“With Kesley,” Valeraine said, “There is no chance of winning. He knows that as well as I.”
Selaide sighed. “If only we had a champion rider to don the mask instead. Or a younger dragon to use.”
“Even I would ride better than Kesley. I’ll do it.” The words were out of Valeraine’s mouth before she could truly consider them, the absurdity of them. It wasn’t absurd that she would fly better than Kesley — it was a given. It wasn’t absurd for her to ride Lelantos, as she did that regularly. But to race? To test her courage and skill — and the skill of Lelantos — in such a brutal arena? It was the domain of men for a reason, for only a man could be foolish enough to risk his life for the small chance at glory.
Selaide had no qualms about throwing her sister to the wolves. She clapped her hands in glee. “Nobody will know you are the masked rider, I swear it. I will start making your costume immediately!” And with that, she proved herself honest (a rare event) by rushing inside the house.
Kesley faced Valeraine, concern on his brow. “Are you certain?”
That was all he said. Not an insult to her intelligence, or a question of her competence. He trusted her to race. He was just,understandably, hesitant. This was the worst idea Valeraine had ever had.
Valeraine imagined the gossip sheets discussing the resurgence of Longbourn house — even with a single dragon, long in the wing. New opportunities would open to them with the respect of the dragoneers — offers of breeding rights, deals for eggs. Longbourn would be secure for generations with one golden chance.
She imagined what Nedine’s face would look like if the masked rider of Longbourn House won the Netherfield derby.
None of that would be possible with Kesley racing.
“I’m not sure,” Valeraine said. “If I’m discovered, the ton would eat me alive. Longbourn would never be taken seriously again.”
“If it comes close to someone finding out, I will reveal myself,” Kesley said. “That way, you’ll be protected from the scandal, and I can gather the accolades of your excellent racing. You can win this, I know you can.”
This might just work. “I will be our masked rider.” And the words felt bold and right on her tongue.
Chapter eight
It was three weeks later and the day of the derby at Netherfield. Selaide had outdone herself in constructing the costume of the masked rider. She presented her creation to Valeraine in the morning with a gleam in her eye, hanging on her older sister’s reaction.
The mask was paper-mache, something Merna had constructed for a masquerade years before. The mask would cover Valeraine’s entire face, leaving only her eyes peeking out through the holes, and be tied on with a green ribbon. Selaide had painted it a dramatic black, with green ivy designs along the rim and around the eyes. It was truly beautiful, both fierce and a work of art. It would attract attention — that was certain — but would also fully conceal Valeraine’s identity.
Selaide tied the mask on her sister, waiting for the praise she was due.
“Thank you, it’s perfect,” Valeraine murmured, distracted. It would hide her face, but what if someone uncovered theruse? Could she take that risk? She could already imagine how Mamma would react to discovering her racing: horrified, vexed, furious. As she rightly should be. The reaction from the dragoneers present would be worse, as they would carry tales of it across the kingdom, reducing Valeraine’s reputation to tatters. She would never be able to marry, or even work as a governess. Papa certainly wouldn’t allow her to care for Lelantos anymore. Her future would be one of dull begging for charity from her sisters, assuming any of them found income in the wake of the scandal.
“The maskisperfect,” Selaide said, “Thank you for noticing.” She turned away from Valeraine pointedly, expressing her displeasure at the minimal praise. They were sequestered in Valeraine’s bedroom, and Selaide had come prepared with her burlap bag of tricks. Next, she pulled out short stays which she had modified and padded to give a masculine shape to Valeraine’s torso. Next went on a shirt and trousers from Kesley. Now that Selaide had her way with them, they fit Valeraine’s padded form well.
The sisters reviewed the effect of the costume in the tall mirror hung on the wall. Trousers. Padded torso, hidden under a shirt. Mask affixed. Valeraine was transformed, someone new. Not herself, and not quite Kesley either. She was the dragon rider of Longbourn house.
It was uncanny.
“You really have done spectacularly,” Valeraine said. “How did you achieve the fit?”
Selaide preened. “I recruited Kesley to model, and had him stand next to the dress form. I tinkered with the padding until they had the same silhouette.”
“And the green,” Valeraine said, touching the ribbon at her temple.
“To match Lelantos.” Selaide took her hands. “I’m so glad you’re riding for us. Kesley really wouldn’t have a chance of winning. With you, we’ll have just the sort of attention that we need.”
“As if you need help getting attention.”
“The dragoneers look at me at the ball, but they don’t seriously consider me as a prospective bride. (Or only the poor ones do, but they’re useless.) Longbourn will fly in a few derbies — and then they’ll pay heed when I flirt.”
All Valeraine needed to do was race and do well. Or not catastrophically fail. The honor of Longbourn would be defended, Selaide would get her attention, Miss Nedine would see the strength of Lelantos, and everyone would realize what capable dragoneers came from Longbourn. The name of Longbourn house would have consequence, and give them the leverage to make a good business deal.
Making a deal with the Nethenabbis might be their only chance to save their house. If they didn’t get an egg, then Longbourn would die along with Lelantos. The house would wither, until one day they were just farmers. Farmers for Netherfield, most likely.
The risk was worth the reward. She must race, and this costume would do well enough for that.
Selaide was critical of the ensemble. She tugged this way and that at the padding. “We’ll need to take in more here, and add some here…” Without consulting Valeraine, she began taking off the shirt to get at the stays, determined to make the alterations immediately. “We will also need to braid your hair like Kesley’s.”
