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“Ms. Cosmin is doing the best she can. She is in a brand-new city. You remember what that is like, don’t you?”
“You are far too soft on her. Look at how uselessly she’s handled the herald.”
“You told her to avoid him.”
“I did nothing of the sort! I merely said that she was not to help on whatever mission the archon has set for the boy. But I never said she couldn’t pretend to remain in his good graces. That is what a true servant of the senate would have done—remaining close to the herald out of pretense, ensuring they knew what was happening, ensuring the archon’s lapdog wasn’t out there destroying the relationships we’ve spent decades cultivating. But she is clearly too stupid for such subtlety.”
“And if she had done that, you wouldn’t have punished her for disobeying your explicit orders?”
“I never said that,” said Ms. Securia with a cruel chuckle. “She has the archon’s blood in her veins. I doubt we will ever be able to trust her loyalty.”
“Please, Ms. Securia, why don’t we just give her a proper chance. She puts in the hours. She wants to help. I think if we let her get out there, into the fray, she could be a great asset.”
“And if we do, you think she won’t be passing on our secrets to the archon’s little pet?”
“We have her for five years, Ramuna. We can’t keep her trapped away that entire time.”
“Well, on your head be it, Jaspar. On your head and your reputation.”
Teigra lay still as the words cut, afraid that any movement would be heard.
It was kind of Jaspar to defend her so. He was always kind to her. And in the days that followed, she became increasingly thankful for his company.
The boy knew so much about Ardora, and always managed to keep his head up, despite Ms. Securia’s micromanagement, or her insistence that her name appear on all contracts, even if he’d negotiated them. Ms. Securia was obviously jealous of his relationships around town, of his reputation, of his kindness, and never wished to give him even one sliver of credit.
After that overheard, late-night conversation, he started bringing her out on his trips to the surrounding farmlands, touring pear groves and vineyards. Despite the nerves of meeting so many new people, she was grateful for him nudging her to get involved in the conversations, throwing to her with a playful grin, making sure she couldn’t just stand back and watch.
Once or twice, she’d even been able to use those little snippets of family history she’d read about to discuss the passion projects of a particular farmer, or to ask about the status of children and grandparents.
Afterward, Jaspar had praised her, talking about how well she was doing, and how much improvement she was making. Just as he praised her on the rare overnight visit they’d made to the small but well-heeled low polities of Caravagis and Zant, in the plains beyond the big city. They were home to two of the most famous and prestigious horse breeds: Caravagi stallions were beyond fearless, and few varieties could match a Zante for pure speed.
Over those two days, she hadn’t needed to fake a single word, so excited was she to see and smell and touch that little bit of home.
Standing out in the field, surrounded by the familiar sounds and familiar smells, she could almost’ve been under the stands at the Alogo, next to a blood bay mare she never got the chance to farewell.
She must have talked more in those two days than she had in the weeks beforehand, running thumbs along withers to test spine stability. Pinching gaskins to assess the flexibility of the leg muscles. Laughing with rough old men in the common language of horse-rearing, to the point that Jaspar remained silent, head cocked and with a faint smile, completely out of his element.
And without even intending the outcome, ink had been laid on parchment, striking deals far bigger, and at far lower costs, than Jaspar had ever dreamed of. In just two days, they’d secured enough steeds to cover the needs of the entire Mestibian peace corps for a year!
On that night, back at their inn, Jaspar had hugged her outside their two rooms in giddy pride, holding her small in his arms, telling her how amazing she was.
He’d smelled of sweat and the citrus oil that smoothed his soft fur.
It had been... nice.
It had been... comforting.
She’d known he was just humoring her with all his kind words, as one might praise a child for their oratory skills after their very first symposium. But still, there were times—like when he looked at her with those big, friendly eyes or reached out innocently to brush a stray strand of hair from her face—when she almost believed him.
And on that night, with the steed deal freshly signed, as she’d lain back in the bed of the inn, she’d finally found herself heeding Fabulosa’s advice.
She’d finally given praise to the gifts that Ardora had given her.
As their doors had closed, and she’d dwelled on the minotaur’s smell, she’d found herself replicating, for the first time in her entire life, the sordid strokes of the maiden atop the plinth.
The amateur actions toward her own body had given her a sensation so intense, so wonderful, that she’d had to bite down on her pillow to stop her groans from escaping through the parchment-thin walls.
In the morning, she’d awoken feeling shamed and sinful, barely able to meet Jaspar’s eyes. At that moment, she’d swore that she would never do the wicked action again.
