The Laurentine Spy (25 page)

‘What did your husband think of Lord Renner? Did he speak highly of him?”

“My husband didn’t discuss such matters with me.”

Of course not
. Saliel picked up her needle again. “Congratulations. It’s a very fine match.”

“Isn’t it?” Marta’s eyes shone.

Saliel looked at her, seeing timidity and pride.
I was a fool to pity you.

“The Consort wishes to speak with you, Petra,” Marta said.

Saliel’s chest tightened. “With me? Now?”

Marta nodded. “Yes.”

Saliel made herself place the embroidery frame to one side and stand, to speak calmly. “I wonder why?”

She crossed the Ladies’ Hall with unhurried steps.
Think before you answer. Make no mistakes this time.

The attendant stood at the door to the private parlor. It didn’t rain or snow outside, and yet the Consort chose to speak to her here.
So I can’t run
? Her chest became even tighter.

Saliel stepped into the room. The door closed behind her.

The Consort was alone. There were no guards, no Spycatcher.

Saliel relaxed slightly. “Your Eminence,” she said, curtseying deeply. “You wish to speak with me?”

The Consort sat on a sofa. Her mouth smiled; her eyes didn’t. “Yes, my dear. Come here. Sit.” She patted the green and gold brocade.

Saliel made herself smile shyly as she approached the woman. This was an interrogation, not a conversation—the sofa told her that. The Consort walked or paced when she spoke of women’s matters, of betrothals and marriages. Today was different; today was dangerous.

“Sit,” the Consort repeated, smiling and patting the brocade again.

Saliel sat.
Shy
, she told herself.
Innocent. Eager to please.
“Your Eminence?”

“It occurred to me, my dear Petra, that you must have known a friend of mine. Lady Karla.”

“Lady Karla?” She knew the name, but her mind was suddenly blank.

“Yes.” The Consort’s smile, her eyes, became sharper. “I should like to hear how she was before...before events in Gryff.”

“Of course, your Eminence. If it pleases you.”
Who was Karla? Think.

The Consort inclined her head. “It does.”

And then it came: Karla, wife of Lord Ditmer, the military attache in Gryff.

Saliel moistened her lips. “Lady Karla was a friend of my mother’s. She had a little daughter. A lovely child.” She smiled, as if in memory. “Her name was Elsa. She was, let me think...five or six. Lady Karla also had son, a few years older, of whom she and Lord Ditmer were most proud.”

The Consort’s smile was less wide. She nodded.

Elaborate. Give her details.
“Lady Karla had a beautiful garden. Gryff is...was much warmer than this. The flowers were exquisite. Huge blooms—” she opened both hands to show the size, “—and such bright colors. Reds and yellows and pinks.”

Saliel paused. She let her hands curl closed. “I do miss Gryff.” She blinked as if to hold back tears. “It was very beautiful.”

“So I understand,” the Consort said. Her voice was sweetly sympathetic. “I should like to hear more about it.”

“More?”

“Yes. Tell me about the—”

Fingernails scratched lightly on the door. It opened. “Your Eminence.” An attendant curtseyed low. A different woman, with fuller lips and a softer chin. “The Admiral has arrived. Your husband requests your presence.”

The Consort’s mouth tightened fractionally, then her face smoothed and she smiled. “We must talk more about Gryff, my dear Petra. Tomorrow.”

Saliel swallowed. She tried to look flattered, to flush with pleasure. “Yes, your Eminence. If it pleases you.”

She spent the rest of the day making neat stitches and remembering every detail she’d been taught about Gryff.
There was a place, not far from the Governor’s palace, where a spring came up from the ground. The water was warm and smelled of sulphur. Sometimes it grew so hot that steam rose.
In the evening she sat at the long dining table with the other married ladies. A dozen different conversations twisted together in her ears, a meaningless babble of sound. Candles burned brightly in the chandeliers and the shutters were closed against the darkness. She chewed automatically. Spices and cream were heavy on her tongue.

She went over names and dates and places while the maid dressed her for the ball, while she walked across the ballroom with Marta. She sat alongside her friend and smoothed the gown over her lap, aware of the Spycatcher prowling the room, smiling and asking questions, and the Consort watching from the dais. The dance floor was busier than it had been for months: naval officers in their maroon and black uniforms, widows in gray mourning gowns.

“There he is,” Marta whispered. “Lord Renner.”

“Oh? Where?” She followed the direction of Marta’s gaze.

“He looks very distinguished. Doesn’t he?”

Saliel nodded. “Extremely. He has an air about him.”
And he’s old enough to be your father.

“He’s coming over,” Marta whispered. She brushed her gown with quick fingers. “How do I look?”

“Lovely,” Saliel told her. It was no lie; Marta was one of the prettiest ladies in the ballroom.

Marta became even prettier as Lord Renner bowed low over her hand. The shy blush suited her.

“Noble Marta.”

Marta’s reply was almost inaudible: “Lord Renner.”

Lord Renner had streaks of gray at his temples and an air of command. His mouth was set in firm, inflexible lines. “Who is your friend? I should be pleased to meet her.”

“Oh.” Marta’s shy blush deepened. “May I present Lady Petra?”

Saliel smiled and held out her hand. “Lord Renner.”

The man’s bow was precise. His lips briefly touched the back of her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, noble Petra.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

Lord Renner turned back to Marta. “Do you care to dance?”

Marta obeyed the unspoken command. “Yes, thank you.” She stood.

Saliel watched as they walked on to the dance floor.
Don’t pity her. She’s pleased to be marrying this man. He’ll be an Admiral one day
.

“Noble Petra.”

Saliel stiffened. She turned her head. “Lord Ivo.”

His bow was as punctilious as Lord Renner’s had been; his fingers didn’t linger, his lips barely touched her skin. “Would you like to dance?” he asked as he straightened.

There is nothing I’d like less.
But Lord Ivo’s voice held the same undertone as Lord Renner’s. He expected obedience. “Yes. Thank you.”

Saliel stood and placed her hand on his sleeve. She could feel where his lips had touched her. It felt as if tiny insects crawled across her skin. Memory stirred.
No. Don’t remember.

“That gown becomes you extremely well,” Lord Ivo said.

Saliel looked down at it. Lavender blue. “Thank you.”

Lord Ivo made no reply. He yawned.

She concentrated on the sounds around her—the rustle of fabric and murmur of voices, the melody the musicians played—as he led her on to the dance floor.

The dance was slow and formal. She didn’t look at Lord Ivo; she looked at his shoulder, clad in beige velvet, at the lords and ladies dancing near them, at the red and black squares of stone beneath their feet. He yawned twice more and didn’t speak until the dance was finished.

“I shall visit you tonight,” he said, as he escorted her from the dance floor.

Her heart stood still for a moment. The sounds that surrounded her—voices and music—became inaudible. The ballroom was a blur.
No. He didn’t just say that.

He had said it. Her ears had heard it. Tonight.

Lord Ivo led her back to her seat and bowed. “Good evening, my lady.”

‘‘Good evening, my lord.” The words were scarcely louder than a whisper.

She watched him walk away.

I can’t do it again.

CHAPTER FORTY

A
THAN DIDN’T KNOW
what words he was going to use to explain, to apologize. He sweated as he waited for the maid to announce him.

I’ve come to talk.
He’d say that first, so she knew he didn’t want to bed her. And then he’d beg her forgiveness. He’d tell her that he’d only discovered her identity yesterday. That if he’d known he would never have bedded her, that he wouldn’t have laid so much as one finger on her.

The door to the bedchamber opened. The maid stepped out. She curtseyed. “You may enter.”

Athan reached up and tugged at the tight lace ruff. He stepped over the threshold, sweating, dreading. The door closed behind him.

Three sat in an armchair beside the fire, dressed in her nightgown. A shawl lay around her shoulders, wool crocheted so finely that it looked like lace. A candle burned on the small table beside her.

Athan bowed. He had to swallow to be able to speak. “Good evening.”

She looked up, not meeting his eyes. Her face was pale and expressionless, her red hair vivid.

I think I love you.

Athan stepped closer. He swallowed again. “Noble Petra.”

Three stood, picking up the candleholder, her gaze on the bright flame, not him. “Good evening, my lord.”

“I wish to speak with you,” Athan said.

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes fully.

The words he wanted to say slid out of reach. For a second his mind was completely blank.

Athan blinked. He shook his head to clear it. “I wish to speak with you,” he repeated.

Pain stung the back of his hand—hot, burning. He looked down. The lace cuff was on fire. Flame licked up his sleeve.

Three uttered a cry. She dropped the candle and tried to snuff the flames with her hands.

Shock held him frozen for a moment, as witless as Lord Ivo—and then rational thought returned. “Your shawl!” He snatched it from her shoulders.

She understood. Their hands tangled for a frantic second and then she had the shawl wrapped around his arm. Her fingers gripped him tightly.

Athan stared at her, breathing heavily. His forearm was hot, stinging. The back of his hand felt as if he’d plunged it in boiling water. He smelled burning wool.

She was no longer lifeless. He saw how fast the pulse beat below her jaw. “My lord—” Her voice was appalled.

“It was an accident.”

She released him and turned towards the door. He heard it open, heard her calling for the maid.

Athan hugged his arm to his chest. The candle lay where she’d dropped it on the rug. The wick was black and dead.

It had been no accident. He knew it with the same strong certainty that he’d known her identity yesterday. Three had meant to burn him.

He exhaled his breath in a hiss of pain and closed his eyes. Footsteps crossed the floor. “My lord?”

Athan opened his eyes and turned around. Behind Three was the maid, a bowl of water in her hands.

He held out his arm and let the maid replace the shawl with a wet cloth. The coolness dulled the pain.

Three didn’t meet his eyes. “You need to have the burn dressed.”

I need to speak with you.

She looked fragile in the white nightgown. Her bare toes were visible beneath the lace-edged hem. He saw her tension, the shallow breaths she took, the stiffness in her shoulders.

The cuffs of her nightgown were singed.

“Your hands. Let me see.”

She glanced at him and then obeyed. Her palms were reddened.
You must hate me very much to do this to yourself.

Athan cleared his throat. “Noble Petra, I...I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Her voice was low. She didn’t meet his eyes.

Yes, it was. I shouldn’t have come tonight.

“See to your mistress,” he told the maid. He bowed to Three. “Good night.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

S
ALIEL CLOSED HER
eyes as the door shut behind Lord Ivo.

“Mistress, are you all right?”

She opened her eyes. Her palms stung—hot—and nausea twisted in her belly.
I burned a man.

“Mistress, shall I bathe your hands?”

Saliel shivered. She hugged herself. “Bring me a new shawl. I’m cold.”

But the coldness had nothing to do with the temperature of the bedchamber; it was inside her.

She sat and let the maid drape a shawl over her shoulders and bathe her hands in water. The shivering didn’t stop.

The maid left and came back with a warm drink. “Here, mistress.” She curtseyed, presenting the tray.