“You can see how it’s difficult for us to trust your nation’s intentions, Chris, and it’s not just your hideous accent and tendency to wear more jewelry than my grandmother at chapel,” said Dorian one afternoon as they leafed through a study called One Hundred Years Behind the Mountains: Memories of a Carthean Magician in Svelya. The three of them always sat at the same Fire-iron table, strategically located between the literature and history sections. Their only company was an old magician whose sole purpose seemed to be wandering the stacks and reorganizing books that looked as if they had not been moved in a hundred years.
“Having spent time here, yes, I am understanding it. You protect what you see as yours,” said Roffi. After five months in Cartheigh he had shed not only the fur on his face but also the fur on his tunic. Apart from his white Svelyan hair he looked like any Carthean nobleman.
“What is ours,” Dorian said. Frog spat at Roffi from his perch on Dorian’s shoulder.
Roffi ignored the raven and nodded. “Accepted. But you must understand our position as well. We held the mines for five hundred years before the Desmarais came to power.”
“By all accounts you made a shoddy mess of it,” said Dorian.
“I will not be arguing. Once the unicorns joined your kings, we lost any chance at controlling the mines. But Svelya is a hard land. We don’t have your endless fields and forests, your gentle climate, nor even your rivers and access to the Shallow Sea. We have mountains, cold plains, and the jagged coast of the Quartic Ocean. Other than raising sheep and mountain cattle there is little way for the people to thrive.”
Eleanor admired Roffi’s restraint as Dorian pushed his position. His diplomatic training served him well. She spoke for the first time. “What of the banking industry in Nestra? Didn’t your own family make a fortune in the money trade?”
Roffi nodded. “Yes, we did, but it is concentrated in the hands of a lucky few like myself. It is great wealth for a small minority and poverty for the masses in Svelya. So we cannot help but…” He waved his hands nonchalantly. “…feel nostalgic for the days when we were having access to other resources, no matter what a poor job we did at handling them.”
Dorian laughed. “Always the charmer.”
“How did you become Ambassador, Christopher?” Eleanor asked. “Aren’t you young for the job?”
“I am, Your Highness. The youngest ambassador Svelya has ever sent out. My family has always represented our country at Eclatant. My grandfather was wanting to retire, and my father is in poor health. So here I am, just earlier than expected. My valet, my magicians, and me. The only Svelyans in a sea of Carthean…what is the word? Refinement.”
“And we are all the more fortunate for it,” she said. “Do you miss home?”
“Of course, Nestra is a wonderful city. You would both love it.”
“I’d like to visit someday.”
“I don’t think your husband would allow it,” said Roffi. “He would be fearing some evil Svelyan lord would steal you and hold you for ransom. While our women are known for their beauty, we have none such as you.”
“Oh, stop,” said Eleanor. “You would flatter my maidservant if she walked in this door.”
“You are right, but I would not mean it.”
Eleanor threw a crumpled piece of paper at him. It bounced off his head and disappeared under the table.
“Men always desire most what they cannot have,” said Roffi. “Is it not true, Dorian?”
For once Dorian seemed caught off guard, but he recovered quickly. “Yes,” he said, “but I believe it true of women as well as men.”
Eleanor looked at Roffi, who met her eye with none of his usual lightheartedness. “If you are right,” he said, “then we are all doomed to unhappiness.”
He laughed and the tension passed, and they broke up a few minutes later for dinner. Eleanor mulled over Roffi’s comments during her bath that evening. Something there unsettled her.
CHAPTER 24
A Sign Around Her Neck
Eleanor had other reasons to be unsettled during the Harvest Fest. She feared her feelings for Dorian were becoming obvious. She gave up trying to forget him. The futility of that exercise had become undeniable. Instead, she tried to be as close to him as possible, as often as possible, without attracting any suspicion. Her stomach churned with longing, paranoia, and guilt.
She had become used to Gregory’s drinking and carousing, and learned to ignore the little cruelties that lashed out with his temper. He had strayed from their bed, HighGod knew how many times. There had been clues; scratches on his back, a delay in opening his bedroom door, a long dark hair screaming at her from the whiteness of his tunic. His infidelity sat in between them, like an embarrassing cousin that was never discussed. But he was still her husband, and her prince, and Dorian was his best friend. She told herself he had pushed her toward Dorian, but in her heart she knew that even if Gregory had been the most dutiful husband the world had ever seen, she could not have known Dorian Finley and not been in love with him.
She felt as if she wore a sign around her neck. They continued studying and riding, and she still sought some form of chaperone, be it unicorn, parrot, or person. It was worse at the Fest parties, after a glass or two of wine. She stood close to him, close enough that their elbows just brushed. She touched his long fingers when he handed her a drink; she touched his chest when she spoke to him. She cut into conversations he had with women who were too pretty or flirtatious. Chou Chou landed on her shoulder during the Harvest Ball after she monopolized three of his waltzes.
“Careful,” said the parrot.
“What do you mean?”
Chou’s yellow eyes rolled. “I mean Mister Finley should spread his wings a bit, yes?”
“I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.” She set down her drink.
“Fabulous idea.”
She resolved the next morning to pull back, and she succeeded in avoiding him for one entire afternoon, until they met at a chapel service. She knelt beside him, trying to pray, and before she knew it she edged so close her skirt covered his calf. Through it all he was stubbornly unflappable. He didn’t egg her on, but he didn’t discourage her, either.
Eleanor had always been slight, but she progressed to painfully thin. Food had no taste, and she lost much of the sparse cleavage she had with her appetite. She was snappish and moody with her friends. While Eliza was too proper to let on, Margaret’s gentle prodding and Anne Iris’s lack thereof gave away their concerns. Thankfully none of them pressed her. Although she trusted them all it was too dangerous to talk about it. She didn’t know what she wanted to happen, but this certainly could not go on. Just when she decided she must confront Dorian for her own sanity, a chain of events changed her mind.
She was unusually tired. At first she blamed the hectic Fest schedule and her strained emotions, but when her stomach began rolling in the evenings she took out her calendar. She was late. There was no doubt about it.
Gregory visited her chambers with the same regularity as always. She had never discouraged him. Regardless of her feelings for Dorian, Gregory was her husband and in Cartheigh, husbands had their rights. Besides, no matter how much of an ass Gregory could be she never stayed angry with him. Even if she doubted she would ever love him the way she once had, she was fond of him. She felt like a bit of an ass herself. She had been so consumed by her romantic notions she overlooked the inevitable consequences of her marital relations.
About a week after the Harvest Fest ended she sat sewing by the fire. She rarely dabbled in embroidery, but tonight couldn’t focus on anything of substance. She had claimed a headache for the privacy it brought her, and sipped a cup of green tea. She hoped it would ease her spinning stomach and kill the sour taste in her mouth. She draped High Noon’s old red blanket over her legs. It clashed horribly with the rest of the décor, but she didn’t care. Pansy sometimes tried to move the blanket to a less conspicuous spot in the room, but Eleanor always returned it to
its rightful place in the center of the couch.
“Your Highness,” said Pansy. “Prince Gregory is here.”
“Thank you, Pansy. Send him in,” Eleanor said.
She welcomed Gregory and shifted over on the couch, but he chose the chair across from her. He hadn’t shaved.
“Husband, are you feeling well?” she asked.
“Honestly, no,” he said.
She put a hand to his forehead. “You aren’t feverish. Should we send for a witch?”
“It’s not that kind of feeling. There’s nothing wrong with my body. It’s my heart that’s ill.”
This time Eleanor’s flipping stomach had nothing to do with her tender condition. It was a hollow pit, and the rest of her slid inside. “Has something happened?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m here to find out.”
Sweat beaded on her upper lip.
Gregory went on. “Can I be frank?”
She smiled, but it felt like puppeteers pulling strings attached to her cheeks. “Of course. I hope I can help you.”
He stood and leaned on the mantle. It seemed even the furniture waited on his words. When he spoke she saw nothing but his broad back. “You know my sons will be kings of this country. I cannot tolerate any…suspicions about them.”
“Suspicions?” She hoped the panic rising in her chest would not make her voice shake.
“If anyone were to…cause such suspicions…they would face heavy consequences. Mortal consequences.” He turned to her.
“Gregory, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve been meeting with Dorian in the library.”
“Yes, as we always have. We both enjoy scholarly pursuits. You know that.”
“Why did you ask Roffi to join you?”
Eleanor shook her head as Roffi entered into the conversation like a sheep tossed into a chicken coop. “Roffi?”
“Yes, Roffi.” Gregory grabbed a pillow and threw it on the bed. “Why did you invite him? And why does he visit your chambers?”
Eleanor’s mouth fell open. “You think I’m having an affair with Christopher Roffi?”
Gregory glared at her. “There are people who are saying as much. Your stepmother and Sylvia Fleetwood are first among them. They say Roffi toys with Margaret’s affection to hide your…dalliances.”
“And you believe them? You know our family history. Besides, I’ve never heard one word of it. Nor has Chou.”
“HighGod’s eyebrows, Eleanor. These are treasonous accusations, not petty rumors. No one will say them to your face, feathery or otherwise. Perhaps you would be more aware if you conversed with anyone other than Margaret, Anne Iris, or Eliza.”
“I’d choose three true friends over a hundred acquaintances.” She laid the half-finished pillowcase on the couch. “While we’re speaking of friends, I thought you enjoyed Christopher.”
“I do, but why does he come here? Every day, it seems.”
“He drops off books, and he stays and chats with me and my ladies. I always assumed it was because of his feelings for Margaret.”
Gregory flopped into his chair. His legs splayed out in front of him. “Do you really believe he wants Margaret?”
She shrugged, relieved she could tell him the truth. “I don’t know, but I know I don’t want him. Gregory, I promise you, I have no interest in Christopher. He comes to the library to study with Dorian and me. I’ve never even been alone with him.”
His desperation tugged at her. “Do you swear it?”
“I swear.”
She thought of the mysterious woman in the red silk dress. Of the countless others that had definitely proceeded and probably followed her.
He left the chair and sat beside her on the couch. “I just had to ask you.”
“I’m glad you did.” She made up her mind about what she needed to do. “Now I have something to tell you.” She put his hand on her stomach.
“Again?” he asked. His hand slid over the blue silk of her nightdress.
“Yes. It’s early, so I can only pray it goes better this time, but I wanted to tell you.”
“This makes me happy, Eleanor. I know all will be well.”
She kissed the end of his nose. “Yes, if we believe it, all will be well.”
With that, she made preparations for her baby, and coddled her husband. As for Dorian, she loved him quietly.
The Waning came and went and the palace moved into the slow days of winter. Eleanor’s pregnancy progressed with no complications, and to her amusement a protective circle closed around her. Margaret, Anne Iris, and Eliza followed her everywhere. Between Gregory, Dorian, and Christopher Roffi she could barely carry her own water cup or climb a flight of stairs without one of them appearing at her side. King Casper rarely made personal visits to anyone, but he began stopping by her chambers. He even asked Ezra Oliver to brew a tonic for the unborn child. Much to her annoyance, her father-in-law insisted on referring to the baby as he or my boy. Eleanor in turn referred to the child as she. Pointless, since HighGod had long since made that decision for both of them.
One lazy HighWinter afternoon Eleanor and her popping belly had nothing in particular on their agenda, other than a half a box of chocolate covered almonds and a long nap, so she took a turn around the palace. Chou sat on her shoulder, and she stopped to chat with servants who curtsied or bowed and offered respectful blessings to her and the child. Between compliments Chou whispered in her ear. “I believe I know where we’re headed.”
“Do you? Clever bird.” The oak-paneled doors of the Chief Magician’s office appeared around the next corner. “My child is in need of a tonic,” Eleanor said. “I might as well have a look around.”
“You have my eyes, as always,” said Chou.
The guard announced them, and soon Eleanor greeted Ezra Oliver across his wide Fire-iron desk. “Your Highness,” he said, staid as ever in his dark gray robes and silly cow patty hat. “How might I help you?”
She forced a smile onto her face. “I so enjoyed the tonic you brewed for me. I wondered if you might stir up another.”
“Of course,” Oliver said. He smiled back, but he looked as if his face might crack from the strain.
Could I have been so desperate for camaraderie? Eleanor wondered.
She took a seat in an embroidered armchair as Oliver busily gathered the ingredients from the apothecary cabinet beside his towering bookshelves. As he chopped and stirred and whispered enchantments Eleanor’s eyes darted around the room.
Broken quills and blotters and bottles of ink huddled in the shadow of the mountain of paper and parchment on Oliver’s desk. A half-eaten plate of bread and butter sat beside a cup of dingy tea. More baskets of documents lined the floor around the desk’s Fire-iron legs. An apprentice collected a pile of completed correspondence and dropped a stack of new letters twice as high.
He’s more glorified secretary than sorcerer.
She let Chou pace the bookshelves as she was too far away to read the titles, and anyway there were so many volumes it would have taken both of them a week to peruse them all. She searched for anything else that seemed out of place, but the chaos overwhelmed her. Even the smell of the place was jumbled. A scent of mint and lemon mingled with the familiar odors of ink and dusty paper. She was drawn to the one bit of serenity in the room.
A small potted plant sat on the window ledge. Its glossy blue leaves drooped as if it had not been watered in a week. She stood and walked toward it. “What an interesting plant,” she said.
Oliver looked up. “A Blue Weathervane,” he said.
Eleanor touched one of the plant’s leaves and she swore it shuddered. She sniffed at the trace of blue powder it left on her fingers, and realized the lemony-minty smell came from the Weathervane. She wiped her finger on her handkerchief. “Pardon, sir, but it appears thirsty.”
“It’s not,” said Oliver with a haughty sniff. “It always looks that way. Weathervanes are highly sensitive to different stimuli. The
common yellow variety reacts to changes in temperature or precipitation.” He sounded much like a talking textbook. “The blue variety reacts to magic. It’s relatively healthy in Solsea, where I’m one of the only practicing magicians and the witches live in the countryside. Here in Maliana the magical weight is so heavy I sometimes fear it will kill the Weathervane altogether. Such a shame. It’s very rare.”
Eleanor sensed a reference to last summer’s argument over the superfluity of magic in Cartheigh. She swept back to her chair, and the grin plastered on her face felt almost Sylvia-like. “Ah, Mister Oliver, one plant in exchange for a world of magical innovation and good deeds. A just compromise.”
Oliver’s nostrils flared. He shoved a stopper in the glass tonic jar. “To your health, as always, Your Highness,” he said as he handed it over. “And to the health of your child.”
Chou landed on her shoulder once more. He’d been unusually quiet throughout the visit. She commented on his diligence as they walked back to her room.
“I don’t blather about when there’s work to be done,” he said.
“I didn’t see anything alarming,” Eleanor said, “but then again I don’t know what I expected.”
“You’re right. Oliver isn’t going to write a book entitled My Deep and Abiding Friendship with Imogene Brice and leave it on his desk.”
“Did you see anything on the book shelf?” she asked.
“No, but I did see something under the desk.”
“Ah, Chou! Tell me.”
“Two books. One on rare enchantments and one called Legacies of Caleb Desmarais.”
“Well done,” she said. “I believe I must have copies of both. Winter is a splendid time for reading.”
Eleanor watched the crowd of dancers swirling about the Grand Ballroom and sneezed into her hand. The magicians had overdone it with the giant Awakening flowers, but at least they hadn’t brought in any matching bees. She sat at a dining table at the head of the room beside Gregory. Dorian stood quietly in front of them like a dark sentry. He swallowed whiskey by the glassful.
The Cracked Slipper Page 26