The Laurentine Spy (21 page)

Gratitude. Obeisance.
The little container of wax bumped against her leg as she rose.

She walked back to where Marta sat with her head bent over her needlework. White roses on dark stems.

Marta glanced up as she sat. Her gaze was full of admiration. “You’re so brave,” she whispered.

No, not brave. Desperate.

It was difficult to concentrate on the embroidery. Her head ached with tiredness and her stitches were as large and crooked as a child’s.

The Consort didn’t call for her before lunch. Saliel walked with Marta to the dining chamber and sat beside her at one of the long tables. Silverware gleamed in the candlelight: tureens and ashets and salvers engraved with heavy, curling patterns. The linen napkins were snowy white against the dark, polished wood of the tabletop. She watched as Marta ate buttered rolls and pushed the rest of her food around her plate. All around her, noble ladies dined quietly. They were like cows grazing in a field, placid and well-fed. Nearly two hundred women, but the tapestries swallowed the sound of voices and the scrape of knives on plates.

She’d dined at long tables in the poorhouse—scarred tables, with chipped crockery and tarnished cutlery. There, she’d wolfed down bowls of watery stew and still been hungry. Here, with duck breast and ginger sauce on her plate, she had no appetite.

Saliel laid down her fork. She rinsed her fingers in the bowl of warm, lavender-scented water beside her plate and dried them on a napkin.

The afternoon passed slowly. Her stitches became larger and more crooked. Her eyes were gritty with tiredness. The ache in her head increased.

“Noble Petra.”

She looked up.

One of the Consort’s attendants stood before her, plump-cheeked and as pretty as a doll. “The Consort wishes to speak with you.”

Saliel swallowed. She put aside the embroidery and stood.

The Consort no longer sat beside the fire. Saliel followed the attendant across the hall to the door that led to the Consort’s private parlor. Her heart began to beat more swiftly.

The woman scratched on the wooden panels and opened the door.

“Come in, Petra.”

Saliel touched the pocket of her gown for reassurance. The tin nestled there, hidden. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It was a room she’d never entered before. Like the hall, tapestries hung on the walls and a fire burned in the grate, but the size was much more intimate. Heavy furniture crowded together: sofas upholstered in rich brocades, armchairs with tasseled cushions, small tables inlaid with intricate marquetry.

The Consort wasn’t seated. She stood before the fire. Vases and figurines crowded the mantelpiece and a mirror hung above it. The mirror was the most striking item in the room. The wood was honey-gold, a warmer color than she was used to seeing in the Citadel. Animals were carved into the frame—birds and dragonflies and lizards with darting tongues—their eyes inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The creatures were astonishingly life-like. They seemed poised on the edge of movement; the birds to shake and preen their feathers, the lizards to blink their gleaming eyes and run down the frame onto the mantelpiece.

The door closed behind her. She was alone with the Consort. “Your Eminence,” Saliel said, curtseying.

The Consort gave a slight nod.

Saliel stepped further into the room. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

The Consort inclined her head again.

“I’m very grateful.” She took a second step, a third, a fourth, treading on soft rugs, moving closer to the woman.

“What is it you wish to discuss?”

“It concerns Marta.”

“Yes.” Impatience edged the Consort’s voice. “I’m aware of that. What is it?”

“I am concerned for her health, your Eminence,” Saliel said, walking closer.

The Consort’s thin eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Is she unwell?”

“She finds it difficult to eat cream, or spicy foods,” Saliel said. “She has lost weight.”

The Consort’s frown deepened. “Lost weight?”

“Yes.” Saliel stepped onto the rug before the fireplace. Her chest was tight. She lowered her gaze deferentially and blinked to clear the tiredness from her eyes. “I wondered...is it possible for the cooks to prepare food for Marta that has no cream or spices?” She braced herself for what must come next: raising her head, catching the Consort’s eyes.

“Of course it is. I shall arrange for it at once.” The Consort turned away from the fire. “Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Petra.”

Saliel’s head jerked up. “I’m worried for her,” she said, desperate.

The Consort halted. She turned to face Saliel, a movement that made the keys at her waist clink against one another. Her eyebrows drew together again. “There’s more?”

Saliel’s mouth was too dry for speech.
Now. Do it now.
She caught the Consort’s eyes. Dark eyes. Almost black.

She stepped towards the woman, fumbling to find the container in her pocket, to open it.
Concentrate.
Tiredness slowed her movements. She’d done it swiftly last time; now it took forever. An ache built inside her head as she groped for the keys. Her fingers slid over smooth velvet and stiff seams and ridges of embroidery.
Where are they?

There. Metal.

Saliel gripped the keys, panting slightly. She stared into the Consort’s eyes, straining to hold them.
Do it. Take the impression.
But her fingers couldn’t tell the difference between the keys. They were the same, smooth and warm and heavy.

Panic swelled in her chest. It was impossible to breathe. The ache in her head grew larger, pressing against her skull. Her eyesight seemed to blur.

The Consort’s eyelids flickered.

Terror held Saliel motionless—and gave her an instant of clarity. The pain in her head was nothing. Her vision was bright and clear. Her fingers knew the key to the Citadel.

She pressed the key clumsily into the wax and released it, hearing a faint
clink
as it fell back against the Consort’s bodice and hit the marriage keys. She stepped back, almost stumbling, and fumbled to close the container and push it into her pocket.

The Consort’s eyelids flickered again and then closed in a blink.

Saliel froze, struggling not to pant, the container of wax gripped in her left hand.

The Consort moved her head slightly, as if to clear it. The frown between her eyebrows deepened. “There’s more?”

Saliel shook her head, too afraid to breathe. The stiff folds of the gown hid her hand.The Consort said nothing. Her frown deepened, as if she struggled to recall something.

Distract her. Hurry.

Saliel swallowed. “I...I like this room very much.” She turned towards the fire and took a step away from the Consort on trembling legs, her left arm held close to her side. “Especially the mirror.”

She saw the Consort’s face reflected in the polished surface. The woman was watching her, narrow-eyed.

“My mother had a mirror that was very similar.” Saliel reached up with her right hand, touching one of the gleaming mother-of-pearl eyes with a fingertip. She slid the container of wax into her pocket.

“She did?”

“Yes.” Saliel turned back to face the Consort. She forced her mouth into a smile. The container was a small weight in her pocket, hidden. “Very similar.”

“Similar?”

“Yes. The creatures with their eyes. I used to love them.” She curtseyed, almost stumbling as she rose. “Thank you, your Eminence, you’ve been most gracious—”

“Your mother had such a mirror?”

Saliel froze.
I’ve made a mistake.
“It does look similar,” she said cautiously.

“I doubt it,” the Consort said. “The mirror is from the Illymedes.”

Saliel understood her error. Her skin was suddenly damp with sweat. “The Illymedes?” she said, as if she didn’t recognize the name.

“Yes.” The Consort stepped closer. Her gaze was sharp. “One of the nations in the Laurentine Protectorate.”

And only someone within the Imperial household may possess such an item—or be named a traitor.

“Oh.” Saliel moistened her lips. She glanced at the mirror. Bright mother-of-pearl eyes stared at her. “How...how do you come to have it?”

“It’s from the Emperor’s collection.”

“Oh,” Saliel said again. She tried to smile at the Consort. “I must be mistaken. The mirror only looks similar.”

The Consort didn’t return the smile. “Creatures with mother-of-pearl eyes?”

Saliel swallowed past the tightness in her throat. She couldn’t take back the words she’d uttered. “Yes.”

“The mirror could only have been Illymedan work.” The Consort’s eyes glittered, black. “How did your mother obtain it?”

“I don’t know, your Eminence.” She creased her brow and twisted her fingers together.
I am Lady Petra, innocent and confused. Whatever your suspicions are, they’re false.
“It must have been a copy.”

The Consort’s brows arched. “A copy? An unusual choice for a diplomat’s wife.”

“My mother was no traitor,” Saliel said, striving to sound tearful and confused.

The Consort smiled suddenly. “Of course she wasn’t.”

Saliel smiled back, grateful and tremulous. Her eyes were far too dry for tears, but she blinked as if trying not to cry.

The Consort patted her on the arm. “Go back to your embroidery, my dear,” she said. “This nonsense about mirrors is of no matter. Don’t be upset.”

Saliel bowed her head and sank into a curtsey. “Thank you, your Eminence.”

She rose. Her heart thudded in her chest as she walked across the room. She glanced back as she opened the door. The Consort stood before the fireplace, studying the mirror.

She knows.

Saliel closed the door and walked across the Ladies’ Hall to Marta.
No, she only thinks she knows. She cannot prove it.
The container of wax bumped against her thigh as she sat. She picked up her embroidery frame with trembling fingers. “It went well.” She forced her mouth into a smile. “The cooks will prepare plain dishes for you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A
THAN SPENT THE
day avoiding the Spycatcher. He was adept at leaving salons and courtyards when the man entered, at yawning and ambling leisurely in the opposite direction. The rain made it difficult, limiting his choices, but the hours passed without having to speak to the man. He spent much of the afternoon feigning sleep on a sofa in a corner of a drafty salon, with his eyes closed and his mouth open.

He concentrated on memories of home—the estate in the countryside with the tall oak trees and the reed-edged lake, the vineyard on the hill behind, the bunches of grapes ripening and the leaves turning yellow and red, morning mist lying in the dips and hollows in the fields, the scent of honeysuckle in the hedges—but always, beneath the memories, was Lady Petra’s face. Her closed expression. Her eyes not looking at him as he undressed.

Shame was tight in his chest. He felt it with every breath he took—shame as he inhaled, shame as he exhaled, shame as he remembered.

When it became too much, Athan went to the stable yard. The rain came down steadily, ice-cold, almost sleet. He splashed through the puddles, hunched into his cape, shivering.

Some of his tension eased as he stepped inside the building where the pigs were housed. The air was warm and smelled of autumn, of hay and apples. He inhaled deeply.

Servants bowed as he walked between the pigsties. He was the only nobleman. No one else braved the heavy rain. “An apple,” he drawled, and heard footsteps slap on stone as someone hurried to obey him.

Russet was rolling in the straw. She scrambled to her feet at his soft whistle.

Athan reached down to touch her. “Hello, girl.”

Russet grunted.
Hello
, she seemed to be saying back to him.

Athan scratched beneath her chin. The piglet leaned into his hand, her eyes closed with pleasure.

“An apple, noble lord.”

He gave Russet the apple and watched as she ate. His tension was less, here, leaning against the wooden railing and watching her. Water dripped from his cape and his feet were wet inside the thin leather shoes, but for the first time today he felt like smiling.

I shall miss you, Russet.

She was a beautiful pig, with her dark snout and hooves, her red coat—

Memory came: Lady Petra in her nightgown, turning away from him, walking to the bed. Her hair hanging down her back in a long plait, bright red against the white linen nightgown.

Athan’s throat tightened with shame. “I did a terrible thing.”

The piglet flicked an ear and paused in her eating. She raised her head to be petted again.

Athan rubbed her cheek. “There’s no way I can make it right,” he whispered.
No way to undo it.