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She liked how his hands felt, the palms warm and rough, the sense of strength and gentleness combined. She especially liked how his hands sought her, whether in the night or like now, to offer comfort. “Tell me. Or rather, tell me what you think. I can’t promise I’ll agree.”
Raul nodded. “Fair enough. Consider this, then. You might find it easier to accept your inheritance in money. If your brother needs to, he can sell certain items. Let him choose what to keep and what to sell. I can have my agent contact his for the details of the transfer.”
Ilse kept her gaze on their hands, brown against brown, like honey and tea. “Taking the money seems so cold.”
“Not entirely. Accepting your inheritance will soothe your brother’s sense of guilt, and your mother’s. If it troubles you to accept only coins, then pick a few items for mementos—a painting you loved or some jewels that you used to wear.”
Sensible advice, which took into account both her needs and her heart. Delicately given, too. Though he did not mention, nor did she, such an inheritance would grant her independence.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll write Ehren tomorrow.”
Raul tilted his head back to look up at her. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Ilse shrugged. “It’s not that. It’s … It hurt to hear what my father said about me. It hurt that I can’t talk to him again. Or argue with him. Or even tell him I was sorry. And yet, if he were here, I couldn’t say any of those things.” She swallowed against the ache in her throat. “I am his daughter, whether I like it or not.”
He lifted her hands and kissed them. “You are Ilse. You are yourself, and no one else.”
* * *
THEY DINED TOGETHER in midafternoon then separated once more, Ilse to write her brother, Raul to visit several city councillors. The visits were ostensibly social, but Ilse knew that Raul wanted news about Lord Khandarr’s doings in Tiralien. The war, as she called it, had subsided to doubts and suspicions on Raul’s part, but not entirely. It was not peace, it was more like an uneasy truce, where both sides ceaselessly watched the other.
For her own task, she carried her papers and writing materials to her old office—the one Berthold Hax had assigned her when she started as his assistant. A whiff of paper and ink lingered in the room, along with a sense of hopefulness that she associated with those early days as Hax’s assistant. Her own held too many painful memories—Hax’s death, Dedrick’s return from the capital, the last and most bitter argument with her father.
I lay with thirty men.
Your grandmother is dead.
She blew out a breath. Enough. She laid out her writing materials and arranged her pens, which helped to settle her thoughts. She selected a sheet of foolscap from the stack, dipped her pen in the ink, and tapped away the excess. Pretend you are writing a report for Mistress Denk, she told herself.
Three drafts later, she had a letter she could send to Ehren without regret or shame. She made a fair copy on good parchment, signed it, and set the letter aside to dry. Her task was done. But she paused, the pen still balanced between her fingertips, as though it wanted to form another word or two. The runner would ride back to Melnek tomorrow …
Ilse dipped her pen in the ink.
Dear Klara …
She crossed out the line and started over.
Dearest Klara. You know I left home suddenly. I don’t know what my family said, or what other rumors you heard, but here is the truth—the truth through my eyes, at least.
She wrote without pause, knowing that if she stopped, she might not have the courage to start again. She would not tell Klara everything—that would be too painful—but she would tell her as much of the truth as she could, as though Klara sat across from her, listening to the words Ilse set to paper.
… and so I left home, as quickly and secretly as possible. It was a difficult journey. I had intended to vanish into Duenne’s streets and find a position, but I had to change my plans suddenly. I will not say more. Imagine what you like. Imagine a difficult painful time. That is all.
She paused. There was no need to talk about her time in the kitchens. Or the business with Rosel’s spying. Even talking face to face, Ilse was not certain she could adequately explain things. She went on.
Eventually I found a home in Tiralien. And Klara, I found more than I looked for. He is more than any poet or historian. He is … He makes me laugh, Klara. He makes me think. You would like him.
Ilse spent the rest of the afternoon clearing up long-neglected business. Officially she was no longer Lord Kosenmark’s secretary, but she continued to handle most of the usual tasks. Before she was aware of it, evening had arrived. A runner brought her word that Raul had returned and was below in the common room.
“Tell Lord Kosenmark I shall come down directly,” Ilse said.
She washed away the dust and ink, then hurried down the stairs. The evening had already turned busy. Dozens crowded the common room, their voices rising in a thick hum. Ilse sighte
d Raul in the far corner, between Lothar Faulk and Emma Theysson. Covered dishes and wine jugs crowded the table in front of them. Raul looked up with a smile and beckoned to her.
“You look virtuous,” he said as she took the seat beside him. “You must have spent the day in your office, penning reports.”
Ilse laughed, self-consciously. “Kathe told you.”
