Ilse nodded. “First floor. The far corner on the west side.”
“Excellent. Now hurry.”
The tray held napkins, silver goblets and spoons, and bowls of creamed soup, seasoned with green and red peppercorns. There was also a full carafe of wine. Ilse hurried along the servants’ corridors and through the more public wings, until she reached the more private wing beyond. She passed through several smaller suites, which were empty, and came at last to an arched doorway with paintings done entirely in blues and darker violet, which showed Toc’s death, Lir weeping over his body, and then the resurrection. Balancing the tray against her hip, she knocked.
Lord Kosenmark’s voice called out. “Come in.”
Ilse pushed the latch down with her elbow and swung around to push the door open with her shoulder. She was so preoccupied with keeping the tray level, she didn’t notice Lord Kosenmark’s appearance until she was fully into the room.
He’s naked.
She stopped in shock, then remembered Mistress Raendl’s warning about showing no surprise. She took a deep breath and continued forward, keeping her gaze on the table in front of her, and not the man seated behind it.
Kosenmark made a noise in his throat. Ilse glanced up. A priceless wine cup, carved from jade, sat to one side. It was empty.
He leaned back and gestured for her to refill the cup. Ilse set the tray down, keeping the table between herself and Kosenmark. He was not naked, she saw. He wore a pair of black silk trousers, which the huge curved table had hidden from her view. A fine gold chain glittered against his smooth chest, and his long black hair hung loose over his shoulders.
She refilled his cup. When he nodded for her to proceed, she laid out Lord Dedrick’s place setting. A glance showed her that Kosenmark still watched her. Her composure wavered, but she kept her hands steady. Soup. Spoons. Napkins folded just so. A wine cup that matched Lord Kosenmark’s.
Done. Now Kosenmark leaned back and indicated his own place. Ilse circled around the table to arrange his setting. The napkin had come unfolded. She folded it anew, as Kathe had taught her, and set that by the plate. Kosenmark did not move but she was distracted nonetheless. He was barefoot, and now she saw that his shirt lay discarded in the corner. She caught a whiff of his scent; the smell of wood smoke and cedar transported her back to the night he rescued her. Lord Dedrick had been present then, too, she remembered.
“My guest is late,” Kosenmark commented lazily.
His smiled bitterly at no one, finished off his wine, and poured another cup, emptying the one carafe. Wordlessly, Ilse replaced the empty carafe with the one she had brought. He must have been drinking steadily for at least an hour.
Kosenmark watched her, still with that same bitter smile. “Dedrick is often late,” he said softly. “But I make allowances for his shortcomings, as he does for mine.”
Ilse averted her gaze, then belatedly realized he might take that as disgust.
Kosenmark laughed. “You say nothing. What is there to say? Greta explained it all, didn’t she?”
“My lord?”
His face was flushed, his expression was entirely unlike his usual demeanor. “I heard you when she talked to you in the courtyard. She’s careful of the spy holes and vents and air shafts. She knows about the listening closets, too, I think. She was here when I had the house rebuilt. But perhaps she didn’t realize how the walls carry sound upward—to the open windows.”
Impossible to pretend she didn’t understand. “Mistress Raendl was instructing me, my lord. Nothing more.”
“Of course. You were curious, and she didn’t want you to blunder.” His voice was smooth, whispery like silk, sharp like the keen edge of winter. “I wondered what you thought of the story. Perhaps you’d like more details about my operation, and what spells the mage-surgeon employed to give me a semblance of manhood, without violating Baerne’s decree.”
She wanted to make an excuse to leave the room, but the harrowed look on Kosenmark’s face made it impossible to interrupt, even if she had dared to.
“Or perhaps it’s not curiosity,” Kosenmark continued. “Perhaps you simply pity me. You shouldn’t. I’m luckier than most. Lord Pommersien killed himself within a year of Baerne’s death. Duke Sellen resigned his title to his sister and spends his days in seclusion. And Count Thorren—”
“My lord, I don’t wish to know more. And I don’t pity you.”
His mouth rippled. “But you don’t trust me, do you, Therez Zhalina?”
Above the roaring her ears, Ilse heard Kosenmark say something more about secrets. “No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No, my lord.”
She turned but his hand was already on her wrist. “Stop,” he said. “Mistress Ilse, I—”
Ilse twisted away, but he held her fast. “No,” she repeated. “I will not play your games, my lord.”
Tears of anger and fright blurred her vision. She swiped them away with her free hand. She wanted to say more, that Lord Kosenmark could flog her and dismiss her, but she would not make any trades, of honor or self or—
A rapid knock sounded at the door. Kosenmark immediately released his hold. Ilse sprang away. Kosenmark made a soft impatient noise in his throat and tossed his napkin to Ilse. “For your face,” he said in an undertone.
Cautiously Ilse knelt to pick up the napkin. At Kosenmark’s gesture, she retreated to the far corner, out of sight of the door.
“Enter,” Kosenmark said.
A runner came into the room. “Lord Dedrick has arrived, my lord. He’s just riding into the stable.”
“Thank you. Escort him here as soon as he is ready.”
The door closed again. Kosenmark glanced toward Ilse. She quickly blotted away the tears and smoothed her hair. He held out his hand. She darted forward and dropped the napkin onto the table, then stepped back.
Moments later Lord Dedrick Maszuryn swept into the room. He was a handsome young man, with a lean dusky face and abundant dark hair scarcely contained by its ribbon. “Father detained me,” he said, taking his seat. “But I brought you a gift to atone for my lateness.”
He slid a narrow leather-bound volume from his shirt. A book—an old one with pages darkened by age. Just in time, Ilse stopped herself from trying to get a closer look.
Kosenmark accepted the book with a smile. “Thank you. You’ve been hunting amongst the booksellers, I see.”
“Only for you. Because I know you like such things.”
When he reached for his wine cup, his hand brushed against Kosenmark’s. Kosenmark tilted his hand to meet that caress. “Tell your father that his son has quite atoned for his actions. Was he discussing the beloved familiar subject, or a new one?”
Ilse dropped her gaze, not wanting to witness anything more. But she could not help hearing Lord Dedrick’s throaty laugh. “Both. He reminded me of duty and of risks.”
“He’s not so very wrong, you know. We are both derelict, you and I, in performing our duties toward our families.”
“Now you sound like my father. He wants me to find a steady occupation for my life. I nearly told him you are my occupation.”
Raul murmured something under his breath—Ilse heard the word foolish—to which Dedrick gave an equally inaudible reply. Ilse glanced up and saw that Raul had taken Dedrick’s hand in both of his. His expression was thoughtful, and he no longer seemed angry or befuddled by drink. “We can talk about that later,” he said. “Or not. Greta will be raging in her kitchen if we do not proceed with our meal.”
Throughout the meal, the two men spoke of friends and colleagues in Tiralien’s great houses. They discussed theater and literature and argued the relative merits of various artists. It could be a conversation between any two friends, Ilse thought, except for the warmth in their eyes, and the occasional caress. Once her gaze met Lord Kosenmark’s just as he kissed Lord Dedrick’s palm. His expression went from smiling to blank. After nearly two months in his household, she realized that was a clue, and she wondered what he th
ought behind that impenetrable shield.
After she served the dessert, Kosenmark dismissed Ilse from the room. “Stay outside until we call.” He hesitated a moment, then said softly, “You were right to insist you were not afraid.”
A lonely watch followed. Once Lord Dedrick came to the door with his shirt unbuttoned and asked her to fetch another two carafes of wine. On her return, she knocked but heard no answer. The salon was empty. Voices sounded through a half-closed door leading into another room, the words indistinguishable, but their tones unmistakably intimate. The book still lay on the table. Her fingers itched to look inside. Resisting the temptation, she set the carafe on the table and left.
Several hours later, Lord Dedrick departed for his father’s house. Lord Kosenmark escorted him to the door. He wore a fresh shirt and tunic, and his long hair was combed smooth and tied back with a ribbon, but he was still barefoot. He was carrying the book, she noticed. “Tell Kathe to have the salon and the other room cleaned,” he said in passing.
Kathe ordered Ilse and several other girls to help fetch dishes. Chambermaids were already at work when they returned to the salon. More chambermaids were at work in the private room beyond.
Janna wiped down the table, while Kathe, Ilse, and Steffi collected the plates and goblets onto trays. Both Steffi and Janna were in a good mood. They chattered and laughed while they worked, and for the first time, they included Ilse.
“Lover’s nest,” Steffi whispered, nodding toward the private parlor.
Janna rolled her eyes. “Any good stories?” she asked Ilse.
Ilse shrugged. She was certain Lord Kosenmark would hear if she said anything indiscreet. He listens, she thought, and they don’t know it. Or they don’t care. Feigning a yawn, she said, “They talked. And talked. Nothing worth repeating.”
“I heard his father lectures him,” Janna said. “Tiresome old man. He wants his son at home on the estates, not in Tiralien with Lord Kosenmark.”
“Maybe Lord Dedrick finds it restful here,” Kathe said pointedly.
Janna giggled. “I doubt they rest.”
She and Steffi were both laughing, and even Kathe was trying hard not to smile. Ilse said nothing. She remembered how Kosenmark had kissed Lord Dedrick’s hand and the look in his eyes when he did.
“How do you think they do—” Steffi began.
Kathe cut her off with a gesture. “It’s not our business. Hurry up. We’ve a long night still.”
With Kathe chivvying them along, they were soon done and back in the kitchen. Mistress Raendl immediately sent Steffi and Janna into the common room. “You’re dismissed for the night,” she told Ilse. “Lord Kosenmark’s orders.”
Odd how the noise did not slacken, and yet Ilse could sense the sudden break in the conversations around her. Lys coolly stared at Ilse. Dana elbowed Rosel, who scowled back. Steffi and Janna paused by the doors, both of them stony-faced. Only Hanne’s expression did not change, but she was wrapped in some private grief of her own as she doggedly washed pots and pans.
Ilse thanked Mistress Raendl and left the kitchen. She wished she could explain to Lord Kosenmark that his kindness was a burden, but he would only dismiss her fears and Mistress Raendl would lecture her about questioning her master. She reached the dormitory and slipped into the room, which was still empty. She set the candle on the mantelpiece, then paused in surprise.
A letter lay upon her bed, a bright square against the dark blanket. Her heart beating faster, Ilse took up the paper. A tingling met her fingers, and she caught a whiff of magic’s green scent, combined with cedar and wood smoke—Kosenmark’s scent. When she broke the seal, a wave of magic rippled over her skin. She had heard of spells against prying and wondered if this was one.
The letter had no date and no signature. Just one short paragraph written in a neat elegant script:
My apologies are insufficient. Let me nevertheless offer my regrets. My coin buys your willing service and nothing more. Your secrets remain yours alone.
Ilse glanced at the ceiling and its several vents. He had deliberately sent her away early so she might read the letter alone. Was he listening now? Unnerved, she crumpled up the paper, intending to throw it into the fireplace. On second thought, she smoothed it out and reread the words. It was like a prize, awarded for courage. Or bravado, she thought. She stored it at the bottom of her trunk, underneath all her clothing. Only then could she snuff out the candle and pretend to sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
THE TORMENTS BEGAN early the next day. In hindsight, Ilse was not surprised. She knew how girls in Melnek’s families maneuvered for social ranking, and she’d overheard enough quarrels between the kitchen girls and chambermaids in her father’s house. But that first morning, she thought only about hurrying downstairs before the other girls. If she worked longer today, perhaps they would not mind the hours she had not worked the night before.
She bathed quickly and dressed, her hair and skin still damp, then raced from the baths to the kitchen. To her surprise, Janna and Rosel were already there, eating breakfast. Janna favored Ilse with a long stare. Rosel ignored her.
Ilse sighed and turned away. So they still blamed her for Lord Kosenmark’s favoritism. She poured herself a mugful of coffee and added cream from the common pitcher. In spite of her early bedtime, she had spent a restless night. The private supper, the letter, the idea that Lord Kosenmark knew her identity—all those had mixed together in a series of disturbing dreams. Yawning, she gulped down her coffee.
And spewed it all over the floor.
Salt. Her stomach heaved. She pressed her mouth shut and ran for the alley door, where she threw up again. Behind her, she heard smothered laughter. Ilse wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She’d dropped the cup, too. Mistress Raendl would scold her for that and for the mess. Likely the girls had foreseen that as well.
Reluctantly, she returned to the kitchen, where she found all the girls gathered together. Lys clucked in apparent sympathy. Dana tossed her a sponge. The others shook their heads and rolled their eyes.
So that is how it will be, she thought, sponging up the mess from the floor. Pranks and tricks and snubs. There was no way to know who had plotted this humiliation. The common pitcher was just that, common, and she doubted Mistress Raendl cared to investigate something so petty. Did the girls in her father’s house act the same?
Mistress Raendl did scold her for the broken cup. She also ranted at Ilse for using her best sponge to clean the floor. “It’s for crystal, girl,” she said, with an exasperated noise. “I should think you’d know that by now.”
Ilse sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ll remember next time.”
“Do that. This one is ruined. And try not to be so clumsy.”
Nothing marred the rest of that day. Ilse tested all her dishes carefully before she ate, and touched her tongue to her tea before she drank. Nothing tainted. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe the girls had exhausted their bad humor with one prank.
The next afternoon, Kathe came to Ilse with a basket of new cucumbers. “I need these washed, peeled, and diced. Make each cube the size of your fingertip. It’s for Lord Kosenmark’s luncheon, and Lord Vieth is one of the guests.”
Lord Vieth was the regional governor, an elegant man with exacting tastes, according to rumor. He never visited the pleasure house, but he often visited Lord Kosenmark, and Ilse appreciated the difference. “Your mother must be anxious.”
Kathe grinned. “Of course. I would suggest we all strive for perfection today. Or close enough to please a finicky cook. Once you’ve diced these, give them to Rosel and start on the peppers. Thin curling slices. Imagine them as green ribbons.”
Ilse cleared off her workstation, then laid out the proper knives. She would need water to scrub the cutting board, and more water to wash the cucumbers. She took a pail to the pump outside to fetch water. When she returned, she saw at once that the knives had disappeared.
She glanced around. All the other girls were busy.
Mistress Raendl had gone off to interview a replacement for the last pastry cook, and Kathe was not in sight. Maybe someone borrowed them.
She would have to fetch another set of knives, and search for the old set later. Doubt niggled at her mind. She pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on the task at hand. Today was the first time Kathe had entrusted her with such a task, unsupervised. Ilse wanted to prove herself useful.
She washed the cucumbers thoroughly and dumped the water in the drain outside. When she returned, she found the original knives just where she had left them.
Except now they’re ruined.
She picked up one—its blade was visibly notched. Another one looked dull. The third knife had a cracked hilt and broken point.
Ilse swallowed hard. No crying. No self-pity. Besides, that’s what the girls wanted. Trying to keep a calm face, she fetched another set of knives and had the cucumbers peeled and diced before Mistress Raendl came back. The interview with the pastry cook had not gone well, judging by her stiff expression, and when she found the broken knives, her eyes narrowed.
“I told you not to be so clumsy. Three knives ruined. You did well with the dicing, but those are three knives we cannot use again. It’s not just the cost, girl. Chip a knife and you could put out someone’s eye.”
Ilse shook her head.
“Are you arguing with me?” Mistress Raendl said softly.
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I will be careful.”
More pranks followed throughout the next five days. Vinegar added to her tea. Glasses cracked so that they broke when she washed them. Pins in her stockings. Brushes and rags and spoons that vanished from her workstation when she wasn’t looking. Soon her throat hurt constantly, and her nerves jumped at every sound.
It was late one evening, when there came a lull in orders from the common room, and Mistress Raendl gave all the girls an extra break. Ilse took the opportunity to go outside into the lane. The cold would keep the others away. If they set another trick, well, she was getting used to it. She wandered toward the gardens, to the path where she had first entered Lord Kosenmark’s grounds, nearly eight weeks before. The trees were bare now. Winter had arrived, bringing with it wetter weather and the hint of snow. If she walked away tonight, she would have to find shelter from the cold and damp.
Passion Play Page 15
