The Laurentine Spy (24 page)

It was the only time she’d seemed alive this evening; when she sneezed.

“They grow it in an indoor garden,” he said, to fill the silence between them.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“The privet. It’s grown in an indoor garden.” Shrubs forced to flower out of season, just for this one day.
A stupid tradition.

She made no reply.

“Would you like to see it?” Athan asked.

What words did she think in her mind?
Of course not, you fool. Haven’t you noticed how I sneeze?
Aweek ago, he would have seen a flicker of annoyance cross her face, a miniscule tightening of her lips; now she was perfectly expressionless. “No, thank you, my lord.”

Athan stopped looking at her. Shame was tight in his chest. He strolled around the perimeter of the dance floor, aware of her fingers resting lightly on his arm.

She didn’t want to touch him, but it was her duty and she did it.

Soon you’ll be free of me, my lady.

He halted at a row of chairs, stiff-backed and upholstered in dark velvet. Her friend Marta was already seated.

“Do you care to dance?”

“No, thank you, my lord.” Lady Petra didn’t look at his face when she spoke. Her gaze rested on his shoulder.

“Then I shall bid you good evening.”

An emotion almost flickered across her face. He sensed it: relief.

Athan bowed to his wife.
Forgive me for what I have done to you
.

The musicians played the first notes of a new dance. Athan turned from her. As he walked away he heard Lady Petra sneeze quietly again:
tss tss tss tss tss tss.

“I
SAW ONE
ring around the moon tonight.”

“I saw none,” the Guardian said.

He had arrived before her; the chamber was empty save for himself and the Guardian. Athan crossed the room and sat on an urn and waited, not speaking. It was several minutes before the door to the storeroom opened.

Three stood in the black mouth of the doorway and waited for the Guardian to approach. Athan watched, hearing the faint murmur of her voice as she spoke the words of code.

Three didn’t walk beside the Guardian towards the circle of candlelight; she walked behind him and to one side, distancing herself.

She hates him.

Athan rose and bowed. “You’re well?”

“Yes, thank you.” The languages were different—one guttural, one lilting—but she sounded almost like Lady Petra. Lifeless.

Athan frowned and watched as she sat. Her movements were stiff. She looked brittle, breakable.

“Is the Consort giving you trouble?”

She looked up at him. Her shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “She suspects me still, but the Spycatcher doesn’t.”

Thought of the man’s eyes made Athan’s skin tighten. He repressed a shiver.

“He spoke with you?” the Guardian asked.

Three turned her head, but didn’t look directly at the man. “Yes.”

“And you lied?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I could lie to him.” Athan sat again. He rubbed a hand over his face. The woolen hood was coarse against his skin. “I must answer with the truth.” He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the Spycatcher’s questions.
Did you enjoy your wedding night
? “How is it that no one notices? The man should have been burned by now.”

“They don’t notice because they have nothing to hide,” Three said quietly.

Athan opened his eyes. She sat with her head bowed, looking down at her hands.
I need to get you out of here.
“The key,” he said, turning to the Guardian. “Where is it? I’ll do it now. We can leave tonight.”

The Guardian shook his head. “I don’t have it yet.”

“What?” Athan pushed to his feet. Something bellowed in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether it was anger or fear. “What do you mean you don’t have it?”

“I had to go elsewhere to have it cast in iron,” the Guardian said. He didn’t stand. “It was difficult.”

“Difficult?” Athan spat the word. His hands clenched.“
Difficult
is being up there with the Spycatcher!”

“Do you wish me to bribe a metalsmith who’ll run straight to the guards?” The Guardian’s voice was cold. “The key will be ready in two nights’ time.”

Two more days. Two more nights. Athan turned away and closed his eyes. Did the man realize what he was asking of them?

Tss tss tss tss tss tss.

Athan’s eyelids snapped open. He jerked his head around and stared at Three.

“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s the privet.”

His shock was absolute. It felt as if everything in his body stood still: heart and lungs, blood, breath.

She’s Lady Petra.

The strength drained from his legs. Athan sat clumsily.
No. Not true.

But it was true. He knew it with utter certainty.

Three didn’t know. She wouldn’t be sitting beside him now if she did.

She wouldn’t have let him bed her if she’d known.

His eyes were open, but he didn’t see the candlelight and the shadows, the Guardian. He saw Lady Petra in her nightgown, her face pale and closed, her eyes not looking at him. He felt her skin shrinking from his touch, the tension in her body as she lay beneath him. He heard her breath catch in pain.

It should not have happened.

Rage surged through him, blurring vision and hearing, burning in his throat. He dimly heard the Guardian dismiss them.

Athan rose to his feet. He inclined his head to Three, to Lady Petra, and watched as she walked across the chamber not waiting for the Guardian.
I know why you hate him so much.

He waited until Three had shut the storeroom door before turning to face the man.

“Well?” the Guardian said, brusquely. “What is it? You wish to speak with me?”

Athan tried to breathe, tried to swallow his rage, but it pushed up into his mouth, a silent roar that tasted like blood on his tongue. “She’s Lady Petra, isn’t she?” His voice didn’t sound like his own: it was too loud, too thick. “Three is Lady Petra.”

The Guardian stood very still. The only things that moved in the chamber were the candle flame and the shadows. Then he turned away. “Nonsense.” His tone was dismissive. He picked up the candle.

Athan’s lips pulled back from his teeth. He reached out and grabbed the Guardian’s arm and swung him around. The candle flame almost blew out.

“Let go of me.”

“You son of a whore!” Athan’s fingers tightened. “How dare you do that to us!”

“I said, let go of me!”

Athan ignored the command. He shook the man, making his head snap back on his neck. “How dare you do that to her!
How dare you!
”

The Guardian struck his chest. “Release me!”

The blow, the man’s imperious tone, pushed Athan past control. He released the Guardian with a shove, making him stumble and almost fall, and then hit him with all his weight behind the blow. His fist sank solidly into the man’s stomach, making both of them grunt. The Guardian doubled over, dropping the candle. Athan swung again. His fist connected with the man’s jaw as the candle hit the floor and went out.

The Guardian fell, the sound almost lost beneath the clang of the candleholder on the flagstones.

Athan followed the sound, reaching for the man, pinning him as he scrambled to stand. He grabbed at folds of cloak, at arm and shoulder and throat. His rage was too great for words. An animal sound of fury came from his mouth. He gripped the Guardian by the neck.

The man bucked beneath him, clawing at his hands.

Athan tightened his grip, throttling the Guardian.
How dare you do that to her!
Rage was a wild beast in his chest, savage, snarling, snapping its teeth. Wanting blood.

The man uttered a choked, panicked sound. His fingers became desperate.

A measure of sanity returned. Athan released the Guardian and scrambled back. He sat in the darkness with his head bowed, panting, his heart thudding in his chest, and listened to the Guardian gulp for air.

He closed his eyes.
I nearly killed him
.

“She mustn’t know who you are.” The Guardian’s voice was a croak, wheezing. “It’s too dangerous.”

Athan opened his eyes. He saw only blackness.

The Guardian’s fingers plucked weakly at the hem of his cloak. “You mustn’t tell her.”

Athan pushed the man’s hand aside. “Don’t tell me what I must do.” Rage still bellowed in his chest. The man had made him do something terrible. Something he could never undo.

To Three.
Of all people, not her
.

Athan stood. For a moment he had no idea where north and south were—the blackness swung dizzily around him—and then everything settled into place: urns and tables and storeroom, sewers. He saw them in his mind’s eye.

He turned away from the Guardian and walked across the chamber, clumsy, blind, feeling with his feet for the gutters. The sound of the Guardian’s gasped breaths gave him something to walk away from. His cloak brushed a table, a second one, a third, and then his outstretched hands touched the wall. It took a minute of searching before he found the door to the sewers.

He opened it and stepped through into more darkness.

Athan walked fast up the tunnel, stumbling, not caring about the noise he made. His chest and throat were painfully tight. It was difficult to drag in each breath.

The tunnel widened into a chamber he could sense but not see. He felt for the ledge, his gloves snagging on rough sandstone, but didn’t pull himself up; instead he bowed his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

Of all people, not her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

S
ALIEL WOKE AT
dawn. She blinked her eyes open. The dimness, the hard floor she lay on, the despair, were familiar: she was back in the poorhouse.

Shutters opened in the parlor, the hinges creaking slightly, and reality snapped back into place. Saliel scrambled up from the rug in front of the fireplace. She had the blanket and pillow back on the bed before the maid scratched on the door.

Two nights, the Guardian had said. It was a vast length of time. Two seconds, two minutes, were things she could cope with. Two days and nights were too much.

Relax
, she told herself as she washed her face.
Concentrate on each moment, not on what may or may not lie ahead
.

She focused on the tight sensation on her scalp as the maid plaited her hair, on placing one foot in front of the other as she walked down the long, cold corridor, on making each stitch as precise and perfect as she could while she sat next to Marta in the Ladies’ Hall.

“Noble Marta.”

Saliel looked up. One of the Consort’s attendants stood before them. She had a doll’s face: pink rosebud mouth and plump cheeks, smooth milk-white skin. Her velvet gown was the color of dark plums.

“The Royal Consort wishes to speak with you.”

Marta put down her embroidery. “Oh.”

Saliel glanced across the room. The hairs on the nape of her neck pricked upright. How long had the woman been watching them?

She smiled shyly and dipped her head.
Respectful, unafraid.

Marta stood, nervously smoothing her gown. “Why do you think...?” she asked in a whisper.

A husband, most likely.

Neither of them spoke the words aloud.

Saliel watched Marta follow the attendant across the room.
Poor Marta.
Something tightened in her belly, a clenching, a twisting of nausea.
Stop it.
She bent her head over her embroidery.
Don’t feel sorry for Marta.

Every woman in this room would be bedded by a husband, and every woman would find the experience unpleasant—but they would do their duty with pride. Marta would be proud of herself. She’d not feel dirty.

Saliel was stitching the veins of a leaf with pale brown silk when Marta returned. Something in Marta’s eyes—shining—and in the way she held herself hinted at excitement.

“I’m to marry.”

Saliel laid down her needle. “Who?”

“Lord Renner.”

“Lord Renner? I don’t believe I know him.”

“He arrives today,” Marta said, sitting. “He’s second in command to the new Admiral.”

“Today? Then how is it you’re marrying him?”

Marta blushed and looked down at her lap. “He asked for me. Several weeks ago.”

“You know him?”

Marta nodded. “He commanded my husband.”

“Oh,” Saliel said. “What’s he like?”

“I only danced with him a few times.” Marta glanced up shyly. “I scarcely dared to speak to him. He’s a Commander.”