The Tresco seat in the chamber matched the location of their estate of Highwithel: peripheral. Had Highwithel’s heir not broken her sister’s heart, Bouda might one day have found herself a frequent visitor. She was glad this was no longer likely. The Tresco estate was an island at the heart of an archipelago: the Scillies. They were the southernmost point of the British Isles, off the tip of Cornwall. Beyond Land’s End.
That was quite the best place for feckless Heir Meilyr and his ghastly mother. If only they’d stay there.
Lady Tresco looked up as Bouda approached. She had been rifling through a worn leather handbag. Possibly for a hairbrush, given the woman’s dishevelled appearance – though then again, it seemed unlikely she owned one.
Armeria gave Bouda a pleasant smile, closed her bag, and placed it on the adjoining heir’s chair. The conspicuously empty heir’s chair.
‘Meilyr’s still not with you, I see,’ Bouda said. ‘Any word from your prodigal son?’
‘None, I’m afraid,’ replied the older woman. ‘Believe me, your sister would be the first to know. But he’s been gone more than six months now. Bodina must be over the worst of her disappointment, I hope?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Bouda. ‘Quite over it. He could long since be back at Highwithel for all she cares. I was only asking on my own account, as I’ll be sending out the wedding invitations soon. Just the one for the Trescos, then?’
‘You never know,’ said Lady Tresco unhelpfully. ‘So that’s happening soon, is it? Congratulations. Your star really is rising.’
‘Thank you.’ It was an automatic response. ‘And yes, at Kyneston in March, after the Third Proposal Debate and the vote.’
‘The Third Debate? How fitting for such a politic union. Well, I shall see you before then at Esterby for the First.’
And with that, Armeria Tresco retrieved her handbag and recommenced sorting through it.
Bouda stood there a moment, astonished. Had she just been dismissed? It appeared that she had. At least no one had seen it happen. But still. She felt her cheeks flame as she turned away and descended to the second tier. She would look as florid as dear Papa.
At least she’d gleaned a little information for Dina. Or rather, had no news – which was most definitely good news, in Bouda’s opinion. Her little sister’s passion for Meilyr Tresco had been quite genuine, but sorely misplaced. Meilyr was an affable creature, but of the same absurd political persuasion as his mother, and Bouda held him chiefly responsible for filling DiDi’s head with abolitionist enthusiasm.
Even the way he’d broken things off with Dina had been vague and unsatisfactory. He’d simply told poor DiDi that he wanted to go and ‘find himself’, her heartbroken sister had confided. With Meilyr out of the picture, a more suitable husband could be found for her. Dina needed someone solid and reliable, who understood the family’s interests. Bouda had a few possibilities in mind.
Papa was back at their seat, an emergency, napkin-wrapped slice of cake stuffed down the side of his chair. Greedy Daddy! She pinched his cheek indulgently and whispered in his ear.
‘From what I heard from Lord Jardine earlier, this could be interesting.’
Then the trumpets again; the Chancellor again. The chamber fell expectantly quiet.
Zelston walked to the chair, but remained standing. His expression was grim, and clutched in his hand was a single-sheet order paper. He launched straight in.
‘It is my prerogative as Chancellor to introduce for the House’s consideration a Proposal of my choosing. You will all be aware that a Chancellor’s introduction of a Proposal does not necessarily signify that he supports it. It may simply be a matter that he believes merits discussion. That is the case with my Proposal today.’
This disavowal brought jeers and catcalls from some of the more troublesome Members. ‘What an endorsement!’ yelled one, from his place on the sixth tier. ‘Why’d you bother, then?’ mocked another, from somewhere rather closer to the seat of power.
The Chancellor didn’t dignify them with a response. He looked around the chamber, level and composed, though Bouda saw the paper tremble in his hand.
‘At the conclusion of this session the Silence will be laid upon all Observers, and the Quiet accepted by all Members.’
There were murmurs of surprise and displeasure from the assembled Equals. Bouda sat forward in her seat, tense and excited. She had never seen the two ancient acts of Silence and Quiet bestowed publicly.
Of course, to call it ‘Silence’ was misleading. The act didn’t really silence a person; it hid their own memories from them. It was forbidden to lay the Silence on one’s Equals – though practice obviously couldn’t count, Bouda had long ago decided, or how would anyone ever master it? All Chancellors had to be able to perform it, so from childhood Bouda had practised on her sister. Darling DiDi hadn’t minded.
The only permitted use of the Silence was within the House of Light, when it was laid upon commoners – the Observers. They were sometimes privy to Proposals or other business deemed too sensitive, too incendiary, to become common knowledge. Once the Chancellor had bestowed the Silence, the OPs would remember nothing of his Proposal until he lifted it again.
The parliamentarians themselves, the Equals, would accept the Quiet. This was a lesser act, but still effective. You retained your memories, but could not speak of or otherwise share them with those outside the sanctioned group – in this case, the Members of Parliament. Rumour had it that many a family secret was protected by hereditary Quiet.