Our Lady of the Islands

by Shannon Page

  “I shall send her off, of course,” Quatama said, already turning to leave.

  “No, no. We need someone to look after my dear cousin’s needs until Cleone recovers.” Escotte leaned back and rolled his eyes; the monkey dropped into his lap and began inspecting his plate. “I suppose it cannot hurt to find out who this woman is. You say Cleone recommended her?”

  “Quite highly, according to the sergeant,” said Quatama.

  “Well, Cleone would know what I expect of such a person. Bring her in, I guess. Let’s have this over with.”

  “Bring her … now, sir?” Quatama asked. “While you’re still at breakfast?”

  “Yes!” Escotte said, clearly verging on exasperation. “You don’t imagine I would leave my cousin here to eat alone while I go out there to interview her, do you?”

  “No, sir. I shall bring her right away, sir.” He turned back at the doorway and asked, “Shall I bring the sergeant too, sir?”

  Escotte drew a deep breath, and said, softly, “I am not interviewing the sergeant, am I, Quatama. I’ve already hired him, and plan to keep him on a while. Most likely.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. Thank you.” He was gone before his murmured thanks had faded.

  Gigi sidled up onto the table and began poking through the serving dishes, moving slowly, as though that made her invisible.

  Escotte turned to Sian and shook his head. “Do you have any household staff, my dear?”

  “Just a housekeeper,” she said, wishing she were home with Bela now.

  “I envy you,” said Escotte. “Just one is likely still too many, but an entire household of them …” He piffed and made a helpless gesture. “What a chore they are to manage. It’s a wonder I get anything done at all with so much help.”

  Sian was spared having to invent some safe response to this by Quatama’s return with a nicely, if conservatively, dressed woman in tow. She was middle-aged and somewhat haggard looking, despite her tidy décolletage, with dark hair, well but clearly dyed, if one knew how to look for such things. Poor woman, Sian thought. Still struggling to look young and pretty, in a business where that could make the difference in finding employment — at houses such as this one, anyway. A closer look at this woman’s face told Sian all she wished to know about how hard a maid’s life must really be. Would Cleone look like that, she wondered, in another ten or twenty years? Sian felt truly awful, suddenly, about the uncharitable view she’d taken of the girl’s efforts all this time.

  “My Lord Census Taker,” Quatama intoned, bowing deeply to his master in this woman’s presence, “this is Freda Machen, of whom we have been speaking.”

  The woman curtsied as well now, very deeply, with striking grace and self-possession, pretending not even to notice the monkey now making quite free with the unfinished smoked langoustine frittata. This was clearly not the first fine house that she had worked in, Sian thought.

  “Freda Machen. You are foreign then,” said Escotte. “How long since you arrived in Alizar?”

  “Several decades, my lord,” she replied without any trace of accent or sign of nervousness. “I married an Alizari seaman, who unfortunately died shortly after bringing me to these lovely islands.”

  “How sad,” said Escotte, sounding more bored than sympathetic.

  The maid responded with a graceful shrug. “Everyone is dealt a blow or two, my lord. So are we made stronger and wiser.”

  “I admire your stoicism,” Escotte said, somewhat more sincerely. “I have no need of weak or whiny staff here. Where else have you worked?”

  “I have worked as a domestic maid ever since my husband’s death, my lord, in some very fine houses, including the Factorate itself. I have no doubt they will refer me highly there.” She showed no fear at all of Escotte, nor any trace of umbrage at his callous remarks. She might not be as pretty as Cleone, Sian thought with admiration, but she seemed far more poised.

  Escotte waved dismissively. “There is no need for that. I expect your tenure here, if any, to be over in no more than a few days. Have you any hobbies?”

  At this, Freda raised an eyebrow slightly, then calmly rattled off a list of decorative arts that put poor Cleone’s supply to shame.

  “The guest you would be serving here is under my protection,” Escotte said, “and entangled in a very sensitive and potentially dangerous diplomatic situation. Her presence must be held in strictest secrecy. Are you capable of keeping such a secret, Freda — even from those closest to you?”

  Well, I’m already sitting here in front of her, Sian thought dryly. What are you going to do if she says no, throw her in your dungeon? Only then did it occur to her to wonder if he really might. Her cousin surely hadn’t risen this high without being capable of ruthlessness. She felt the axe swing over her own head again, and suppressed a tremble, hoping that he really was concerned for her well-being, and not just for her concealment.

  “The officer who brought me here explained that discretion would be called for, my lord. As I mentioned, I have served at the Factorate itself, and can be trusted to forget whatever I have seen or heard here, at the doorway of your household every evening. If you wish, I believe the Factor himself will attest to my propriety.”

  “That will certainly not be necessary,” said Escotte. “I’ll be keeping my own eyes and ears on you, and will know very quickly if you’ve failed in this respect. But tell me, please; I am not entirely a stranger to the Factorate myself. How is it that I’ve never seen you there, or heard of someone that, if your claim is to be credited, the Factor himself would vouch for?”

  “It is not a servant’s purpose to be memorable, my lord. It is a servant’s job to be invisible. If you have never heard of me, perhaps I’ve done my job to satisfaction.”

  “Well …” Escotte said, smiling for the first time. “I could hardly have provided any better answer myself. I am impressed, my dear. I will admit it. And I had not expected to be.” He turned to Sian. “What do you think, cousin? Will she do for a few days until Cleone is fit to rejoin you?”

  Freda turned to Sian and curtsied, less deeply than she had to Escotte, but still more than low enough to make Sian understand how much she hoped for an affirmative answer. Sian felt rather worried for Cleone, actually, wondering if this seasoned veteran might not end up displacing her here altogether. But she felt sympathy for this woman too. “I am more than satisfied,” Sian said, offering Freda a reassuring smile.

  “Very well, then,” Escotte said happily. “Freda Machen, allow me to present my cousin, Domina Sian Kattë, your charge until Cleone returns. Quatama will explain your duties to you. When he is done, you may return, and I will leave you to enjoy each other’s company. You and Quatama may leave us now.”

  Freda dropped another deep and graceful curtsy to her new employer, a second, slighter one to Sian, then turned to follow Quatama from the room.

  “Well, that was not as bad as I had feared,” said Escotte, lifting a small piece of fruit from plate to mouth, then calling Gigi back to his lap once more. The monkey obeyed, reluctantly, scattering frittata crumbs across the lace tablecloth as she went. “I guess the sergeant is forgiven.” He chuckled as he chewed and swallowed. “Which is a rather great relief, actually. He would not have been so easy to replace.”

  As it turned out, Escotte did leave Sian behind in the breakfast room after all, though not alone. The under-butler still stood woodenly beside the doorway, ready to serve her more breakfast, should her appetite return — or, more likely, to prevent her unaccompanied departure.

  Hardly a moment later, however, Freda flowed back in, offering Sian a gracious smile. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my lady. It seems I am to take you to your quarters now, but the butler’s directions were … not entirely comprehensible. This is such a very large house. Would it be dreadful of me to ask if you might lead the way?”

  “Goodness no,” Sian replied. How refreshing to be the one escorting rather than escorted for once.

  As they made th
eir way from hallway to staircase to hallway again, Sian could see Freda making careful mental notes as to their course, and the position of particular landmarks. She was certainly not dull, nor inattentive.

  “And here we are at last,” Sian said as they arrived outside her bedroom.

  “Thank you, my lady.” Freda moved gracefully around Sian to open the door for her, then followed Sian in, but stopped almost immediately with an ill-concealed expression of dismay. “Oh, but it is just this room? I had thought … Where would my lady like me to wait when you desire privacy?”

  Privacy? Had Quatama explained Freda’s duties to her that poorly? “I’ve no need of privacy when you are with me,” Sian replied, not knowing what else to say. “When you arrive each morning, or if you’re called away for any reason during the day, I would appreciate a knock before you re-enter my room. That is my arrangement with Cleone, and it seems to work well enough.”

  Freda blinked at her. “And … when my lady has need to … refresh herself?”

  “Oh! My bath and toilet is just down the hall,” Sian explained. “Cleone accompanies me there, but waits outside, of course. In case I find myself in some need I had not anticipated. But there is a door.” She laughed softly at Freda’s incredulous expression. “We’re allowed at least that much privacy. As for the rest, we will be like sisters. And if you promise not to tell Cleone,” she added, wanting to put this poor woman with her dyed hair more at ease, “I confess it will be very nice to have a sister closer to my own age than dear Cleone is, if only for a couple days.”

  “I … Thank you, my lady. Rest assured I will respect such confidences.” Freda gazed around the room again. “So, what do you and Cleone do here in this lovely room all day?”

  “Well, the girl does have a great many hobbies, which she seems determined to involve me in at every moment, for fear I might grow bored and run crying to my cousin. But I’d be just as happy to sit and read a book from time to time, or gaze out at the garden, or even nap,” she said, wishing she had known enough to say so when Cleone had first arrived. “You need not entertain me round the clock, whatever Quatama may have led you to believe.”

  “I see.” Freda considered her strangely. “I beg my lady’s pardon if this seems too forward …”

  “Oh, ask anything you like,” Sian assured her.

  “Then, if my lady will forgive the question, do I detect some small hint of … dissatisfaction with your cousin’s hospitality?”

  Sian leaned back slightly in surprise. What an odd question. Especially from a maid. Freda was brand new, of course. And it was refreshing to be asked. Sian had seen this woman’s performance with Escotte at breakfast. She would certainly know better than to carry anything they said back to her cousin. … Unless … Could this whole sudden illness of Cleone’s just be another of his ruses? Was Freda actually some agent of his, sent in after last night’s altercation to find out what Sian really thought about him and the rest of this?

  “Please forgive me,” Freda said when Sian’s hesitation stretched. She ducked her head in embarrassment, if not alarm even. “That was a dreadful thing to ask. I just …”

  “No!” Sian cut in, still fearing some trap, but not wanting to chase off what might be the first honest person she had been allowed to speak with here. “There is no need to apologize. It’s just that … Cleone is not … so frank, and I’ve grown so used to being circumspect since coming here. But, please, feel free to speak your mind — with me at least. It would be so nice to have the company of anyone who does. I will keep your confidences, if you promise to keep mine.”

  Freda nodded, as if still not completely sure of her position either.

  They gazed at one another for a moment. Then, seeming to have reached her decision, Freda reached for Sian’s hand and said, “You seem afraid of him. Your cousin.”

  “I am extremely grateful for his protection,” Sian said at once, still terrified of what might happen should she turn out to be wrong in trusting Freda. “As he told you, I have stumbled, quite unwittingly, into a great deal of trouble that I still hardly understand. In the past few weeks, I have gone from living a quiet, normal life to being … subjected to terrible attentions, from all sorts of people who should have no cause to know that I exist. All that stopped as soon as Escotte took me in.”

  “And yet …?” Freda prompted her.

  Sian gave her a helpless shrug. “You have already guessed, I think; to judge by your questions. When Quatama was explaining your new duties here, he must have explained about how much privacy you were to allow me?”

  Freda nodded, gravely. “I thought he must be exaggerating, until we walked in here. But yes. He said that I was not to allow you out of my sight.”

  “For my protection. Is that what you were told?”

  “Yes.” She looked at Sian uncertainly.

  “Do you believe it?” Sian asked.

  “Do you?” Freda replied.

  Sian could not find quite the courage to say ‘no’ aloud. She pulled loose of Freda’s hand, and went to stand beside the windows, gazing down at all the flowers growing silently in Escotte’s walled-in garden. “The Census Taker and I are family,” she said at last. “I have no idea what is really happening here, but … I cannot believe he means me harm.” She turned back to find Freda looking at her with the kind of intensity she had seen Reikos direct at tangled knots, or shipboard instruments in need of some repair.

  Freda turned and went to stick her head out of the door, glancing briefly up and down the hallway. When she pulled the door closed again and turned back to Sian, her eyes shone with some new resolve.

  “Sian Kattë,” she said, coming to stand before her by the windows. “I am going to put my life and the lives of those I love into your hands. If I am wrong … But I don’t believe I am, and there is very little time. My name is not Freda Machen.”

  “What?” Sian took a step away, confused and frightened. “Who —”

  “My name is Arian des Chances. Though I can hardly expect you to believe it, I am the Factora-Consort.”

  Sian’s mouth fell open. Then, suddenly, she understood, and breathed again. “So it is finally happening!” She suppressed an urge to laugh for sheer relief. “But, if this is how we’re doing it, why did you and Escotte put on that little play at breakfast? Was that just to fool the butlers?”

  Now Freda, or the Factora-Consort, rather, took a step back, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry. I don’t … How we’re doing what? What’s finally happening?”

  Sian’s uncertainty returned. Could this haggard woman with dyed hair really be the Factora-Consort, she now thought to wonder, or had she just fallen into some even more elaborate trap than she had feared? “Haven’t you come to take me to your son?”

  “Well … yes,” the other woman said in obvious astonishment. “How can you know that?”

  If this was a trap, Sian supposed, then she was doomed already. “Escotte explained your situation to me on the day I first arrived,” she told the woman. “Your trouble with the Mishrah-Khote. The need to set things up so that I could heal your son without their ever knowing I had been involved. He’s been hiding me here until he could arrange all this with you. Is that not why you’ve come?”

  The other woman brought a hand up to her cheek, then shook her head and closed her eyes. “Oh my poor, dear woman. How you have been tossed about.” She reopened her eyes and went to sit down on the edge of Sian’s feather bed. “There have been no negotiations or plans of any kind arranged between your cousin and ourselves. I am sorry to be the bearer of yet more bad news, my dear, but Escotte has no idea I am in this house. Civil war might break out if he did, or so I’m told. He has been hiding you, yes. But from us, Domina Kattë. Not for us. The Factor and I have reason to believe he is complicit in a plot to overthrow my husband’s government, and seize the Factorate for some third party.”

  Sian stared at her in disbelief, shaking her head, and groping toward a chair to sit on before her legs gave
way. “That … is not possible.” She collapsed onto a gilded stool beside the windows. “They are cousins. What you’re saying … Escotte would never … It makes no sense.” She looked more sharply at Freda, Arian, whoever she might really be. “How do I know you’re not the one who’s lying? You’re asking me to believe they sent the Factora-Consort herself on some … secret mission to infiltrate my cousin’s house? That the Census Taker just talked for who knows how long downstairs with his own cousin’s wife, and didn’t recognize her? The third most powerful public figure in Alizar?” Sian snorted at the idea’s sheer lunacy. “Who are you? Really. That’s what I will want know as soon as I have called my cousin’s guards.” She stood up, but so did the other woman, stepping out to block her path.

  “Have you ever even seen the Factora-Consort?” the woman asked.

  “Only from a distance,” Sian said through gritted teeth, “but she looked nothing like you.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t,” said the woman. “Nor have I looked anything like her for many years now. You cannot imagine how many hours it takes each morning, not to mention what a fortune in cosmetics, to make me look like the Factora-Consort. I doubt that anyone besides my maids has seen my real face in ten or fifteen years. Possibly not even Viktor.”

  Sian stared at her, trying to sort through what she’d just heard.

  “Viktor is my husband. The Factor.”

  “I know what the Factor’s name is,” Sian growled. “He’s my cousin too, though I doubt he knows it, much less cares. What are you trying to say to me? Speak plainly, or I’ll just scream for help if you won’t let me by.”

  “Oh, for all the sand in Alizar!” the woman spat in sheer frustration. “I’ve dyed my hair and gone into the light without the mask my ladies paint on me each morning. That is all it takes for the Factora-Consort to go almost anywhere unrecognized by those who aren’t looking for her. She is a political invention. I am exactly who I’ve claimed to be: a mother, fighting for her son, who is days, perhaps just hours, from dying. It seems that there are people who would like him dead, and if Escotte has any notion that we’ve discovered he is one of them, it may drive this conspiracy he’s working with to who knows what disastrous acts of violence. So I and the tiny handful of others we can still trust have managed to sneak me in here to beg you, please, to help us save my son.” Sian saw tears gathering in her reddening eyes. “And to save my husband — and the nation he is trying so hard to care for. Viktor is your cousin too, Sian Kattë, and he is well aware of you, and of how very much you matter. To everyone in Alizar, it seems. Not just to us.” She was struggling very hard by now to rescue her composure. “Please, tell me how I can convince you.”