The Laurentine Spy (22 page)

Russet went back to the apple, crunching loudly.

Athan watched her. He was as trapped in the Citadel as Russet was in her pen. The piglet did his bidding, running in pointless circles around a courtyard, just as he and Three obeyed the Guardian. “Your master is a fool,” he said to Russet. “And so is mine.”

A fool who holds our lives in his hands.

Athan shivered. His breeches clung to his legs, clammy, and the cape hung heavy and cold from his shoulders. He reached down and patted Russet farewell. “I shall give you to Druso when I leave,” he told her in a whisper. “He’ll take good care of you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A
THAN HAD TO
force himself to walk across the red and black slabs of stone to where she sat on the edge of the dance floor, to open his mouth and say her name. “Noble Petra.”

His wife raised her head. “Lord Ivo.” Her voice was polite and expressionless.

“How are you?” Athan made himself say, looking at her bright hair, not her face. He hadn’t the courage to meet her eyes.

“I am very well, my lord,” she said in that same polite, expressionless voice. “And you?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

There was an awkward pause. Shame was tight in his belly. It oozed from his pores as sweat. “Do you care to dance?”

“No. Thank you.”

Relief made him sweat even more. “Then I shall bid you good night,” he said, bowing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

T
HE SHADOWS WERE
the same, the stone tables and the urns, the gutters crossing the floor, the black shapes of Three and the Guardian, but the mood in the chamber made Athan’s skin prickle with unease.

“You have the impression?” The Guardian’s voice was cold.

Three reached beneath her cloak. She placed a small container beside the candle. The sound it made—metal on stone—was tiny, and yet it echoed in the silence.

The Guardian made no comment. He reached for the container.

“Did you have difficulty?” Athan asked.

Three turned her head to look at him. She moved stiffly tonight, as if exhausted. “The Consort suspects me.”

“What?” He tensed. “She thinks you copied the key?”

“No.” Three shook her head. “Not at all. She was unaware of that.”

“What then?” the Guardian asked, brusque.

“I made a...an ill-judged comment. She’s suspicious of me.”

Athan’s mouth was suddenly dry. “And the Spycatcher?”

“She can’t have told him yet. He hasn’t spoken to me.”

“But you can lie to him,” the Guardian said. It was a statement, flat.

“Yes.”

The Guardian nodded, a short jerk of his head. “Then we need not worry.”

“Not worry!” Athan was on his feet. “She must leave. Now!”

“No,” the Guardian said.

“The risk is too great—”

“There’s no risk. She can lie to the Spycatcher.”

“What if he uses other methods?” Memory of Rolen was vivid in his mind: the blood, the rope that bound him to the table. Athan swallowed, tasting bile. “What if—”

“Three is pretending to be a noblewoman,” the Guardian said coldly. “The Spycatcher can’t lay a finger on her until she’s proven to be a spy.”

“She should go,” Athan said stubbornly. “Tonight.”

“Neither of you will leave until the code book has been copied.” The Guardian’s voice had been cold; now it was frigid. “Unless you wish to travel without my assistance. And I can guarantee you’ll be caught if you try that.”

Athan’s lips peeled back from his teeth. His hands clenched.

He felt a touch on the back of his hand. He looked down.

Three’s gloved fingertips lay lightly on the ridge of his knuckles. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s for a few days only.”

His fists tightened.

“Please,” she said. “Sit.”

Athan exhaled a hissing breath. He pulled his hand free from her touch—furious with the Guardian, furious with himself—and sat again. He glared at the Guardian.
I run around in stupid circles for you.

But it wasn’t the Guardian he was doing this for. It was Three.

He looked down at his clenched hands.

“I’ll use iron this time, not lead. It may take longer.”

Athan’s head jerked up. “How much longer?”

“A day or two.”

His lips tightened.
I’m a pig in a pen. Powerless.
“And if the key breaks again?”

“It won’t.”

Beside him, Three sat silently. Her posture was stiff, tense.

Realization came suddenly: something had happened between Three and the Guardian. The strange mood that he sensed was hostility.

She dislikes him as much as I do. And yet we both depend on him.

“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” the Guardian asked.

Athan said nothing. Neither did Three.

The Guardian waited a moment and then stood. “I shall see you in two nights’ time.”

Athan rose. He unclenched his fists and turned to Three. “Be careful,” he said, reaching out to take her hand.

Her fingers flexed briefly in his grip before pulling away. “And you.”

“I shall.”

He watched her walk away.
We leave together, you and I. We will survive this.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

S
HE DREAMT SHE
was burning on a witch’s pyre. The court watched. She saw Marta, Lord Ivo, the Consort, the Spycatcher. Their mouths stretched wide. She heard shrill cries:
Burn witch, burn.
In their eyes she saw dark things—fear, hatred, blood lust—and the shining reflection of flames.

She woke to the roar of a crowd and the smell of her own hair burning. The taste of the bonfire was on her tongue.

Saliel pushed up from the rug beside the fire.
A dream, only a dream.
Her fingers shook as she placed the pillow and blanket back on the bed.

T
HE
C
ONSORT DIDN’T
join the ladies of the court at their needlework that morning. The sofa with its plump brocade cushions was empty.

Saliel bent her head over her embroidery, tense, and placed neat stitches with green thread. Was the woman speaking with the Spycatcher?

Servants brought around trays of sweetmeats, and still the Consort didn’t come.
Are my rooms being searched?

Would the maid tell her if they were?

Saliel chose a tiny cake. She bit into it and chewed slowly. There was nothing in her rooms—parlor and bedchamber—to give her away. Her possessions were normal, ordinary.
I’ll be fine, as long as they don’t find the peephole...

She put the cake down on her plate. “I wonder where the Consort is this morning.”

Marta glanced at the empty sofa. “Tomorrow’s the anniversary of the First Battle. Perhaps she’s busy with that?”

“Oh.” Saliel’s tension eased slightly. The Consort was overseeing preparations, not talking to the Spycatcher. “I’d forgotten.”

“Another bonfire.”

“And privet,” Saliel said, striving to match Marta’s cheerful tone. She grimaced. “I warn you, I shall sneeze a lot tomorrow.”

She spent the day stitching leaves in shades of green and brown—and going over descriptions of people and places in her head.
My mother’s name was Frida. She was the fourth child of Lord Kilmer and his wife Lady Hesta. Her brothers—my uncles—were Otto, Viktor, and Elmar. Viktor died in the battle of Sihgil, in the 456th year of the Empire. He was a naval Captain. Mother had a likeness of him painted. It hung on the wall in her parlor
.

The details came easily; she’d gone over them often enough in the past two years to be able to remember each name and date and place. It was the things she hadn’t been taught that worried her—the things she’d have to make up.
Like what my mother’s mirror looked like.

The Consort ate luncheon with the ladies of her court. Saliel was aware of the woman at the edge of her vision, seated at the head table. She kept her attention on Marta, not lifting her gaze.
Relax
, she told herself.
Converse. Eat.

The afternoon passed, as all afternoons in the Citadel did: she stitched shapes with silk thread, she talked with Marta, she listened to the gossip of other noblewomen. The Ladies’ Hall seemed even colder than it usually was. Shutters covered the windows, fires burned in the hearths, and candles blazed in the sconces and chandeliers, but the dark stone seemed to suck the warmth. She shivered inside herself.

Saliel laid down her needle as dusk fell. The noises in the room changed. Instead of low, polite conversation there was busyness and bustle. Needle boxes snapped shut. Fabrics rustled as ladies rose to their feet.

The next hour was the small freedom of her day, the time she had to herself before dinner. Mothers who hadn’t sent their children to country estates used the hour to visit them in the nursery; Saliel used it to bathe. But she couldn’t get warm, couldn’t relax. The water was too cool tonight.

“More hot water,” she said to the maid.
Please.

The maid obeyed promptly, but it made no difference. Steam curled from the bathwater—and yet Saliel shivered. “A sponge,” she said, and when the maid brought one, she dismissed the woman. “I shall wash myself tonight.”
And wash off Lord Ivo’s touch.
She could feel the imprint of his hands if she allowed herself to think about it.

Saliel scrubbed with the sponge until her skin was red—but she was still cold inside. She rang the bell. “I wish to get out.”

She dined with the married ladies of the court. The room was different, the faces, but the words were the same ones she’d heard a hundred times in the unmarried ladies’ quarters. She ate pork braised in cream and spices, forcing herself to swallow, while beside her Marta ate plain slices of roast chicken.

It was routine: eating, returning to her bedchamber, dressing for the nightly ball. A glance showed nothing out of place.
Have my rooms been searched?
she wanted to ask the maid. Instead, she bit her lip and stood silently while the woman dressed her.

I am Lady Petra
, she told herself as she walked with Marta down the wide staircase that led to the ballroom. The stone balustrade was cold beneath her hand.
I have no reason to be afraid.

But she was afraid, and her gaze went automatically to the dais where the Prince and the Royal Consort sat.

“The rain has finally stopped,” Marta said. “Did you notice?”

Saliel opened her mouth to say
Yes
, but the words dried on her tongue. The Consort was watching her.

Her step didn’t falter.
I am Lady Petra. I have no reason to be afraid.
She made herself smile and dip her head in acknowledgement of the woman.

The Consort returned the smile. It was a small movement of her mouth, sharp. Her eyes glittered blackly.

As black as crow’s eyes.

Saliel swallowed. “Stopped raining?”

She didn’t look in the direction of the dais as she walked around the dance floor with Marta, as she sat and rearranged the stiff folds of her gown, but it was difficult not to snatch a glance. Was the woman still watching her?

Music played, and beneath that was the hum of a hundred conversations and the quiet footsteps of the first couples taking their places on the dance floor. Beside her, Marta sighed. “I shall miss this.”

I won’t.
“When do you think...?”

Marta blushed. Her hand strayed towards her waist. “I think it will soon show.”

And Marta would be confined to the women’s quarters.

“Noble Petra.”

Saliel turned her head. Her skin tightened and the muscles in her stomach clenched. “Lord Grigor.” She smiled, shy and welcoming, and gave the Spycatcher her hand. “How do you do?”

“Very well thank you, noble Petra.” He bowed. His mouth brushed lightly across her knuckles.

Saliel suppressed a shiver.

The Spycatcher straightened. “Would you care to dance?”

His pale eyes were on her face. She felt a compulsion to speak the truth:
No.
“That would be most pleasant. Thank you.” She stood.

Lord Grigor led her onto the dance floor, finding space among the other dancers. Saliel took her place alongside him.

The musicians played the opening chords—a sombre upswing of notes—and the dance began. It was slow and elegant, couples circling and passing each other with stately steps.
But this is more than a dance; it’s a hunt.