“We’ve had a message, my lord, Miss Ventaxis.” He handed a scroll of paper to Charon. “The bird arrived with it only a few moments ago.”
Charon took it and moved aside, Sorrow following him, ignoring the Jedenvat and other nobles who had appeared in the doorway.
Charon cursed.
“What is it?” Sorrow asked, and he handed her the scroll.
Sorrow scanned the words. It was from Harun’s steward, and it said that Harun was in much the same state he’d been in when Sorrow had left him earlier that day. There was no possible way he would make it to the Summer Palace tonight.
Sorrow repeated the word Charon had said, ignoring his raised eyebrows. “Vespus won’t like it.”
“Vespus has little choice in the matter.”
Sorrow read on. Harun would remain at the Winter Palace overnight, and his steward would make sure to keep him sober. In the morning he’d bring him north.
“Now what?” Sorrow said.
“We still need to address the Jedenvat before the Rhyllians arrive, let them know what happened in the inn. But first you need to tidy yourself.”
Sorrow looked down to find there were still leaves clinging to her, and she could only imagine the state of her hair. No wonder the warden had seemed surprised when he’d seen her; she must look a fright.
“I’ll send Irris when everyone is assembled,” Charon said, and she left him, feeling a little embarrassed as she entered the main foyer.
The Summer Palace was beautiful, the floor made of pink marble, the slivers of wall between the numerous wide windows washed a soft eggshell blue. Even the roof was partially glass, to allow inhabitants and their guests to dine and dance under starlight when the long summer days of Rhannon finally darkened. Like the Winter Palace, it was preserved exactly as it was the last time Mael had been there. But unlike the Winter Palace, it was clean.
Shame filled her then. She should have done more to keep things under control. She shouldn’t have let her father be an excuse. She caught herself resolving to do better when she returned and stopped, one hand mid-air as she reached for the banister, as she recalled she didn’t know what she’d be returning from. Nor who might be returning with her.
Something emerald and venomous roused itself inside her stomach at that thought.
“We beg your pardon, Miss Ventaxis.”
Sorrow turned, hand still outstretched, blinking, at two young women who stood watching her. Sorrow guessed they were a year or two younger than her, dark-eyed, brown hair drawn back in long braids that reached their hips, long grey aprons over their black tunics. The elder of the two continued. “Can we do anything for you?”
“I need to freshen up; can you show me where I can do that?” Sorrow said, as the serpentine feeling in her belly fell quietly dormant.
“I’ll show you to your rooms, Miss Ventaxis,” the younger said. “Please, this way.”
They passed through a set of ornate, thick doors into a wide corridor, a part of the palace she’d never been to before. The floor here was thickly carpeted, and Sorrow looked down to see her shoes were leaving orange dust stains in the cream pile. She paused, tugging the shoes off, ignoring the surprised look on the serving girl’s face, and then took a step, moaning with the unexpected pleasure of the softness beneath her feet. The Winter Palace was carpeted, but it had also been constantly used over the last eighteen years, and not replaced. The carpet here was surely as pristine as it had been the day it was laid.
They continued on, passing doors that tempted Sorrow to open them. As in the grand hallway, the ceiling was glass, open to the sunset that was finally beginning above them, casting an orange glow on the walls.
Finally, the serving girl stopped outside a set of doors and, with a small curtsy, opened them. Sorrow stepped inside.
The room was dark but airy, and Sorrow suspected that the window and curtains had only recently been closed. She imagined the girls racing from room to room when they discovered that this year people wouldn’t be coming to merely view the portrait but to stay overnight. Closing windows and curtains, trying to hide the evidence of their crimes.
The crime of wanting sunlight, and fresh air.
Sorrow liked the idea of a pocket of rebellion here in the Summer Palace, as she had her own in the Winter Palace. She liked the idea that the small staff here, forgotten most of the year, lived lives filled with secret pleasures behind the closed doors. Furniture upholstered in reds, blues, golds; windows and curtains thrown open. She hoped the girls had a Malice set, or other games and books they enjoyed secretly too. She made a note to send them some of her own personal games once she was back in Istevar.
Sorrow crossed to the drapes and pulled them aside to find a huge window behind them. She peered through the glass and found the room faced a garden she’d never seen before. Lush palms, thick grass, broad waxy leaves, all lit by the last of the sunlight.
A rush of vertigo hit her, and she drew back, taking a sharp breath. Looking down into the garden, even through the glass, reminded her uncomfortably of what had happened in Rhylla by the river.
“Are you all right, miss?” the girl asked, and Sorrow nodded, allowing the drapes to fall into place again.
She examined the rest of the room. There was a pair of cream couches, and Sorrow marvelled at them – the material looked so new, so clean. No holes or patches, no stains. The legs ended with the paws of lions, a table between them containing a platter of fruit, and a carafe studded with condensation. As Sorrow moved further in she saw two open doors, the one to the left revealing a bed furnished in white bedding – white! – so soft it looked to Sorrow like a cloud, and to the right a bathroom, the feet of the bath clawed to match the sofas.
The girl hovered nervously in the doorway. “Is everything to your satisfaction?” she said.
“It’s lovely,” Sorrow said. “Are we – where are we?”
“In the palace?” the girl asked, and Sorrow nodded. “We’re in the chancellor’s wing – also called the Goldcrest wing, but there was no bedroom assigned for you in the plans. This is one of the most important guest rooms, though.”
“It’s lovely,” Sorrow said again. “I’ve only seen the staterooms before.”
“Would you like a tour?” the girl asked shyly.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Sorrow said.
The girl nodded. “Can I do anything else?”
“No, except tell me your name?” Sorrow said.
“Shenai, if it pleases you, miss. My sister is Shevela.”
“Have you always worked here?”
“Yes, miss. Our father is the steward. We were born here.”
They had been lucky. To have grown up somewhere where they had the chance to live like this. “I’d like some fresh clothes,” Sorrow said. “But that will be all. Thank you.”
Shenai curtsied again, and then left Sorrow alone.
She wandered around the room, touching everything she came across: the brocade rope between the silk of the sofa and the wood of its frame, the cool eggshell-blue walls with their stucco detail. In the bathroom she lifted the unmarked jars that lined a small shelf and smelled them, one by one, unable to name most of the scents but a little bit in love with them all. The soft towels, the chill of the enamel on the bath. She ran the taps, cold, then hot, and marvelled at the smoothness of the plumbing, much less temperamental than in Istevar.
A knock at the door announced Shenai or Shevela’s return, and Sorrow called for them to enter. She was surprised and pleased to find it was Irris instead, carrying a black gown.
The two girls embraced without speaking, holding each other tightly.
“Are you OK?” Irris asked, pulling back and holding her friend by the arms as her eyes roved her face.
The moment she released her, Sorrow slumped, suddenly drained, as though she’d been saving the last of her energy for this. “I don’t know. I can’t think. It’s all happening too fast. And the moment I think I have something straight in my
head, something else happens.”
“You don’t think he’s really Mael?”
Irris’s tone told Sorrow that, like Charon, she didn’t believe it was possible. Sorrow wished she had their conviction. How were they so sure?
“He looks like the portraits, there’s no denying it, and he does have the mark on his neck, though I suppose it could be a tattoo.” Sorrow pulled her old gown over her head and took the new one from Irris, holding it tightly, her fingers twisting the fabric. “And there are some old clothes that Vespus says were what he was found in. But how could a little boy survive that fall? I looked down into the water. It’s so high, and the Archior is so fast. He couldn’t swim. And, as your father pointed out, the timing is one hell of a coincidence. My father being as he is. The Jedenvat’s vote. Mael said he only found out they were coming last night. But, really, what is the likelihood of this all happening now by pure chance?” Her words were a stream of consciousness, tumbling from her mouth, and she wasn’t sure if any of what she’d said made sense.
But Irris had understood. “Impossible,” she agreed.
“He saved me,” Sorrow blurted, apparently not finished.
“Who?”
“The boy. Mael. He saved my life. We went for a walk – I needed to get away – and he came with me. We were by the river, and I slipped. He could have let me fall. But he didn’t.”
Irris stared at her, and Sorrow shrugged. It was the only thing she couldn’t fit into Vespus’s alleged plan. The way Mael had stepped forward to protect her, not once but twice. The way he’d saved her. The sincerity in his voice when he’d told her he wouldn’t let her fall. His overwhelming niceness. He didn’t need to be nice to her. So why was he?
Irris shook her head. “That doesn’t mean anything. He had to save you. If you’d fallen, everyone would have assumed he’d pushed you. To get rid of you.”
“I suppose.” But it didn’t feel right. And it didn’t explain why he’d moved to stand between her and Vespus. Unless – a new thought dawned on her – it was part of his plan to wheedle his way in. For all she knew, he and Vespus had planned those moments, so Mael could seem like a hero. After all, hadn’t she thought their words in Rhylla had sounded rehearsed?
She wished she knew. She wished for a fact, something solid, instead of stories and speculation.
Though she was more confused than ever, Sorrow stopped wringing the gown in her hands and smoothed it. “Thanks for this.”
“Don’t thank me yet. The Jedenvat are waiting for you.”
Something in her tone made Sorrow stop in the act of pulling the new gown over her head. “What am I about to walk into?” she asked.
“Chaos,” Irris said simply.
Irris kept a reassuring hand on Sorrow’s back as she guided her to a seat in the hastily opened council room of the Summer Palace, but after that Sorrow was on her own.
The moment she sat down, the room erupted.
“Is it him?” Lord Samad was halfway standing, seemingly seconds from climbing over the table to grasp her. “Is it Mael?”
“Of course it’s not,” Bayrum Mizil scoffed at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If everyone could please remain calm…” Sorrow tried.
“How could a child survive that fall?” Tuva Marchant ignored her. “Ten men lost their lives diving in after him. Ten strong men who knew how to swim.”
“He survived!” Samad roared, gesturing at Charon, as the vice chancellor’s cheeks darkened with either embarrassment or rage.
“My lords and ladies, please…” Sorrow tried again to interrupt, but Samad and Tuva, who had never seen eye to eye, were too deep into their argument.
“If Sorrow had been born a son, would you be so keen to cling to this pipe dream of a dead child returning to life? No! This very morning, all of you –” Tuva paused to point a finger at everyone in the room “– voted to invest Sorrow. And now? Tell me, have you changed your minds?”
“How can we invest her now?” Kaspira said. “We have to know for sure whether the boy is or isn’t Mael.”
“He isn’t Mael,” Tuva shouted. “Mael is dead.”
Sorrow finally sat back, watching the Jedenvat argue among themselves. The frequent angry glances Charon shot her way demanded she should do something, but she could see there was little point. They wouldn’t listen. Not to her, not to each other. Not now. Better to let them get it out, before Harun came, before the Rhyllians arrived.
Besides, she didn’t know what she believed, and she hadn’t had a moment to herself to even think about it. So she stayed quiet, her thoughts turning again to how Mael had protected her. Smiled at her. She tried not to glance at the clock as Samad, Tuva, Kaspira and Bayrum continued to bicker; soon they might not be her problem at all. They might be his. All of Rhannon might be his.
And once again that sinuous flash of something acid green burned inside her, making her sit upright, the suddenness of the movement silencing the Jedenvat.
It was at that moment that the steward knocked on the door, appearing terrified, as he announced that Vespus’s party, and the boy, had arrived.
“Bring him here,” Lord Samad demanded.
“Yes, I’ll take a look at him,” Tuva said.
The steward shot a desperate glance at Charon. “Lord Vespus asked if they could go straight to their rooms, seeing as the chancellor isn’t here.”
“How did he know the chancellor wasn’t here?” Sorrow asked.
The steward swallowed. “He asked… And I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to say.”
Charon took a deep breath. “Perhaps all of us would do better to get some rest and meet again in the morning. When we can control ourselves.”
He shot a pointed look at Tuva and Samad, who both sat back in their chairs, still scowling at each other.
The steward left, and everyone turned to Charon, waiting.
“We need to present a united front tomorrow,” Charon said. “Put aside your personal beliefs and feelings, and think about what’s best for Rhannon.”
It seemed to Sorrow that this last was directed at her.
Sorrow went straight back to her rooms after the meeting, her body aching and her eyelids heavy. But for the second night in a row, the moment she climbed beneath the sheets, she was wide awake again. She tried, for a while, to trick herself into falling asleep, counting her breaths, in and out, telling herself stories. Sleep wouldn’t come, and so she sat up, swinging her legs out of the bed, reaching for the robe that had been left for her.
She padded silently first to the table, pouring herself a glass of water, before crossing to the balcony. She’d left the doors open, and a cool breeze was blowing in, the scent of the river on it. She stepped out on to the cool marble structure and looked down, the garden shrouded in shadow, and silent. Above her thousands of stars glittered, and something close to peace, despite everything, settled over her. The night air cleansed her, stripping away her worries and fears, and the world was so still she might have been the only person in it. She found she liked that idea.
No more worry about her and Rasmus, no more rage at her father. No more frustrated empathy for her people. No Mael. Again that dangerous thought: Would it be so bad if the boy really was Mael?
She stepped back inside and put the glass down, belting the robe around her waist. She was restless suddenly, and full of energy, as though the moon had charged her. She looked at the double doors, and wondered if anyone was outside them, guarding her. Before she could really consider it, she’d opened them, finding the corridor beyond mercifully empty, save for two guards stationed at the end. She walked towards them, raising a finger to her lips. And then her feet were taking her out of her wing, her hand pulling the door gently to behind her, and she was ghosting through the halls of the Summer Palace.
Gone by Sunrise
She opened every door, stepped into every room. She didn’t linger in her parents’ old quarters, barely sparing a glance for the portraits that hung
on the walls. She closed the door to Mael’s old room the moment she realized what it was, deciding she’d had more than enough of him that day.
Every time she saw a guard, she did as she had done earlier, asking for their silence with a gesture, and it was granted, with a bow, or a nod, or sometimes no acknowledgement at all, as though they hadn’t seen her. Sorrow met no one else on her travels. The Summer Palace kept a minimal staff; those who did work there would be fast asleep by now. The palace was hers.
Thanks to the glass ceilings, the pale walls, and the bright light of the moon, she needed no lamp, perfectly able to see as she pushed open the doors to the rooms beneath her own. She found the breakfast room. Beyond it was a patio, and she realized what she’d thought were windows were glass doors, every panel able to open out so breakfast could be enjoyed beside the gardens. Further still she found small salons, candy-striped chairs and games tables hidden beneath dust sheets, an old harp with warped strings that sounded like tiny screams when she plucked them. A gentleman’s room, a pot-a-ball table at the centre, a small bar in the corner, which, when she opened it, still had bottles inside, sticky residue coating the bottoms.
Behind the grand hallway she found a ballroom with a huge floor for dancing, five chandeliers suspended above it, sconces at the wall to make it as bright or as dark as it needed to be. There were spiral staircases in each corner, leading to a balcony level with boxes where observers could sit and watch the dancing below, or secret themselves away for other pursuits. Sorrow’s stomach twisted, and she left the ballroom swiftly, heading for the part of the palace she did know; beneath the swallow wing, where the walking gallery, main drawing room, and library were.
Her feet carried her to the main drawing room, and the handle felt cool beneath her palm as she opened the door. The room was day-bright from the full moon, and, as if it had been planned, a shaft of moonlight fell directly on to the covered easel that contained the latest portrait of Mael, as he would have been at twenty-one.
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