Nolan’s voice was low and just a little admiring. “Kitrini Candachi,” he replied.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The last thing in the world that Kit wanted to do—literally the last, coming even after walking naked through the Complex during the noon lunch break—was attend some awful party at Corzehia Mallin’s. She had declined the invitation when Sereva first asked her to go and declined again when her grandmother made it clear that she would like Kit to attend the event. It was only Sereva’s flare of anger, two days before the party, that made Kit grudgingly change her mind.

“Do you suppose it costs Granmama nothing to keep you beside her, odd and disgraced? Do you realize how many women just like her would have refused to take you in when you returned to the city? You may despise her way of life, you may scorn everything she believes in, but you owe her something, after all. It would please her to see you make the smallest effort to take your rightful place in society. Would it hurt you so much to attend one party? Would it kill you to smile and make polite conversation? She’s an old lady, Kit. How would it compromise you to try to make her happy?”

And there was no good response to that argument for, put in human rather than sociological terms, Kit’s refusal was nothing but rude. She suspected that Sereva and her grandmother had secondary motives for getting her out of the house, as well, hoping that a little activity would nudge her from her depression. She had tried to conceal her low spirits. She had been gracious and responsive when anyone spoke to her, and she had even managed to initiate a conversation or two on her own. They were not deceived, of course. She was heartbroken, and that was something it was impossible to hide. But their manners forbade them to comment.

She had not seen Jex, would not see Jex, had not been importuned by Jex. The world was over. She might as well go to this wretched ball.

Sereva and Granmama had tertiary motives as well for sending her to Corzehia’s party, Kit realized later. Unattached indigo males were rare in the Higher Hundred—most were paired off before they were twenty—but there were still a few decent matches to be made, to third and fourth sons, widowers, and recalcitrant young bachelors who had for some reason ruptured their engagements and were living defiantly on their own. Of the three categories, Kit was sure she would prefer someone from the third. No well-bred, well-mannered, compliant, bloodless blueskin boy would do for her.