“Well, since yer so intent on going to this fest, let’s make sure you blend in. Yer braids are coming undone, and they’re such a foreign style anyway. Let me wash yer hair and pin it up in a Weir fashion.”
“Very well.” Cerúlia walked into the bathing chamber and leaned over the basin as Nana undid her plaits, wet her hair, and started to wash it with the elderflower soap that was kept on hand in the Royal Chambers.
“Oh, Waters!” Nana shrieked.
“What’s wrong?” cried Cerúlia, opening her eyes. But she saw the problem herself: the brown dye that had colored her hair for so many years was dripping off Nana’s hands and running in rivulets down the side of the white basin.
“Is it the soap?”
“Could be,” said Nana. “Or could be the Water itself. The Spirit’s wishes. The Water we get here comes from the spillover of the Dedication Fountain.” The nursemaid poured more Water on the young woman’s hair. “Why and how is your hair brown anyway?”
Cerúlia had neither the time nor patience to explain her disguises and her hair’s permutations over the years. “Well. Obviously Nargis has decided I should return to my natural color. Keep going, Nana. Let’s see what it looks like.”
Nana washed and scrubbed until all the dye came out. Cerúlia’s hair, which had grown to reach the middle of her back, was completely transformed. Instead of the dull brown she had worn since she was eight, or the patchy yellow she’d assumed for half a year in Alpetar and Oromondo, it was blue. A shimmering light blue with a hint of green—some strands darker, some lighter—the shades of the feathers of the blue tanager.
Cerúlia was entranced. She gazed at her hair in the looking glass; she ran her fingers through the curling lower locks like a sieve through a stream. The change in hair color turned her into someone completely different; it made her resemble one of the queens in the portraits.
Nana seemed less impressed, but then she had attended blue-haired queens all her life.
“But what are we going to do with it?” Nana fretted. “Since you refuse to attempt the Throne Room today, yer gonna have to be sick and hide in here. No one can see this.”
“You’re right about that. But I don’t want to miss the wedding. Amongst my mother’s things, couldn’t you find a kerchief, a wimple, something that we can hide my hair inside?”
Leaving the bath chamber door open, Nana went to search while Cerúlia, sitting on a stool, continued to rub her new blue hair dry.
A knock on the hallway door startled her from her reverie.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Duchette Lolethia,” said a female voice, and the handle turned as the Lord Regent’s intended walked in without waiting for an invitation.
Cerúlia, sitting in the bath chamber in a damp, borrowed night shift, had just time to curse herself for not locking the door and to wrap her head in the towel before the woman sauntered into her room.
She jumped up. “To what do I owe this honor, Duchette?” she said, casting down her eyes, bobbing a curtsey, and generally assuming Wren’s shy persona.
“Lord Matwyck sent me to see if I could help you in any way. I heard that your wardrobe … has been misplaced. I am sure that you’re anxious to put in a good appearance on your sister’s special day! Mayhap I could loan you a gown?” Lolethia sized Cerúlia up. “We are close to the same size, I think?”
“That is so kind of you, milady,” said Cerúlia as Wren. “But—”
Lolethia’s eyes had been raking the room, intently looking for information about this last-minute guest. She saw the gown laid out.
“I see, entirely unnecessary! Where did you get this lovely gown, my dear? The lace is so delicate! An antique pattern, I’d wager.”
Cerúlia wished that Nana had chosen something plainer; Lolethia feeling jealous of her clothing was a complication she didn’t need.
“A servant found it for me, milady. I am afeard to wear it. ’Tis much too grand for a Wyndton girl.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Nana had returned to the inner door of the passageway, closed it a bit, and was hiding out of sight.
“Nonsense,” said Lolethia, holding the dress up to her own body and registering that it was clearly too small to fit a woman as tall and buxom as herself. “You must wear it. I insist.”
Cerúlia had come out of the bath chamber. It was vitally important that Lolethia didn’t see the catamount dagger, which lay in plain sight on the bed.
“Milady,” started Cerúlia, saying the first thing that came to mind, “how do ladies wear their hair at fine weddings? I had mine in plaits, because while voyaging it has gotten all dried out by the sea air.” She continued in a confiding tone, “And ’tis so hard for me to be surrounded by such beautiful amber hair. Like yours.”
Lolethia patted her own wavy amber ringlets with obvious satisfaction. “Nonsense, my girl. Country people don’t have amber hair—everyone accepts that. Brown hair can be quite nice.”
“My hair will never look right for the wedding.… Mayhap, milady, you might own a gable hat or a coif that I could borrow to cover it up?” Cerúlia managed to reach the bed and sat down, her body now in front of the dagger.
“I’ll have my maids rummage about when I’m back at my rooms. I’m delighted to help your sweet little family in any way. We are all so fond of our Percia. So humble and polite.”
Lolethia sidled over to the chest and began fingering the objects on top of it. She picked up a perfectly ordinary Weir boxwood comb.
“Is this a souvenir? Where is it from? I hear you have been traveling, my dear. Tell me, where have you been? I do so love to travel myself.”
“Nowhere special.”
Lolethia pressed, “Oh, but you are just being modest, I suspect. You must have had exciting experiences. Or maybe a beau in every port?”
“Nothing like that,” said Cerúlia. “Wyndton girls tend not to have too many suitors.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that!” said Lolethia. “A young woman has got to use her charms while she’s got them. Goodness knows, your sister has.”
“My sister—” Cerúlia wanted to protest at the inference, but Lolethia didn’t give her a chance.
“Time flies, and our youth goes with it. Pretty soon we’ll all be wrinkled and droopy.” The duchess sat down, spreading out her gown with care, and patted the couch next to her. “Now, let’s have a good gossip, shall we?”
“Milady, you honor me, but I’m late already. I should go and help Percia get ready. In Wyndton, a bride would want her mother and her sisters to dress her.”
“How quaint. In the palace, we have maids to assist her, I’m sure.”
“Really? But I bet Percia would be shy to use a maid. The maids here have attended such fine ladies. Goodness, they know so much more about dress and clothing than we do. I’m afeared to ring for one to help me. You’re so kind and friendly; mayhap you would help me lace the back of this fancy gown so I don’t have to call for help?”
This finally succeeded in dislodging the duchette, who rose with a bounce of vexation at the thought of serving as a ladies’ maid to a country lass.
“Aren’t you quaint, little Wren, keeping up country customs! I’ll leave you to it. See you anon, my dear. And then you’ll have to tell me about all your travels.” She moved toward the door. Cerúlia stood up in relief, making certain to position herself between the duchette and the dagger, to escort her out.
“And, oh yes,” said Lolethia, “I promised to look for a wimple. Let me see how much hair we need to cover.” She turned about and reached for the towel.
Although Cerúlia belatedly attempted to swat her arm away, Lolethia yanked it off—and the shimmering blue hair fell down in a tumble.
“Oh! Oh!” Lolethia sputtered, confused. Then with terror, “What is this? You? No! Guards! GUARDS!”
Nana rushed into the room at the moment of revelation, clasping her hands over Lolethia’s mouth from behind to muffle her scream. The
duchette bucked and twisted vigorously; she was a big woman, and terror made her strong. She tried to twist away from Nana, and she fought to wrench herself away from Cerúlia’s instinctive grasp on her arms. Cerúlia let go and dove for the catamount dagger.
In one continuous movement she grabbed it by the hilt, pulled it free of its scabbard, and rose on her toes to drive it straight into Lolethia’s jugular. The startled woman coughed out a bubble of red spittle; then blood began pouring down her chest and her knees started to buckle. Eyes wild, her hands reached out toward Cerúlia, who held them, hoping to provide a modicum of human connection at this last moment of Lolethia’s life. The hands went nerveless and slipped from her own as the noblewoman’s weight sagged to the floor.
She was dead.
Cerúlia and Nana looked toward the corridor. No pounding footsteps. No clatter of weapons. No one appeared. Nana crossed the last steps and latched the door.
Panting, they regarded the body. For all the moons Cerúlia had spent with the Raiders, this was the first time that she had ever killed someone outright with her own hand. She was shocked to discover that she experienced regret, because Lolethia was a young woman who should have had years ahead of her, but no horror or guilt. Not all enemies of the Nargis Throne wore Oro uniforms. This woman had posed an immediate danger.
“Are you hurt?” Nana asked her. Cerúlia shook her head. “Sweet Nargis!” Nana sighed. She touched Lolethia’s body gently with her shoe. “There’s a shit no one will mourn, certainly not the maids she abuses.”
“That’s hardly the point,” Cerúlia rebuked her.
The stress of the moment led Nana to hector her. “You did right. See, girl, sometimes, to protect the throne, one has to do unpleasant things.”
“I am—as you witnessed—quite prepared to do unpleasant things. Nana, you forget I am no longer an eight-summers child. ‘Girl’ is no longer appropriate.” Nana scowled defiantly for an instant, then closed her mouth. “And I have been away a long time and gone through trials you know nothing about; you do not understand me as well as you may think.”
Her former nursemaid glanced at her for a moment, undoubtedly taking in the bloody dagger and the flowing blue hair. She closed her mouth and bobbed a small curtsey.
Already Cerúlia’s mind had moved past the ethics of the killing or Nana’s temper to practical matters. “Who knows the duchette was coming to see me? We must both say that she came, stayed a few moments, and left.”
She gazed down at the gruesome sight. “Where can we hide the body? What about the blood?”
“We could drag it into the passage between the bedchambers,” Nana offered. “I don’t want to put it in your mother’s room.”
“No, I’d rather not have it near me either.”
Cerúlia walked a few steps away. “Wait. I have a thought. Last night I saw her flirting with a big young man. The duke said his name is Burgn. Is he staying in the palace?”
“He’s staying with the other gentry in the Guest Wing.”
“Is there a way to carry her to his chambers?”
“Oh, it’s much too far for us to lug her.” Nana twisted her hands. “But I have a page I can trust to send for someone strong enough … wrap her in a horse blanket … When everyone is at the ceremony … we could make some good use of the distraction of the wedding after all.… The blood’s no problem—I’ll scrub it up myself.”
“Will people be looking for her?” Cerúlia asked.
“They might,” Nana considered, “but this day’s going to be busy and confused.”
“Let’s hope so. What a calamity if she’d managed to sound the alarm!” Cerúlia shook her head, now second-guessing her instinctive response. “I wonder if I could have taken her captive instead of killing her? But she was much too strong, and we didn’t have the help of Damyroth or Whaki.”
Nana looked puzzled by the unfamiliar names but her mind was on practical matters. “Leave the mess to me, Your Majesty,” said she, calmly stepping over the corpse as if it were no longer a matter of concern.
“Now, let’s go into the Queen’s Chamber to get you robed and fix your hair.” She stooped to pick up some items she had dropped in her dash out of the passageway. “This hat would work with a bit of veil, but this kerchief would be easier to tie so as to cover every bit quite securely.”
“One moment, Nana. First, I need to wash off this blood.”
From the washing room she called back, “Could you sew on a loop or give me a belt so I could carry my dagger on my person today?”
“No one will be going armed to a palace wedding, Your Majesty. It would give you away.”
“I guess you’re right,” Cerúlia conceded, though she stared at the golden catamounts with regret.
The cat, Plump-pot, rubbed against her leg, his whiskers twitching. Your Majesty, thou smellest.
Do I smell of blood? Cerúlia asked, with a little shudder.
No, thou smellest of thee.
I don’t understand—don’t I always have my own scent? Didn’t I smell like myself yesterday?
Before, thou hadst thine own scent, but masked by other strong smells.
Really? I wonder … My hair dye had an odor of coal tar and bergamot oil.
Those smells are gone now. Now thy scent wafts without such mask. He rubbed against her again, turned around, and brushed against the back of her calves. Every animal—far and wide—with a nose will recognize thee.
Ah! I understand. I thank you, Plump-pot, for the warning.
“Nana,” she called, “is there some perfume in my mother’s chambers?”
45
The frustrations of the last weeks had stretched Marcot to the breaking point.
Percia had asked him to find her childhood friend, Lemle, whom she’d expected to see when the family arrived in Cascada. Marcot had sent his personal manservant, who reported that the Type and Ink was boarded up, and no one knew what had happened to the owner or the workers; in fact, the neighbors acted skittish to even discuss the subject. Marcot had broached the topic with his father, who had shown concern and vowed that he would look into it. But Marcot had learned to doubt such reassurances, and indeed, no tidings about the printer’s apprentice were forthcoming.
Then he had been shocked by the way his father’s associates had treated his new relations. He shouldn’t have been—he’d known these gentry all his life—but the wedding had brought to the surface their snobbiest behavior. Marcot missed his mother, with her unfailing grace. She would have known how to protect Percia from the likes of Inrick or Lolethia. She would have pressed his father to take a stronger stand. She would have understood.
In the Church of the Waters this morning, however, all his worry of the last weeks melted away. All he saw was Percia’s smile; all he felt was her hand in his; her waist against his arm. Lit by the sunbeams shining through the church’s windows, she looked so radiant; and Brother Whitsury smiled at them so benignly that Marcot’s heart lifted. The cup of Nargis Water they shared quenched a thirst that Marcot hadn’t even known he suffered. Marcot wished he could stand forever in the center of the church with just Percia and the cup.
He only became aware of the audience in the pews when Brother Whitsury led everyone in the traditional hymns “Happy Be the Life Entwined” and “May You Fill One Another’s Cups.” Then he caught sight of Stahlia, Wren, and Tilim sitting together in one section of the church, singing lustily; and the duke and duchess of Maritima, who looked so frail, holding each other’s hands tightly, their eyes closed, with Duke Favian leaning his head on his wife’s shoulder.
Marcot searched for his father and found him sitting alone in a front pew, his eyes hooded.
When the wedding party moved into the Great Ballroom, Marcot walked in a daze. People asked the cost of Percia’s lovely pink gown, which he didn’t know and wouldn’t discuss if he had. So he merely smiled. Stahlia said something about wishing her husband could have been present. Naven kept bragging about being the one who
had brought them together. His father hissed furious comments about Lolethia missing the ceremony.
But Marcot floated above it all, his ears attuned only to the sound of Percia’s laughter. He looked to see what pleased her at this moment and discovered that she and Tilim were giggling at the way the champagne tickled their noses.
Their long and painful separation was over; now she would be close by. During the days I will hear her laughing, and at night I will hear her breathing.
After the opening toasts and courses, Marcot roused himself from his reveries. He moved to another seat to concentrate on having a substantive conversation with his new sister, noticing that today she wore a tight cream-colored kerchief, twisted in the front of her forehead. This was the way peasants wore their hair while working in the fields and it clashed with her dressy gown, but Marcot was prepared to use his dinner knife to gut anyone who so much as looked at her askance. Or anyone who pointed out that she seemed to have put on essence of roses with too liberal a hand.
“Are you enjoying the goose?” he asked.
“It is tender,” she replied, “but this is too emotional a day for eating.”
“I know. I hardly taste a thing.” Marcot beamed at her. “You know, Percia is so overjoyed to have you here.” They both glanced across the table at the bride, who caught their eyes, lifted her cup in their direction, and then turned to answer something Stahlia said to her.
“Wren,” Marcot confided, “I was an only child. One of the many wonderful things Percia has brought me is a little brother; I am delighted to now have a sister too!”
“And I am delighted to have an older brother, Lordling Marcot. But if you are not kind to Percia every single day you will face my wrath.”
They both laughed, but Marcot heard her deep loyalty to Percia and liked her the better for it.
Marcot was well content to sit next to someone who shared his appreciation for his bride. He waxed on about Percia’s delightful qualities for several minutes, letting the food grow cold on his plate.
“Tell me stories about her childhood,” Marcot begged, and Wren related the whole tale of how Percia’s dancing talent had become apparent when she was very young. Marcot noticed that as she talked she tore the bread into smaller and smaller pieces that she rolled about and toyed with; he chalked this up to nervousness about being suddenly thrown into a palace and amongst gentry.
A Broken Queen Page 35
