“Cerwin Trell,” she acknowledged him, and then turned and left him.

Keffria's face was solemn as her daughter approached her. The concern in her eyes didn't change, but she managed a smile as she asked, “Have you had a good time, Malta?”

How to answer that? “It has not been what I expected,” she replied truthfully.

“I don't think anyone's presentation ball is quite what one expects.” She reached for Malta's hand. “I hate to ask this of you, but I think we should leave soon.”

“Leave?” Malta asked in confusion. “But why? There is still the shared meal, the presentation of the gifts-”

“Hush,” Keffria bid her. “Malta, look around you. Tell me what you see.”

She glanced about herself hastily, then perused the room more carefully. In a low voice she asked, “Where have all the Rain Wild Traders gone?”

“I don't know. A number of Bingtown Traders have vanished as well, without any explanation or any farewell. Grandmother and I fear there is some trouble afoot. I went outside for a breath of air, and I smelled smoke. The blockade of the harbor has increased tension in the city. We fear a riot or outbreak of some kind.” Keffria looked slowly about the room. She kept the calm smile on her face as if she discussed the ball with Malta. “We feel we would all be safer at home.”

“But,” Malta began and then fell silent. It was hopeless. All joy and light had gone out of the evening anyway. To stay here would just extend the death throes of her dream. “I shall do as you think best,” she abruptly conceded. “I suppose I should tell Delo farewell.”

“I think her mother already took her home. I saw Trader Trell speaking to his son just a moment ago, and now I do not see Cerwin either. They'll understand.”

“Well, I don't,” Malta replied sourly.

Her mother shook her head. “I am sorry for you. It is hard to see you come of age in such troubled times. I feel you are being cheated of all the things we dreamed you would do. But there is nothing I can do to change it.”

“I know that feeling,” Malta said, more to herself than to her mother. “Sometimes I feel completely helpless. As if there is nothing I can do to change any of the bad things. Other times, I fear I am simply too cowardly to try.”

Keffria smiled a genuine smile. “Cowardly is the last word I would use to describe you,” she said fondly.

“How will we get home? The hired coach will not be back for hours.”

“Grandmother is talking to Davad Restart. She will ask if his coach could take us home. It would not take long. It would be back long before the ball is scheduled to end.”

Grandmother came hastening up to them. “Davad is reluctant to see us leave, but he has agreed to loan us the use of his coach.” She scowled suddenly. “But there is a condition on it. He demands that Malta come and bid the Satrap farewell before she leaves. I told him I thought that improper and putting herself forward, but he insists on it. I feel we have no time to argue. The sooner we are home, the safer we shall be. Now, where has Selden got off to?”

“He was with the Daw boys a moment ago. I'll find him.” Keffria abruptly sounded both weary and harassed. “Malta, do you mind? Grandmother will be with you, so you needn't be afraid.”

Malta suddenly wondered how much they had deduced about her earlier encounter with the Satrap. “I'm not afraid,” she retorted. “Shall we meet you outside?”

“I suppose that will work. I'll go and find Selden.”

As she and her grandmother crossed the floor, Ronica Vestrit spoke. “I think we shall host a tea ten days from now. The group of women presented this year is not large. Shall we invite them all?”

Malta was startled. “A tea? At our home?”

“In the garden, I think. We should be able to trim it up decently. Now that the berries are ripening, we could make little tarts to serve. In my day, such little tea parties often had a theme.” Grandmother smiled to herself. “My mother held one for me, in which everything was lavender or violet. We ate tiny candied violets, and sugar cakes tinted purple with blueberry juice and the tea was flavored with lavender. I thought it tasted dreadful, but the idea of it was so lovely I didn't mind.” She chuckled aloud.

Grandmother was trying to make her feel better. “Our lavender is blooming very well this year,” Malta pointed out with an effort. “If we are deliberately old-fashioned, then no one will remark if we use the old lace tablecloths and doilies. And the old china, perhaps.” She tried to smile.