A young girl, no more than ten years of age, reclines on the couch, looking fragile and wan.
“Lady Sybella!” The duchess waves her hand at me. I step farther into the room, pleased that she has not used my last name. As I sink into a deep curtsy, I comfort myself that she has most likely not brought me here to censure me in front of her younger sister.
“Come. Sit with us.” She pats the empty chair between herself and the couch, and I realize that this summons is an invitation. An open declaration of acceptance, and I am humbled by this great kindness she is showing me.
“But of course, Your Grace.”
I ignore the glances of her ladies and cross to the chair the duchess indicates. As I sit down, the duchess gives me another smile. “I had thought to invite you to stitch with us, then realized you probably did not think to pack your embroidery silks when you left Nantes.”
I smile at her gentle joke. “No, Your Grace. I did not.”
One of the ladies leans forward, her brow creased. “How did you find Nantes, my lady?”
The duchess looks at her attendant and shakes her head with a glance in the young girl’s direction. The woman nods in understanding.
“It is as magnificent as ever, a true testament to the house of Montfort,” I say, and the duchess relaxes slightly.
“Demoiselle, I do not think you have met my sister before. Isabeau, dear, this is the Lady Sybella, a great ally of ours.”
Her words cause a blush to rise to my cheeks—I, who never blush—and I turn to properly greet her sister. The child’s skin looks nearly translucent, and her large eyes peer out of her pale, drawn face. And her heart—ah, her heart is beating slowly, weakly, as if it may give up at any moment. She reminds me wholly of my younger sister Louise, who also battles fragile health. Once again I am grateful that both my sisters are tucked away in one of our father’s most remote holdings, far from his political scheming and influence.
Not welcoming all the painful memories that the young princess stirs, I harden my heart against her, but in the end, she is so small and weak and charming, I cannot keep myself from liking her. Her embroidery sits forgotten in her lap, and she plucks at her bodice, as if she finds it difficult to breathe. To distract her, I beg a length of scarlet embroidery silk from the duchess, then busy my fingers.
My action immediately catches Isabeau’s attention. “What are you doing, my lady?” She pokes her nose forward to see better.
“I am making a cat’s cradle, a puzzle of thread.” A few more twists of my fingers and the red thread is shaped like a trestle bridge. The princess’s face brightens and her mouth forms a small O of delight.
“Take your hands and pinch where the threads cross on each side,” I tell her.
She glances at the duchess, who nods her head in permission, then reaches out with two slim fingers and hesitatingly pinches the crossed threads. “Ready now?” I ask.
She glances up at me, then back down at the threads. She nods. “Pinch hard,” I say, “pull your hands out to the side, then bring them slowly back in and under my own.”
Biting her lip in concentration, Isabeau does as I instruct. It is clumsy and awkward, but when she is finished, she has transferred the cat’s cradle to her own small hands, and her face flushes with triumph and delight.
“Oh, well done,” murmurs the duchess.
I smile at Isabeau, who smiles back. She is no longer plucking at her bodice, and her heart is beating a little more steadily. Thus it was with Louise as well. Her own illness made her anxious, which in turn made her feel worse. It comes over me with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer that I may very well never see Louise or Charlotte again. Not after betraying d’Albret.
“Demoiselle?” the duchess asks, leaning forward with her brows pinched in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Just trying to remember another trick with the string.” I force all thoughts of my sisters back into the small, cramped box deep in my heart, bind it once again with chains, and lock it tight.
I spend the next hour teaching Isabeau how to do the trick while the duchess talks softly with her ladies. Unobserved, I try to note each of them and take her measure. How long has the duchess known them? How loyal to her are they? I do not recognize any of them from Guérande, which suggests they have been culled from Rennes’s noble families. Let us hope they are more loyal than her other attendants and retainers have been.
They in turn watch me, their glances like small, biting insects. I cannot tell if it is mere curiosity or if there is knowledge and censure in their gaze.
When it is time for dinner, the ladies put away their embroidery. Isabeau is being allowed to attend tonight, for the duchess has agreed to a performance by minstrels that she thinks her young sister will enjoy.
We leave the solar, and the duchess has one of the other ladies escort Isabeau while she herself walks next to me. Her steps slow somewhat, and I must alter my pace so I do not run ahead and leave her trailing behind. When no one is close enough to hear, she leans toward me slightly. “Demoiselle, I want you to know that I thank you for your sacrifice, for to go against your family, no matter how justified, is no easy thing. I also want you to know that I do not doubt a single word you have told us. Indeed, it aligns precisely with what my lord brother and I have long felt. I am only sorry that you have had to learn this knowledge firsthand.” With that, she squeezes my arm gently, then turns the talk to the minstrels and what she has heard of their talents. I hear nothing she says; I am too busy holding tight this small nugget of trust she has granted me.
While the great hall in Rennes is smaller than that of Nantes, it is every bit as opulent. The rich carved paneling is decorated heavily with thick, brilliant tapestries, and the room is alight with the glow of scores of candles. The mingled scent of rose, civet, cloves, and ambergris hangs heavy in the air, and I feel the beating of a dozen hearts. It is, in every sense of the word, an assault upon my senses. Even worse, everyone in the room is infected with high spirits, and the guests’ jubilant manner makes me uneasy. It is unwise for them to be so very happy, for the gods will feel the need to humble us.
The first thing I do is look for Beast, but the ugly oaf is not here. My entire body sags in relief, for I did not look forward to an entire evening spent trying to ignore his wrath. Not to mention I’m fairly certain his continuing fury would blister my skin.