Next to her, Anthora and her fairlove were engaged in picking out acquaintances in the crowd—against all Festival propriety, of course. Nova sighed and leaned over.

“May I offer either of you wine?”

“Both,” said Anthora gaily, she smiled at her companion, who was clearly besotted already. “I’ll have red, please.”

“And I, canary, Lady. Thanking you…”

Anthora gripped Nova’s hand. “Two more,” she whispered urgently. “is it red and red? Pat Rin and Lady Kareen are here.”

“What?” Nova turned, immediately locating the exquisite Pat Rin, painstakingly conducting his mother across the tiers.

“Damn,” Nova muttered and Anthora laughed.

Pat Rin’s bow, delivered moments later, was an intriguing concoction of restraint, kinship and tentative coolness.

“cousins,” he said formally. “A good day to you both. My honored mother wishes to view the race and wonders if she might presume to the extent of begging two seats.”

What was this? Nova smiled graciously and inclined her head.

“Please do sit, both. There is wine. You prefer red, I think, kinsman? Cousin?”

This was acknowledged with cool thanks; seats were taken. Lady Kareen leaned to Nova.

“Will you have the goodness, Cousin, to point out Korval’s craft when it appears? One wishes to keep it in one’s eye.”

“Yes, certainly.” Nova sipped wine to cover her confusion. “You know, of course, Cousin, that there is no possibility of halting the race—or of withdrawing Korval’s entry, assuming it has qualified?”

“Of course,” said Lady Kareen placidly. “I have seen my nephew and his brother. My error has been shown me,” her lips twitched, “with meticulous correctness, one seeks to behave with propriety.” She sipped. “What is the name of the craft, please, Cousin?”

“Araceli. It should be quite easy to mark. My youngest brother wears his cloak.”