rotting tulip, and John Patterson won with the most astounding ode to life and death any of us had ever read.”
The crowd clapped and a young man near the front of the room blushed and bowed.
“I’ve never heard of John Patterson. Am I missing out?”
“The poem was well-composed. The iambic pentameter was not bad. But I did not care for the line about the worm’s bride.”
“Hm. I think that comes from Shakespeare, actually.”
Maggie’s father held up his palms until the congratulations quieted. “This year, the point of inspiration is even more alluring.”
“A rotting tomato?” Tobias asked. “A rotting bale of hay?”
“Shh!” Maggie admonished.
“Oh! A rotting fish. Nothing could be as alluring as a—”
“The point of inspiration,” Maggie’s father said, “is my very own daughter, Lady Magnificent!”
Beside him, Maggie went quite, quite still. Tobias leaned down toward her. “Are you all right?”
She blinked and shook herself out of her trance. “I … oh no.” Her face drained of its usual rosy color. “Yes, I suppose I’m fine, but no, I’m not fine at all. Do you understand?”
He rather thought he did. Because at that moment he was perfectly fine, yet an ominous tingle rippled down his spine and across every inch of his skin. He was being watched. He lifted his head and looked up into at least fifty pairs of eyes, all boring into him and Lady Magnificent, the sole source of inspiration for the house party’s annual competition.
Chapter 12
Maggie had never desired to run away more than she did now with every guest looking at her as if she were a butterfly pinned to a wall. She’d witnessed the very scene before, three years prior, when a performer attending the party had pinned butterflies to a tree as an artistic statement on—oh, she couldn’t remember what. But she’d pitied the poor lifeless beauties, their glorious wings pricked and torn.
She did not want to end up as they had.
Yet every pair of eyes in the room sought her out, most of them blinking at her as if they’d never noticed her before. EveryoneknewLord Waneborough had a daughter, but no one actually eversawher. It was better that way, easier to hide, to discover secrets. Now they would all study her, trying to guess what she kept from everyone’s view. Would they guess she knew about each one of them, their sins and desires?
“Mmm, no thank you.” She dropped a curtsy then ran.
But somehow her mother was by her side, holding her in place. “Will you deny our guests?” her mother said so low only Maggie could hear.
“I rather think I would. What are you up to, Mama?”
“Nothing, darling. Please do play along. You’ve seemed so down lately. I thought you might enjoy this. It’s not every woman who gets to command the eye of every master artist in the room.”
“I don’t want to, Mama.”
Her mother blinked rapidly. “But it’s what you were born for, darling! Since birth you’ve been a glorious light. A source of inspiration! Share that with the world!”
