“You really should only accept a gift from a man you’re truly interested in,” Marianne said. “So which is it? Brian, Boris, or Bearn?”
“That’s the problem—I like them all! They’re all so sweet, and they dote on me, and they’re ever so handsome. I don’t know how to choose between them!”
“Perhaps you should draw lots,” Elisabeth said, sounding bored.
“You should set them impossible tasks, and see who succeeds first!” Simone said.
“If they’re impossible, how could anyone succeed?” said Elisabeth. “I know I would be embarrassed to receive a Wintersmeet gift from a man I wasn’t betrothed to. It would be so awkward.”
Excellent way to cover the fact that no man’s likely to give you one, Alison thought. “There must be some way to choose, Carola,” she said. “Something that sets one above the rest.”
“Interesting advice, Alison,” Elisabeth said. “I imagine you must have scores of men fighting for your affections. How do you choose?”
“I’m afraid I’m not expecting any gifts from a beau,” Alison said, trying not to laugh at Elisabeth’s spitefulness. She had put so much effort into finding a gift for Anthony that she hadn’t really considered what he might give her. Something wonderful, she hoped. She coughed, covered her mouth delicately, and added, “Though I wouldn’t reject one if it came!”
“Particularly from that special someone, yes?” Elisabeth said.
Alison paused in her wrapping and took another drink. She was already feeling a little light-headed. This should probably be her last glass. “Aren’t gifts always better when they come from someone you care about?”
“Elisabeth, you really need to stop teasing Alison about the Prince,” Philippa said, a little sharply. “It was only funny for a little while, and now it’s just annoying. I’d rather talk about what I hope to get from my mother. She keeps promising to send me her ruby bracelet that belonged to my great-grandmother.”
“Yes, dears, let’s all try to be more generous of spirit with one another,” the Dowager said. “This is a time of year to celebrate how we’re all joined together, and it’s hard to celebrate unity if you’re niggling at one another. Alison, dear, I have just the ribbon to match that paper.”
Alison coughed again, a little harder, and accepted the ribbon from the Dowager’s hand. She’d lost count of how many days it was until Wintersmeet. Soon, now, and wouldn’t it be funny to see the faces of the other ladies when they discovered Elisabeth had been right all along?
She woke up with a terrible headache. It was probably due to the champagne; she wasn’t sure how much of it she’d drunk, but then she didn’t have much of a head for alcohol. She had her morning coffee, but it didn’t help. Headache from the wine, muscle aches from lifting the books—she had trouble not snapping at people, particularly Elisabeth, who looked a little hung over herself. The Dowager, far from being offended at Alison’s irritability, excused her from morning activities so she could rest. “And don’t exert yourself too much over that library of Anthony’s,” she said with a smile. “I’d tell you to leave it until you feel better, but I know you won’t heed that advice as long as you have work left undone.”
Alison rested on her bed for a few hours until her headache was mostly gone. She wasn’t very hungry at dinner, but she made herself eat something, then put on her cloak and took a carriage to Anthony’s townhouse. It would only take an hour to finish, probably, and then she could return and have more coffee and try to rid herself of the last remnants of this headache.
She worked slowly thanks to her throbbing head and aching body. It was just so hard, today, to put the books on the shelves. She stopped once to survey what was left to do, and had to steady herself on the back of a chair because she was momentarily dizzy. This wasn’t sore muscles and a hangover, this was the beginnings of a nasty cold. She thought briefly about leaving the rest for now, going back to the palace to sleep and returning when she’d recovered. It’s just a few books, she thought, and who knows how long this cold might last?
She wearily picked up another pair of books—her arms hurt too much for her to manage a whole stack—and placed them on the shelf, focusing idly on the titles embossed on the spines. Immediately her head cleared, and she snatched up one of the books. Hearthsfire, second volume of the trilogy beginning with Heart of Steel. Out of print and impossible to find—not only had she never seen it, she’d never known anyone who had. She laid it gently on the shelf and searched through the remaining volumes stacked on the floor. No Starfall, the final volume, but that would have been too much of an early Wintersmeet gift for heaven to bestow upon her.
She picked up Hearthsfire again and turned the pages reverently. This one book alone was worth the entire rest of the collection. She took it to the chair by the window and opened it to the beginning. Just a few pages; how could she resist? She shivered, got up and wrapped herself in her cloak. Snow had begun falling like sifting sugar crystals from the low gray clouds, wrapping the whole house in cotton wool silence. Just a few pages. She shivered again. A cup of tea would be nice, but this was not a book you read with any kind of food in hand. Just a few pages.
The sound of the front door opening brought her back out of her fictional world into the real one. She glanced up at the clock above the door, which made only the barest ticking sound because Anthony didn’t like clocks that rang the hour, let alone every quarter of it. 3:35. She was late for reading time, and Anthony was home—well, it wasn’t as if they couldn’t see each other at all. She set the book on the broad arm of the chair and stood. Her head swam, and she had to grab the back of the chair to keep from falling. Maybe the Dowager wouldn’t be so angry if she saw Alison was ill. She left the library and went to the top of the stairs. Two voices. Damn. Anthony had company. It could ruin everything if the wrong person saw her in his home. She carefully removed her shoes and looked over the banister. The sound of footsteps came down the hall toward the stairs, two men approached, Anthony and someone with curly hair. Alexander Bishop. Alison ground her teeth. It was Anthony’s one character flaw—well, all right, he did have others, so this was his one major character flaw, that he couldn’t see how awful Bishop was. Too bad there wasn’t anything she could say that would make him drop the connection.
The footsteps went silent. Anthony and Bishop must have gone into one of the rooms lining the downstairs hall, the study or the billiards room, probably. Alison crept down the stairs to the first landing and looked down the hall toward the front door. The door to the billiards room was open a little, and light spilled out through the crack. She heard the distant murmur of voices. If she stayed close to the opposite wall, far from the doorway, and moved very quietly, she could probably make her escape.
Her unshod feet on the thickly carpeted steps were noiseless, the sound of her trouser legs rubbing together the only sound she made. Their conversation was louder now, but still unintelligible. She could hear the tock of billiard balls striking each other. She wished she’d thought to bring Hearthsfire with her, Anthony wouldn’t mind if she borrowed it, but it was too late to go back now because she was at the foot of the stairs and creeping along the far wall like a mouse sneaking up on a piece of cheese.
She was nearly opposite the billiards room now and halted briefly to catch her breath. She couldn’t cough now, that would be disastrous. The sound of their voices was clearer now. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help it if she happened to be outside the room while they were speaking. It wasn’t as if she’d come here on purpose to listen to them. She tried to move a little more quickly.
“…by Wintersmeet Eve.” That was Anthony.
“Are you coming to Agatha Tompkin’s party that night? No, I forgot, you’re attending that dreadful frozen ball.”
“That’s the price I pay for being royalty,” Anthony said. His voice sounded different, lazy and drawling, much more like the way he’d spoken when they first met, and it puzzled Alison enough that sh
e paused to listen. Anthony had said he enjoyed the Wintersmeet Ball. There was another soft tock.
“That’s not the price you’re going to pay, if you don’t start taking this seriously,” Bishop said. Tock tock.
“You’re not going to start on that again? Honestly, Alex, every time we meet it’s the same thing. I’m tired of hearing about it.”
“I just want to know—” tock “—you’re taking this wager seriously. I’m starting to feel like I’m taking your money under false pretenses.”
Anthony laughed, and the sound sent a chill through Alison’s spine, because it had a nasty edge to it. “I won’t say it hasn’t been harder than I thought. It’s taken a lot of work to get her this far. Not your kind of girl, Alex, quick to flip up her skirts.”
Something about his words made her throat begin to close up. Which girl? Got who this far?
“I don’t believe it,” Bishop said, and there was a long string of intermittent tocks. “A woman who looks like that, she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s just playing with you now, and you’re too timid to take control. If I’d been in your shoes the bitch would have spread her legs for me long ago.”
Anthony laughed again. “But you’re not in my shoes, are you, Alex?” he said in that lazy drawl. “I’m the one who wagered I could seduce the Countess by Wintersmeet Eve. And I will. I’m still in control.”
Chapter Thirteen
The words made no sense at first, as if Anthony had begun speaking Veriboldan. Then the icy mask she hadn’t felt in weeks descended over her face, sealing her lips and her eyes and blinding her so she couldn’t even blink.
“You don’t have much time left,” Bishop said.
“I don’t need much time. Stop being such an old woman, Alex. I told you, I’m still in control.”
Alison fumbled until she found the wall, then felt her way along it. The grayness around her vision began to fade, and she could see the front door too far ahead. “I’m also in control of this game,” Anthony said, distantly, and then the roaring in her ears and the pounding in her head swallowed the rest of his words. It hurt so much to move; how could it hurt if she were frozen? The butler ought to be here to summon her carriage, but the hall was empty. Good. She couldn’t bear to see anyone right now.
She reached the door and slowly turned the knob, pulling the door open just enough for her to slip through the crack, then closed it as quietly as she could behind her. The stairs were slippery with a light powdering of snow. She took a few careful steps before remembering her shoes were still in her hand. She held the stair rail and slipped them on, and felt snow melt off her feet into them. It didn’t feel cold, it felt burning hot. That was probably because she was still frozen. She tried to pull her cloak around herself and realized she’d left it in Anthony’s library. No way to get it now. Besides, she hardly needed it. And he wouldn’t know how long she’d been there, just from the cloak. He wouldn’t know what she’d heard.
She began walking along the sidewalk, putting one foot in front of the other like an ancient Device that hadn’t been used in a century. She had to go home. No, she had to go back to the palace. Her face felt stiff from the frozen mask that still covered it. Snowflakes fell into her face and caught on her eyelashes, and she blinked until they floated away. She was too cold even to melt snow. She coughed, and it tore at her chest like a burning knife with a ragged edge. She hurt so much, and she wasn’t sure how to get to the palace from here, so she kept walking because she couldn’t think of anything better to do, and every step took her farther away from him.
A carriage, its horses’ hooves muffled by the snow, passed her, then came to a halt. “Miss, are you all right?” said the driver, hopping down from her seat to put her arm around Alison’s shoulders.
“I need to get to the palace,” Alison said, and then doubled over as a coughing fit struck her with more force than before. She whimpered a little when it was over, and hated herself for her weakness.
The woman put her coat around Alison’s shoulders. “Here, climb in, and I’ll take you there,” she said, and Alison curled into a corner of the carriage and tried not to cry out in pain when it bounced too hard on the rough road. She was so cold. Surely, if you were frozen, you wouldn’t feel the cold. Everything was all wrong. Her head hurt. She was ill. The confusion, that had to be her illness. She’d sleep and in the morning everything would be fine. Good thing you didn’t have sex with him, her inner voice told her. Good thing no one knows how he tricked you. You desperate, pitiful creature.
She put her hands over her ears to block out the voice, forgetting that it came from inside her own head. He learned what you love and he turned it against you. She shook her head, feeling the ice crack. He made himself into someone you could trust. Her head was pounding. Her brain was trying to burst out of her skull. He said what you wanted to hear and you were so very ready to believe him. She closed her mouth on a scream that came out muffled, like a cat’s cry. She was too frozen to weep.
No wonder he’d looked so triumphant when he had her naked beneath him. How frustrated he must have been when she’d told him no. Every interaction they’d ever had replayed itself with devastating clarity in her frozen imagination. His initial “courtship” hadn’t worked, so he’d watched her, discovered how to make himself appealing to her, turned himself into her friend, and it had worked. He’d found a way inside her defenses and she’d opened herself to him. And he’d done it all not for the sake of her money, or her title, or even the body he’d so openly admired, but for a sick wager. She covered her mouth to keep in another scream. How lonely had she been, that she’d been so easily fooled?
The carriage stopped, and the driver came to open the door. “Miss, you don’t look well,” she said, and helped Alison climb the stairs of the palace until she could be handed off to someone else, who took her through the halls of the palace to the Dowager’s apartment. Dimly, Alison was aware of the guards breaking their usual impassivity to help her enter. But suppose I’m a dangerous assassin? she thought, and wanted to laugh at the implausibility of that scenario.
“Oh, my dear Alison, whatever is wrong? You, bring her to her bed,” the Dowager said, and Alison realized she was being carried just as she was laid on the bed. Someone removed her shoes and the driver’s coat and covered her with the white and gold counterpane, and someone else laid a burning cold hand on her forehead, and she flinched away. So she could feel pain, after all. “She has a terrible fever,” the Dowager said. “Someone send for Dr. Trevellian.” But the quilt was heavy, and she could feel the ice melting, and soon she felt warm enough to sleep, so she did.
She woke to find a short man in a doctor’s tunic and wide-legged pants bending over her. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with you that a few months won’t cure.”
“A few months?” Alison said, confused.
“Why, you’re pregnant, my dear,” the doctor said.
“But—I never—”
“Didn’t you?” said Anthony. “You helped me win the bet. I should probably give some of this to you.” He waved a large clinking bag in front of her face. “You were so eager for it, I almost didn’t have to do—“
She woke to find a short man in a doctor’s tunic and wide-legged pants bending over her. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said. “Don’t worry, I think I’ve removed almost all of it.”
Alison’s head hurt. “Of what?”
He held up something that reflected the light like crystal. “The ice, of course,” he said. “I’m sorry there’s not much left of you, but you were ice all the way through and you wouldn’t let it thaw.”
“It was to protect me,” she said. “If I freeze, it doesn’t hurt.”
“If you freeze, there’s not much point to living, is there?” the doctor said. “I think you’d better—”
She woke to find a short man in a doctor’s tunic and wide-legged pants bending over her. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said.
> “Are you real or are you my mind torturing me?” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.
He smiled. “Real, fortunately for you. You were trying to develop a nasty case of pneumonia. Did you have hallucinations?”
She nodded. “I thought they were bad dreams.”
“They’re a side effect of the treatment. The good news is you should be well in just a couple of days. You’ll certainly be kicking up your heels at the Wintersmeet Ball, I’m happy to say.”
“What treatment?”
He held up his left hand, and she saw a shimmer around it, like heat haze. “Healing magic. Inherent magic. I hope you don’t have objections to it, because I can’t put the illness back into you.” He smiled and winked at her, and she smiled back, the muscles around her mouth tense as if she’d forgotten how.
“I don’t see how anyone could object to anything so useful. Thank you, doctor.”
“You’d be surprised how irrational people can be about inherent magic. It’s not uncommon for people to be lynched just because they’re suspected of being able to move things with their minds or, heaven forbid, see the future. Two hundred years since the Ascendants were defeated, but we haven’t forgotten their powers.” He crossed the room and put his fingers on her wrist, then laid the back of his hand against her forehead. “Pulse is normal, temperature is fine, and if you’ll allow me—I’m sorry, this is a bit invasive—” He pushed up her shirt to just below her breasts and put a wooden cup to her chest on the left side, and laid his ear against it. “Breathe deeply, please…now the other side…thank you.” He pulled her shirt down over her belly. “Lungs sound fine. I do excellent work, if I say it myself.” He winked again, and she laughed, then had a fit of coughing so intense the doctor had to help her sit up so she could breathe.
Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1) Page 17