Johanna yawned, covering her mouth widely as her emerald eyes winked closed. She wore a dark nightgown, layered silk that had surely once been quite expensive but now was well-worn, nearly to the point of shabbiness. The lavender nightgown buried in her chest would stay there until it was recolored—never again would she wear lavender if she had any choice in the matter.
“Sleepy?” Isolde asked, waving at the chessboard that sat between the two women on the richly patterned carpet that warmed the cold stone floor of what had once been the old duke’s bedroom. The duke’s foster sister had also changed into her nightgown, a warm maroon velvet affair trimmed with warm fur.
“I think you have this one,” Johanna said, pointing her finger down at her king and tipping it very gently. It wobbled but didn’t fall over. “It may be early, but I think I am well enough sleepy.”
“Really?” Isolde stared down at the board, reaching over to pick up the white castle. “If you’d put your castle here, you’d have me.”
“You’d have my castle, easily enough, and pose an unanswered threat to my night ship,” Johanna said, reaching over to move Isolde’s queen. Then she paused. “Oh. But then I could fork your queen.”
“Yes. I’d be forked, completely and utterly.” Isolde moved Johanna’s knight. “So, it was really your game.”
Johanna yawned again, stretching widely. “Not unless I saw that, which I didn’t until you moved for me. So, you’re at four matches out of five, and I’m not ready to go for five out of nine to try to better you for the day.”
“Sorry that it’s been such a boring day pent up in the tower like this,” Isolde said. “I know you like to at least get out and ride the courtyard. I don’t know what Avery’s been about—something went terribly wrong yesterday is all I know, and I don’t think it’s London burning like Fiona says. My mother won’t tell me a thing, and Sir Marcus is worse.”
“How can he do worse than not telling you?” Johanna asked.
“He tells me not to worry my pretty little head about it,” Isolde said. “My mother just changes the subject.”
“So, the problem is that he’s calling you pretty and little?” Johanna smiled. “He is rather taller than you; you can hardly object to him calling you little, so it must be the pretty part.”
“No!” Isolde blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing with frustration. “Yes? I’m used to my mother bossing everyone around, but… Sir Marcus isn’t… he’s…”
“He is the seneschal,” Johanna said. “That means he’s supposed to be in charge of the castle. Wasn’t there a seneschal before him? Lucas?”
“Lucas did whatever my mother told him to do,” Isolde said. “And he’d always tell me what he knew if I bent his ear. Sir Marcus keeps secrets, and it’s just not fair.”
“Well, it’s kind of you to keep me company, Lady Isolde. Sleep well.” Johanna stood, offering her hand to Isolde.
Isolde took Johanna’s hand, noting the surprisingly firm grip as she stood up. “If you don’t mind—nobody will tell me what’s wrong, but my mother told me I was to stay with you tonight, and I think—”
“The Lady Maude has some nerve dictating sleeping arrangements,” Johanna said sharply. “If Sabine can shutter herself in her chamber all day saying she feels unwell, surely I can have a quiet night’s sleep by myself. No offense to your company intended.”
Isolde raised her hands. “Hear me out, please; I don’t mean to impose simply out of whim. I have barely gotten my chamber to myself once more, and I would rather I had a night in quiet solitude myself. When my mother told me I should stay with you tonight, she didn’t say why, but when I talked to Gregor about some of the hounds being away—there was something that happened in the city, and whatever it was, it was related to the murder of Baron Greystoke. Meaning, also, the murder of Gelle and Ivette scant hours after they became engaged to my foster brother. Whatever happened in the city was very bad and related to the murder of two of Avery’s fiancees.”
Isolde paused, and Johanna nodded. “Go on.”
“If the murderer acted on behalf of one of the other brides—the consummation queue puts you first, and my mother knows that. Tomorrow night is yours, unless someone can do you ill between now and then, whether by violence or gossip.” Isolde placed a hand on Johanna’s upper arm and squeezed. “I want to stay with you to protect you. If someone means you ill, even someone already in the castle, perhaps even one of the other brides—they will have to go through me.”
Johanna looked down at the chessboard for a long moment before her emerald eyes flicked back upwards to meet Isolde’s gaze. “Lady Maude has raised you to be quite clever. When you put it that way, it seems sensible,” she said. “Very well. I hope you do not snore.”
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Avery mechanically shoveled cold mashed moonapples in his mouth. The starchy paste would be tastier and with a consistency less like glue if he’d warmed the bowl back up by the fire, but he hadn’t felt like making the effort. He hadn’t felt he deserved to have a warm dinner; nothing he had done over the course of the day had undone any of the devastation of the alchemical gas attack aimed at him and his subjects.
When his spoon clinked against the bottom of the bowl, he shook his head, setting the bowl down on the floor. As Manfred did his best to clean up the rest of the cold mashed moonapples, Avery poured himself another goblet of wine and stared at the short stack of papers on his desk. A report from the city’s council, detailing the damages wrought by what Avery could only assume was the missing Master Alric.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Nobody had found a body corresponding to Master Alric, at least, nor any sign of him at the collegium, though Avery knew that some bodies had been swept downriver. He’d never wanted the services of a diviner so much in his life—and, of course, the benighted Master Warin was still off on his mission to observe Aurelius Ambrosius. In addition to locating the guilty party, the archmage diviner could probably also put to rest the wild rumors about the city of London having burnt to the ground, which had swept through the castle in the morning and the rest of York by sundown.
And the less said about James’s absence, the better. Avery refilled the goblet again, picking up the first page of the report and turning it over to read the back side.
Sleep time, said a gruff voice in his head. Read again later.
Avery shook his head. Not yet.
The wolfhound stood, sticking his cold, wet nose against Avery’s elbow. Sleep.
Avery shook his head again; the wolfhound snorted and padded away quietly. A small, surprised, feminine squeak sounded on the opposite side of the door after the hound passed through; Avery ignored the noise, focusing instead on the pages in front of him, his eyes traversing across a familiar litany of damages as he endlessly asked himself what he could have done to avoid the catastrophe.
The invisible wizard—Alric, almost certainly—had reacted to the dissolution of the York Textile Company. Perhaps he was hasty to dissolve the company—but the dyeing tower was already a horror waiting to happen. It had been unleashed intentionally, but if he had not dissolved the company, that same reservoir could have been unleashed by accident or malice later on. Perhaps even in greater volume, or accompanied by additional alchemical toxins.
A gentle, insistent knocking on the door penetrated his thoughts. He looked up, noticing the door was barred. Manfred must have decided to bar the door to give me privacy before he left, Avery thought to himself. Probably a servant come to collect the dishes.
He picked up the bowl from the floor and put it back on the tray before unbarring and opening the door. Looking down, he could see long, straight, light brown hair adorning the top of a woman’s head as she stared down at her feet. The woman was wearing a lavender dress festooned with lace; it looked familiar.
“What is it?” Avery stepped back as the woman stepped forward, bringing the woman’s face into view. Her face—blushing, with downcast eyes—also looked familiar.
“We are to be married tomorrow, Your Grace,” the woman whispered, one corner of her mouth quirking up briefly.
Knowing that she was speaking truth, Avery felt both reassured and panicked. Reassured, because the woman was not some stranger out of place in his tower; panicked, because he had not recognized her immediately. Then a memory came to mind.
“Johanna,” Avery said. The pose, the dress, the hair, the face; it was just like when she had been first introduced to him by her mother, Charlotte. For some reason, though, it had just been hard to place her, even though Johanna had been staring down at her feet nearly every time he’d ever seen her—the notable exception being the hunt, when she had not been shy about riding ahead and showing him the back of her head. “Is there something the matter? Have you changed your mind about marrying me tomorrow?”
The woman in the lavender dress hesitated, staring down at his feet rather than meeting his eyes and picking her words carefully. “I have not changed my mind—though I would marry you tonight if I could. I want to have you as soon as I can.”
“So, what is the matter?” Avery crossed his arms, leaning back, his thighs pressing against his desk. “If I remember rightly, you are first in the queue. Unless that has been changed?”
The woman shook her head, which blurred slightly, and then answered, again staring down at Avery’s feet. “I am worried about you, Your Grace. Last night, you came back quite late, hardly slept, and returned to the city before dawn. I worry that my precious, shining silver groom will be in a poor state when I marry him—nearly dead on his feet and worn to a dull gray.”
Avery flinched involuntarily as the woman’s heartfelt but hyperbolic phrase ‘worn to gray’ grated against his ears, the whisper gaining harsh echoes.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” the woman whispered, reaching out to take hold of his hand. “I did not mean to sound a scold. You must think me selfish.”
Avery shook his head. “I deserved scolding. I did not think I might ruin your wedding day—” He caught himself. “Indeed, your wedding night. It is past when I should be seeking rest. But it seems I cannot relax—I am wound up by the attack.”
“Let me help you relax,” the woman whispered, holding his hand in both of hers. She bent low, kissing his hand; then, rather than stand up from her deep bow, she knelt, sitting down on her legs as she began to massage his hand.
“Isn’t it a little improper for you to be alone with me?” Avery whispered back, his breath catching as he looked down at the top of the kneeling woman’s head, his eyes trailing down the long, simple braid of light brown hair resting on her back, the tip just touching a bustle that looked well filled out below a narrow, delicate waist.
“Nobody noticed—I nearly tripped over a dog in the darkness, but dogs can’t talk—and in any case, I am yours in full tomorrow,” the woman whispered. “And I should like you to relax; I would not want you nervous and exhausted on our wedding night.” Her face turned up to look at him, bright blue eyes staring up at him, the motion arching her back and placing her decolletage at a distracting angle.
Avery felt nervous; but at the same time, his sense for truth told him that every word the woman spoke was completely true. He let his arm relax as soft fingers poked and prodded at his hand and moved up his wrist. Surely, allowing his bride-to-be to help him take his mind off of yesterday’s tragedy would do no harm…