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The stain had darkened her skin from golden to the copper brown of Károví. Her flat, full cheeks, her otherwise sharp features, all of them so common in Morennioù, now looked startlingly different. She stared harder at this new picture of herself, trying to see her face as Bassar the steward might. As Bela Sovic might.
I will pass. I have to.
A knock sounded at the suite’s outer door. Valara spun around, startled. With an effort, she recalled herself. The visitor would be Ilse Zhalina, most likely, come to discuss their situation. Even so, her nerves buzzed with suppressed alarm as she crossed to the door and opened it.
Miro Karasek stood outside, a shadow against the dim light of the corridor. He had changed his clothes. Gone was the plain dark uniform of the soldier, the hair bound in its utilitarian braid. Now he wore a neat linen costume—loose trousers, a shirt with banded collar, and a voluminous jacket gathered by a cloth belt—the whole a subtle shading of blue upon darker blue.
“Lady Ivana,” he said quietly. “My apologies for the delay. I understand you and your sister had a confrontation with my sentries.”
“A fortunate encounter,” Valara murmured. “At the last.”
His smile was brief but genuine. In a softer voice, he said, “Did you think our script had turned into reality?”
“Yes. No. But it worked to our advantage.”
To her eye, he was like a friend strangely altered, clothed in elegant linen and his hair, still damp from the rain, gathered loosely in a ribbon. He even wore scent, one as subtle as the shading of his cloth. Then she realized she had only ever seen him as a soldier, and not a lord, even in lives past. She wondered, for the first time, how he viewed her.
“Have you dined?” he asked. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I have everything,” she said. “For today. I thank you.”
His glance shifted down the corridor and back. “I told the servants your nerves were badly shaken by your ordeal with the bandits and that you wished for privacy. It seemed reasonable.”
He spoke in a great hurry. She could not read his expression. It seemed a mixture of distress and indecision. Just when she expected him to say more—about their plans, about what she might expect the next day—he turned away. “I must go. We can talk tomorrow. I will send word to you.”
Before she could answer, he was pacing down the corridor.
Valara leaned against the door and pressed both hands and her cheek against it. She heard a ringing of boots over stone fading in the distance.
She drew a breath. How to decipher that brief exchange? Experience said he regretted his decision to give them aid and shelter. Her instincts—but her instincts had proved so very wrong these past six months—but if she believed them …
Abruptly she walked to the nearest window. The storm had passed, leaving the silvery skies clear, except for a cascade of stars. The stars reminded her of Lir’s jewels. Her palm ached from where the three jewels had merged into one.
Death erases us, she thought, recalling the poet René Chartain’s essay. But she remembered the essay’s next line: Death reminds us.
From that she took what comfort she could.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS THE quiet that woke Ilse the next morning.
The quiet had infiltrated her dreams—an unfamiliar silence more absolute than any woodland, or even the hush throughout Raul Kosenmark’s pleasure house, in the hours when courtesans and clients both slept.
As quiet as death.
Her eyes blinked open. There was a long moment of taking in the bare details—the sense of being dipped in blue shadows, how every movement caused her to sink further into a soft and all-encompassing sea of blankets and down-filled quilts. She tensed, still caught between dreams and waking. Then came recollection—the confrontation with Karasek’s sentries, the long ride through the soaking rain, and late arrival at Karasek’s household.
She sat up and pushed aside the curtains around her bed. The hour was barely past dawn. Light spilled through the windows, a pale silvery tide, pouring down the walls and reaching high toward the ceiling of stone. The fire in her grate had died to ashes; the air felt chill and damp. Ilse fumbled into the woolen robe she had abandoned last night and padded over to the stand with its basin and pitcher.
A tapping sounded at the bedroom door. “My lady?”
One of the servants. “Enter,” she said.
A young woman dressed in a dark smock and skirt opened the door, and immediately sank into a curtsy. “My lady. I am your maid Anezka. The steward assigned me to attend you. Is there anything you wish?”
I wish I could open a door from one city to another.
That was a request for Miro Karasek, however.
