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She started. “For what?”
“For what I said outside. For not trusting you.”
Ilse laughed softly. “That’s odd. That’s what I wanted to say to you.”
* * *
SHE SENT HER letter to Ehren the next day. She told herself she would send him a more complete answer within the week, but it was a full three weeks before Ilse attacked the set of papers Ehren had sent her. Finally, late one afternoon, she locked herself in her old office, vowing she would not emerge until she had read and answered everything.
She started with the letter. For all its brevity, it took her an hour to comprehend.
The facts were simple. Their father had returned from Melnek in good health but he had spoken little of Tiralien itself. They had lost their hoped-for contracts with the shipping guild, but had acquired new contacts for the overland routes through Baron Mann, and this new business required all of Petr Zhalina’s attention throughout the spring and early summer. In retrospect, we ought to have foreseen what happened, Ehren wrote. Worn by months of anxiety, he tired easily, and needed constant reminders for details he once recalled without effort.
He grieved, Ilse thought. In his own way.
You never acknowledged that before, said her conscience.
She expelled a breath and willed her muscles to relax. Her father had grieved to lose his daughter. He had also tried to barter her life for a contract with Theodr Galt. Both statements were true. She could do nothing about it. She read on.
In late summer Petr Zhalina had taken ill from the fever. By autumn, he gave the business entirely over to Ehren, thereafter growing so weak, so fast, that Isolde Zhalina asked him if they should write to Therez.
Our father told us, “Therez is dead. I spoke with a stranger named Ilse.”
Ilse propped her head against both hands. Eyes closed, she thought of Raul. She thought of magic. She thought of anything except her final meeting with Petr Zhalin
a. After a while, she had collected herself enough to go on.
Little remained. Petr Zhalina refused to summon his daughter, but the next day he gave a new will to Ehren. A week later he died, and soon after their mother took ill from the same fever. Ehren thought she would recover with time and careful nursing.
He had declared her dead. And yet assigned her a third of his possessions.
Ilse slammed her fist against the desk. “Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you twice over.”
She set the letter aside and poured herself a cup of plain water, before she took up the inventory of her father’s possessions, all written in Ehren’s neat script.
… One mansion in Melnek, thirty rooms, well-maintained. Attached to item 1, the following … Warehouse in Melnek center … Kerzstal Street … Storage barns, three, on the western docks …
The list of properties and possessions covered twenty pages, including several tracts of land outside Melnek, which Petr Zhalina rented to farmers. He also owned town houses in Duenne, more warehouses in Mundlau and Donuth. Ehren listed each one by number of rooms, the land attached, its condition, and an estimated value. Lists of personal items came next—his clothing, jewelry, the painting and statuary in the house—and Ehren had included a brief description and a valuation for each. Ilse found herself reading each entry with care, half hoping the list might provide her with a new portrait of Petr Zhalina. Where is your heart? Do the clues lie in the goods you sold, or the gems you acquired?
In the end, she found only a few more surprises and many disappointments. She reshuffled the pages into a neat square, retied the ribbons, and set the bundle aside. She drank a cup of watered wine, while she considered how to answer her brother’s proposal about the will.
He offered her the choice of taking her share in money or lands or even in jewels and other personal items, saying that their mother agreed to abide by whatever Ilse decided. Making amends for the past, Ilse thought. She felt a twinge of anger. The offer came far too late, and yet …
Unable to bear it any longer, she sought out Raul, who was gazing out the windows of their bedroom, an unheeded book in his lap. He looked around with a questioning smile.
“I love you,” she said.
“Is that how you’ve spent your afternoon?” he asked. “Considering that subject?”
“No. I already knew the answer.” Standing behind his chair, she rested her hands on his shoulders. Raul leaned his cheek briefly against her arm, and she felt a ping, a knot of tension sprung. Was this how love progressed, then? From passion to comfort to mutual sustenance?
“I read Ehren’s letter,” she said. “And the will. All twenty pages.”
“You have a meticulous brother. Have you made any decisions?”
She took a deep breath. Of course he had read enough to know about Ehren’s proposal. “Yes. I will accept his offer. How or what, I don’t know yet.”
“Ah.” Raul placed his hands over hers. “Would you like to hear my advice?”
