“That had crossed my mind, and since Violetta seems to be ailing slightly, that may be our best course,” he agreed.
“Ailing? She has not come down with a fever—” Amily ventured, though of course she knew exactly what was wrong with Violetta.
“No, I think perhaps she is overwhelmed by all this—” he waved his hand at the street full of palatial homes, no few of them lit up and hosting festivities. “This is nothing like home. She was excited at first, and threw herself into the preparations, but after the Court reception she was exhausted, and now she just seems listless and nervous. She stayed at home for the last two events we were invited to.” He laughed a little. “At least if she is tucked up in bed with her little dog and her poetry, she’s not finding some handsome devil to break her heart.”
Amily did her best not to wince.
“She’s staying home this evening too,” Leverance continued. “I must confess, if I had my way, I’d stay at home with her, but . . . needs must. There are at least three men who will be at this fete who I am considering for the older girls; they likely won’t approach my wife with something as important as an alliance proposal, so I shall have to be there.”
“Would you mind if I looked in on Violetta tonight, while you and the rest of your family are away?” Amily asked, cautiously. “I haven’t seen her since I brought Lady Dia to you. Perhaps I can bring her some books of poetry I’ve no use for, to keep her occupied and not missing the dancing so much.”
“Oh, by all means! Be my guest!” Leverance exclaimed. Amily smiled a little. Leverance had no idea what she was going say to his daughter; if he had, he would probably have banned her from the house.
Or at least, he would have made certain Violetta was never alone with Amily . . . and above all, never, ever, gave her books!
—
Well, I don’t know if Violetta is going to consider these books “proper” poetry or not . . . nor do I have any notion if she’ll actually read them once she starts them. But I will at least have tried. Amily had chosen her books very carefully indeed from among the many duplicates that resided in the Palace and Collegium Libraries. People were always giving books to the Collegia or the Royal Family, and no one ever seemed to trouble themselves to find out if they were duplicating existing books.
The first three were books of the “epic” sort of poetry, a story told in one single, very long, poem. Much longer than the epic ballads that Bards had to memorize. The first was the story of a famous female fighter named Taelith Twoswords, who rose to become the Captain of the King’s Guard, and, at least according to the poem, accomplished amazing things on and off the battlefield. The second was about a Healer, Vixen, from Vanyel’s time; the strange beasties she encountered and the problems she solved were fascinating. The third was the history of the Duchess of Piravale, who, when her father was too sick to join the King’s forces against Karse, led them into battle herself, with a bodyguard composed of war-mastiffs that she had trained and raised. The thing that all three of these women had in common was that there was not so much as a hint of romantic entanglement in their stories. All three had led very fulfilling lives, and become quite prominent all on their own. The Duchess of Piravale had said quite openly that the more she learned about men, the more she preferred her dogs.
The fourth book was shorter poems, all written by a noted female poet—not a Bard, although some of her works had been eventually set to music. She was a recluse by nature, and in Amily’s opinion, a tremendously deep thinker. She spent most of her life never leaving the house and grounds she had been given by a patron, turning out poem after exquisite poem literally until the day she died.
The fifth book wasn’t poetry at all; it was a very common book of stories about women and girls doing things. Often adventurous things. Usually things that women commonly did not do, and doing them well. Unlike the epic poems, these stories were about women who became master artisans or artificers, who built trade empires, who made incredible artworks, or became famous scholars or teachers. This book was often given to girls just like Violetta to read near the end of their schooling—or at least, that was Amily’s experience. She rather doubted it had been Violetta’s . . . which was a pity. If she’d had this book to read, perhaps she would not have become as fixated on the idea of true love being the solver of all difficulties and the path to happiness everlasting.
She dismounted at the front door of the mansion, and waited while a boy was sent for the stablemaster himself. The doorkeeper would not hear of her taking Rolan to the stable in person. Apparently that was not to be thought of. She left Rolan in the care of Leverance’s nervous stablemaster, assuring him that Rolan would mostly take care of himself, and advising that he just be allowed to stand untacked in a loose box with grain and water and a good warm blanket. Then she stepped inside the antechamber while a servant was sent for. Meanwhile, she waited for Rolan to tell her if things were to his liking. When she was sure her instructions had been followed, she followed another servant into the manse to the ladies’ solar, where she was directed to wait for Violetta’s nurse.
Hmm. Still has a nurse? Amily had expected a governess, or an aged aunt who would act as a chaperone, not a nurse. Nurses usually stopped tending to their charges well before the children reached the age of ten. Well, probably they are just keeping the woman on out of kindness. Or maybe she is good as a chaperone. I hope she is the practical sort—
Unfortunately, when Amily saw her, she knew at once that the nurse was anything but the practical sort. She absolutely babbled about her charge all the way up to the girl’s little room, a great deal of it quite personal information that strangers probably shouldn’t be hearing. Now, perhaps that was because Amily was a Herald, and the silly old woman trusted Heralds implicitly. But Amily thought not. She had the impression that the nurse would babble this way to anyone.
Probably, the family was so used to this that they completely ignored the woman when she started chattering like this, and literally did not hear what she said. But as they climbed the steep, narrow stairs to the third floor, Amily knew the source of at least part of the girl’s dreamy and impractical romanticism. In between inappropriate revelations about Violetta and her family, the nurse went on about the hundreds of handsome and charming young men that were sure to fall instantly in love with her charge. It wasn’t just romantic poetry that had informed Violetta’s world, it seemed.
:You know,: Rolan observed. :If the girl has any talent herself for poetry . . . she could do worse than follow the example of Lady Adora.:
:That letter wasn’t . . . altogether bad, as a prose-poem,: Amily replied, as the nurse rapped on Violetta’s door. :The gods know there certainly is an audience for fevered and passionate love-poems. More than there is for Lady Adora’s work, actually.:
Violetta murmured something Amily could not hear. The nurse opened the door, stuck her head in, and said something sharp that Amily also could not make out, although the words “your betters” and “when your father gets home” were clear enough. Then the nurse opened the door wide. “Go on in, my Lady Herald,” she said with a comically deep curtsey. “If you need anything, there’s a bell-pull by the fire; a boy will be up immediately.”
At least the foolish woman has the grace to leave us alone, Amily thought, as the nurse closed the door behind herself. Of course, she’s probably trying to listen at the keyhole.
The girl’s room was tiny, but most of the rooms in this manse were probably tiny. There was just enough room for the bed, a clothes-chest or two, and a small chair at the hearth. Amily dragged the chair over and sat herself down in it, and only then did she look Violetta over.
The girl was pale, with slightly blotchy cheeks that suggested she had been crying a great deal. She looked thinner than the last time that Amily had seen her, but not by much; so at least she hadn’t been starving herself. There was a little pile of books next to her pillows, about
a half dozen at a guess, and her little spaniel was curled patiently at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t actually under the covers; she was in a comfortable-looking thick woolen gown of dove-gray, and there was a handkerchief sticking out of her sleeve, confirming Amily’s guess that she had been weeping. All in all, she looked exactly like a young girl who had had both a shock and her heart broken.
On the one hand . . . Ugh. She’s hardly more than a child. She has no idea what a broken heart really feels like.
But on the other hand . . . This is the first time anything this terrible has ever happened to her. Just because it is an infatuation, doesn’t mean having it crushed doesn’t make it hurt less. She’s crushed because she poured her heart out to Brand and he threw the letter in the fire. She’s devastated because she felt what she thought was a lifebond . . . and he didn’t. And she’s humiliated because she made a fool of herself. And it all hurts, and she has never hurt that much before in her entire life.
She probably entertained hopes that she would somehow die beautifully and make everyone sorry—especially Brand—but if Amily was any judge Violetta was not the sort to actually pursue suicide. Actually, if Amily was any judge, Violetta was not really the sort to pine until she sickened and died of catching something that would otherwise have been trivial.
Still, I need to make sure that doesn’t happen. Dia already raked her over the coals, now I need to redirect her.
“I brought you some new books,” she said, handing them over. “These are gifts, you don’t need to give them back. Your father told me of your love of reading.”
Violetta took them, brightening a little bit. She examined them briefly, but was well aware that to try and read anything would have been a terrible breach of manners, and put them aside. “I . . . I don’t know what I could have done to deserve such a generous gift, Herald Amily,” she said, with commendable humility.
Amily had decided that she was not going to say anything about how much she knew of Violetta’s situation. Right now, Violetta thought her humiliation was confined to Brand, Lady Dia and Lady Dia’s unknown friend. Why embarrass her more when my goal is to give her something new to think about?
So Amily just shrugged and smiled. “It’s Midwinter, and time for gifts. Your father said you like poetry, and I thought you might like these. My best friend, Master Bard Lena, recommends them highly.”
Violetta’s eyes widened, and she curled her legs under her more closely, tucking her skirts in around her feet. “You have a friend who is a Master Bard?” she exclaimed. And then she flushed. “How silly of me. Of course you do, you live here at the Palace. You must know many Bards.”
“Sometimes rather more of them than I’d like,” Amily chuckled, and so began the stories.
Carefully chosen stories, not unlike those in that last book, of friends and acquaintances, girls she had seen arrive to take classes at the Collegia—not just Bards, Healers and Heralds, but those who were there just to study. All of them went out into the world to become successes. Not so many had romances.
For Heralds, well . . . that was not surprising, although Amily didn’t trouble to explain that to the girl. Given the danger involved with being a Herald, it was more unusual when one made a permanent emotional bond than when one didn’t.
Bards, well . . . Bards had the handicap of traveling a lot, and never knowing where they would be from one month to the next, and they were often middle-aged when and if they got a permanent position somewhere. For Lena to get the position as a Baron’s Court Bard so young spoke volumes for her abilities. And to tell the truth, as one of them had told Amily, “Music is a very jealous mistress. Most people don’t understand that when they aren’t Bards. And when they both are . . . well, then you have two people with two jealous mistresses.”
Healers were the most likely to settle down with someone . . . so Amily kept her stories about Healers to a minimum. Besides, aside from Vixen—well, and Bear—Healers tended to come in at the end of adventures, they didn’t actually have any themselves. And when it came to student hijinks, they generally were the ones standing in the background looking disapproving or apprehensive.
Some of the tales were so funny she actually had Violetta laughing, and not strained laughter either. The third time this happened, Amily wondered when she had become such a good storyteller.
:This last year; it was all the practice you got around the fire. After all, you had two Bards giving you the best of examples, and you are a good learner,: Rolan reminded her, with a smile in his Mindvoice. :I can vouch for that.:
:Why thank you!: she replied, finding that as time went on, it disturbed her less and less when Rolan revealed he was “watching and listening” as she was doing something. It had seemed intrusive at first, and every time he reminded her he was doing so, she felt very self-conscious. Now it was becoming second nature, and more and more it was proving to be very useful.
She stayed about two candlemarks, and by the time she left, she was as confident as she could be that Violetta would at least give the books she had left a try. And if it was even remotely possible to plant the seeds of independence in the girl, well, maybe she had done that, too.
12
The unexpected visit from the Herald had, somehow, managed to raise Violetta’s spirits a bit. Partly it was the assurance that her foolishness had only been noted by three people; Brand, Lady Dia, and Lady Dia’s unknown (but thankfully discreet) friend. Partly it was the reminder that, no matter what the poets said, practical people like her sisters were probably right and broken hearts did not remain broken; she had actually laughed, quite a bit, at some of Herald Amily’s stories. At first, once Amily was gone, she’d been appalled that she had actually forgotten her unrequited love enough to laugh . . .
But then . . . well . . . what was the point of mourning over Brand until she was sick and terrible-looking? Brand wouldn’t care, Brand wouldn’t even know, and it would only worry her Father. And in the end, nothing would change. Brand still wouldn’t love her, he would still be the son of her father’s greatest enemy, and what would she have to show for all of her spent emotion? Nothing but weeks and months of misery.
After Amily left, she looked through the books the Herald had given her. Based on reading a few lines, she settled on the one about the Duchess of Piravale, because it had dogs in it. It wasn’t like the poetry she was used to—this was one long poem, a story, really, in poem form. But she liked it, and it was easy to like the Duchess, who loved her father the way Amily loved hers, and who also loved animals. She didn’t seem to care much for pretty things, and she was a lot more boyish than Amily, but it was easy to like her and want to see what happened next in her story.
The poem was good, too; she loved the way the words came together, fitted one into another like the gems in a mosaic. Beautiful words really, even when the subject was dogs!
She was still immersed in the book, reading it very slowly to make it last, when the rest of the family came home. She could hear them—or rather, she heard the manor come to life again, and decided to come down to see how the evening had gone.
She found her slippers and opened her door and stood in the staircase listening to the general tenor of the voices—because if things had, for some reason, gone badly, she really didn’t want to interact with her family until morning.
But she could hear cheerfulness, and her father shouting for food, so things must have gone well.
She padded down the stairs, heading for the dining room, her little dog coming along at her heels. If Father was ordering food, there must not have been much to eat at this fete, so her sisters would be famished too. As she knew, dancing was hard work, especially in the heavy gowns they all wore. But the weight was worth bearing, those gowns were so beautiful!
The servants that were still awake were all scuttling between the kitchen and the dining hall—except the maidservants that were getting ready t
o help their mistresses out of their gowns and into a warmed bed. So the front of the house was still dimly lit and silent as she slipped through the solar to the dining hall and stood in the doorway.
The Dining Hall had been fully lit, and the fires at both ends built up. The family was down at the far end of the table, with the leftovers from dinner heaped between them. Father wasn’t making any of the servants wait on them; everyone was helping him- or herself. Even Mother, who was usually a stickler for manners.
Father saw her as she hesitated in the doorway. “Violetta! You are looking better! Are you feeling as if you might eat something?” The satisfaction in his voice told her that he was happy with something, and she smiled.
“I am feeling a little hungry,” she said, and joined the rest of the family at their usual spots. They didn’t have the literal “high” table here that they had at home, a separate table on a dais above the table where the relatives and servants ate. Here, there was a smaller table at the end of a longer table, like the bar of a “T” and that was where everyone was sitting now. They’d had goose tonight—she had taken little more than a bite or two—and Father had the entire leg and thigh in one hand, a piece of manchet bread in the other. It looked as if Mother had a piece of egg pie. Aleniel had the same, but Brigette, who had a heartier appetite at all times, had cold beef and pickles with her manchet bread. The cousins were not back from wherever they had gone yet, but they generally didn’t turn up until long after midnight. Then they would sleep until noon at least, eat like starving beasts, then go out and do it all over again. She had no idea where they were going every night. And no idea why Father had bothered to bring them along. Maybe he hoped some of them would manage to find wives on their own. Maybe he just did it to keep them from getting into trouble back home, or worse, making a wreck of their manor and terrorizing the servants.
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 23
