Page 135 of Crown of the Courtesan

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t argue. Scratching his beard, he instructs me on how to find the housekeeper in a room adjacent to the kitchens.

Thanking him, I trudge down the corridor with my candle. Sweat quickly trickles down my back. The entire castle is sweltering in tonight’s steamy heat.

I enter the spacious main kitchen, which holds long, narrow tables and multiple empty hearths with cauldrons hanging from their brick bellies. Windows rise to the ceiling, reflecting the night sky and twinkling stars.

On the center of the table, a wooden pitcher and a stack of four cups sit. I eagerly pour myself some water.

“M’lady, pssst⁠—”

A quick look downward reveals a small boy in homespun clothes. They’re made of linen in shades of brown, but they fit cleanly without any rips.

“Oh, my!” I set the cup down. “You surprised me. I didn’t see you there.”

“My Da says that I’m a right sneak.”

“That you are,” I say, holding an extra cup out to him. “Would you care for some water?”

“Nah,” he answers with an air of importance. “I got something far better.”

“Better than a cold drink on a scorcher like tonight? I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Let me show you. It’s amazing!” Just like other little children who rarely stop talking once they start, he keeps rambling: “You go through this hallway right here an’ then go down some stairs an’ then—then you’re at the… They have it all down there… You jus’ have to come see it!” The boy pulls on my dressing gown, his chubby fingers wrapping around the fabric.

“That sounds amazing,” I say, unsure what to do or where the boy’s parents are.

He exclaims, “Sally said my Da was lyin’, but he brought me on his rounds this week while Ma is visitin’ my auntie.” He grins. “Now I jus’ gotta find a way to keep it from melting so I can prove Sally wrong.”

“Melting?”

“Yes, it’s—it’s—well, I jus’ gotta show you, m’lady.”

All things considered, he appears to be a lively, well-cared-for child. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check his claims and ensure he gets to where he needs to be. And in any case, I’m not particularly interested in returning to my chambers so soon.

He leads, and I follow him with my candle through the kitchen to the far corner, opposite the housekeeper’s room, where a closed doorway lies next to the pantry and hearth.

The passage the boy skips through is unassuming and out of the way. We step down an uneven stone staircase that leads to a wide landing, barricaded by a handrail.

I pause, squint, and let my eyes adjust. From where we stand, we have a clear view of a cavernous alcove under the cliffside—an opening to the ocean. It smells musty, like wet rock and seaweed. I set my candle down on a nearby workbench.

A small wharf with a handful of dinghy boats tied to it rises and falls with the tide. Some workers load large, square crates onto the decking. Huffing and puffing with exertion, they see us and cease their task. One of the older men yells at the boy, who skids to a halt in front of what I assume is his father. The man gently barks, “Dinna I tell you not to run off? Ma will nah let you return if you don’t listen, boy.”

“Aw, but I made a friend.”

“Apologies, m’lady,” the boy’s father says as he recognizes my noble status and lowers his head. “He won’ be bothering you no more.”

“Oh, he wasn’t a bother.”

“Here, for your troubles.” He takes a crowbar and wrenches the wooden lid from the crate. The young boy leans over the opening, reaching downward. Bringing out a metal scoop, he motions for me to open my hands. A frozen ball of shaved ice drops into my palm.

“It’s the best stuff,” says the boy while also receiving a handful as his father tells him to sit on the ferry boat. “Eat it before it melts!” the boy yells before turning his attention back to his own ice ball.

My teeth crash into the ice, and a shiver runs down my spine despite the sweat pouring from my skin. With the child back in the proper care, I thank them, waving goodbye before leaving the underground harbor with my candle.

I head back up the stairs. It’s time to finally locate the housekeeper, but before I can enter the kitchen again, I hear something. I slow my pace on the staircase. Sounds rumble from the other side of the door. My gasp extinguishes the candle’s flame.

Empress Erah’s voice filters into my ears, and my hearing picks up each word precisely. She isn’t alone; her son responds in clipped phrases. Their conversation is tight and on edge.

“Out of wine already?” Rett asks, irritation lining his tone.