While Beauty Slept (25 page)

“Let us see if we can catch one,” Marcus offered, glancing toward me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, relieved to see that he did not begrudge Rose’s company. If anything, her presence had brought out a playful side I had not seen before.

Marcus leaned down and took Rose’s dainty hand in one of his own. Pulling her slowly alongside him, he waved their arms gently through the snowfall, their fingers brushing against the tiny white specks that surrounded them. Rose was silent, her face intent.

“Ah!” Marcus exclaimed. “I think we’ve got one. Elise, what do you think?”

I walked over to join them, stepping gingerly through the drifts of snow. I peered down at Rose’s finger, coming so close that my nose almost touched her skin. Seen thus, the snowflake was unexpectedly beautiful, an intricate pattern of sparkling white threads.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

This outing, though it was mere steps from the castle, would have caused the queen to fret with worry and brought on a tongue-lashing from Lady Wintermale, but I did not care, for I had forgotten everything but the look on Marcus’s face. He was happy, unabashedly so, and I could suddenly glimpse him as a father. He would be a good one, a man who cherished his children, and my stomach fluttered at the future I imagined for us. I had known that Marcus could provoke my interest as well as my lust. But I had not truly known until that moment that I loved him.

“Ooh, look!”

Rose had knelt down in the snow, and when she stood, the front of the cloak that enveloped her was covered with a swath of white. She brushed her palms against it and laughed as it scattered outward. I leaned down and gathered a handful, releasing it over Marcus’s head, so that his hair was sprinkled with white. Soon we were tossing fluffy white handfuls in all directions, creating a shower of icy crystals as Rose whooped with joy. Marcus, cheeks flushed red from the cold, laughed with an abandon I’d never heard, and the sound was so infectious that I joined in, not caring how we might look to the guards and any other observers at the windows above.

Is this how I should remember them, those two people I cherished so dearly? It is tempting to bask in the memory of that magical day. Yet I cannot help but ponder how that simple outing planted a dangerous seed in my dealings with Rose. Though I knew she was forbidden from leaving the castle, I allowed myself to be swayed by her pleading. I watched her prance through the snow, never thinking that she might have caught a chill and fallen ill. I did not correct her when she addressed Marcus as an equal, though he was of lower rank than her own attendants. Like an indulgent older sister, I let her run free—indeed I delighted to see her so.

Even at that young age, Rose possessed a charm that could overpower my better judgment. She fought against her restrictions, more so with each passing year, and I sympathized with her plight, discreetly taking her side against that of her parents. I could not know that when Rose defied their final orders, so many years later, the outcome would be disastrous.

Much to my relief, another liaison soon replaced mine as the prime topic of castle gossip. Faced with the open admiration of a maid as pretty as Petra, most men of Dorian’s position would have brashly grabbed their chance. She would have enjoyed the chase and perhaps allowed a grope or two before cutting off his advances. Though well versed in the ways to catch a man’s eye, Petra retained a virtue that castle intrigues had not tarnished. She believed in love.

And Dorian was smitten enough—or cunning enough—to promise it. What began with lighthearted words exchanged while Petra served supper turned to whispered conversations in the Great Hall before meals, then bold, open gazes across the room. For weeks Petra laughed off my questions, assuring me it was no more than a flirtatious game. I was not so sure, and my suspicions increased when I came upon her in an alcove off the back stairways and saw her hastily slide a piece of paper into her apron.

“What were you reading?”

It was not my way to be so forthright, but something in her furtive manner concerned me. To Petra’s credit she did not drag out the moment with false reticence. She withdrew the note and handed it to me.

Writing was scrawled across the page in a firm, confident hand. The letters had been formed in a way unfamiliar to me, with dramatic rises and falls in the
f
’s and
h
’s, and it took me some moments to decipher. It was a love poem, describing the passion of a knight for a lady who could never be his. I had read far worse compositions, and when I saw the enormous
D
at the end, produced with maximum flourish, I was surprised that Dorian should be the author of such skilled prose. He had always struck me as more suited to youthful boasting than to contemplative thoughts. Perhaps he had copied it from another source, though I did not voice that suspicion to Petra.

“It’s from Dorian?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her lips curved in a tentative smile. “He gave it to me before supper.”

“So he fancies himself the knight?” I asked.

Petra looked at me blankly. Suddenly I understood. Petra could read, but she had learned from a book in which the letters were printed with careful precision. The words of Dorian’s poem might as well be a different language.

“The writing is of a very unusual style,” I said, trying to spare Petra embarrassment. “Shall I tell you what I think it says?”

Pointing with one finger so Petra could follow my progress, I sounded out each word with no emotion, careful to avoid emphasis on any particular passage. Petra would be imagining these words in Dorian’s voice, not mine. When I had finished, I felt a perverse stab of jealousy that Petra had inspired such a work. Marcus, for all his kindness, was not one to declare himself in flowery words of passion, and I doubted I would ever receive a love note or a poem written in his hand.

Petra took the paper back and folded it into a neat square.

“I know you disapprove.” The defiance in her voice took me aback.

I was quick to assure Petra that I had never questioned her judgment. It was a lie, but she appeared eager to believe me.

“It’s been so difficult, Elise. Keeping the true nature of our bond a secret. He values my opinions and speaks to me as he would a woman of his own rank, with the greatest respect. He takes notice of things I say in passing, as if my every utterance were precious.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He says he adores me.”

I was shocked. A lighthearted flirtation was one thing, but ensnaring the affections of a high-ranking gentleman could be dangerous. If Dorian was truly infatuated with Petra, for her to reject his attentions could mean the end of her service at the castle. And if she gave in to his pleas, she would lose her hard-earned reputation for chastity, a reputation she counted on to make a good marriage.

“What will you do?” I asked.

Petra shook her head slowly. “I do not know. I envy you, Elise. There are no obstacles to your marrying Marcus. Yet I can see no happy resolution for Dorian and me.”

Neither could I. “No matter what happens, you must stay true to yourself,” I urged. When she nodded, I believed she understood the importance of safeguarding her virtue.

It was not until some days later that I learned she had taken a very different meaning from my words.

I was on my way to visit Flora in the North Tower. With the worst of winter past, she had begun sorting her seeds for the spring planting, tedious work that I felt better suited to a gardener than a healer. For all my initial trepidation, the remedies Flora had shown me thus far would have been common knowledge to any village midwife. Accustomed to being the only one traversing that wing of the castle, I was surprised to hear the sound of voices floating down from the upper level of the staircase that cut through the center of the tower. Had Flora wandered upstairs? Who could she be talking to?

I walked cautiously upward, an instinct for potential danger silencing my tongue. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, the voices had stopped. Ahead of me was a large arched entryway, leading into a wood-paneled room. A rustling sound caught my ear. Curiosity won out over apprehension, and I tiptoed forward. Pressing one hand against the doorjamb to balance myself, I peered inside.

Though Petra’s face was buried in Dorian’s shoulder, I knew her instantly from the gleam of white-blond hair that dangled from her cap. Her back was pressed against a column in the center of the room, her arms taut with the effort of clutching his waist. One of Dorian’s hands cupped the nape of her neck, while the other had reached up her skirt, exposing one leg to midthigh. The stocking had already been loosened and lay crumpled around her ankle. Petra let out a faint moan but remained as still as the statues that adorned the North Tower’s halls.

Aghast as I was, I could not look away. This was not the sort of grunt-and-thrust encounter that pages and kitchen maids were known to indulge in behind the stables or in the storerooms. Dorian’s fingers were caressing Petra’s inner thigh, teasing her with their proximity to her most intimate parts. Her body pressed against his, giving willing assent, yet his hand moved unhurriedly. He dipped his head to nibble at her ear, and with that slight shift of position his face turned directly toward the doorway.

My stomach dropped. For an instant Dorian froze. Then, just as my body tensed in preparation to run, his mouth twisted into an amused smile. Slowly, deliberately, his lips kissed Petra’s cheek and neck as she murmured with pleasure. Still watching me, he pushed his hand further up her skirt. Petra made no protest; indeed she seemed to thrust herself even closer against him. I could not turn away. Overcome by lustful cravings, I imagined myself touched in that way, lost to everything but my lover’s caress. Dorian saw it all: my envy, my shame, my desire. For that I could never forgive him—or myself.

Snatched out of my confusion by the sound of Petra’s voice, I ducked out of the room right as she whispered to Dorian that she loved him. He repeated the words back to her in a firm, confident voice, loud enough to ensure I heard him.

It was a few days later, during a particularly bleak afternoon, that a visitor was announced for Queen Lenore. The man in question did not live up to her ladies’ hopes for an entertaining diversion, for he turned out to be a traveling metalsmith, who wandered from village to village repairing pots and pans. He bowed low and said he had been paid to deliver a letter into the queen’s hands alone. Examining the blank paper that enclosed the message, she asked, “Who sent you?”

The man shook his head. “’Twas given me by a woman in Greysgate, the day before last. She said it came to her from another such as me.” Tradesmen often carried letters for a small payment; few had the means to hire their own messengers.

Frowning, Queen Lenore pulled open the outer layer, but her suspicion turned to delight when she saw the writing inside. “It’s from Isla.” She told Lady Wintermale to give the metalsmith two gold coins for his trouble and turned to her letter with a smile.

I busied myself with pulling faded flowers from one of the vases in order to hide my annoyance. I could never replace Isla in the queen’s affections; the two grew from girls to women together, sharing secrets that would never be passed to me. But accepting the childishness of one’s feelings does not always quash them. Did Isla regret choosing the love of a man over the love of her mistress? I wondered. It was no great honor to serve in Prince Bowen’s entourage since his fall from grace, and he and his men were said to be traveling foreign lands as soldiers for hire.

“Elise!” Queen Lenore exclaimed.

I attempted to produce an expression of interest. The ladies-in-waiting had drifted to the other side of the room, where Lady Wintermale was admonishing one unfortunate woman for an unsuitably low-cut gown.

“Prince Bowen has married,” she said, her eyes surveying the page. I drew closer and glanced at the paper, enough to see it was written in the queen’s native language and therefore meaningless to me.

“And guess who he has taken as his wife? Jana deRauley.”

So Bowen had allied himself with the notorious family that had been stirring up trouble since before Rose’s birth. As far as I knew, their clamoring about a claim to the throne had been quashed once Rose had been proclaimed King Ranolf’s heir. Why, then, did news of this marriage make me so uneasy?