Chapter 14

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Chapter 14

Oriane woke very early, with a headache and a sense of unease.

She cringed, burrowing beneath the covers as she recalled snippets of the previous evening: random moments and half-formed memories. Kitt had walked her back from dinner in Tomas's chambers, and they'd laughed a lot, but she couldn't call to mind what they had spoken about. Andala must have helped her undress when she returned, but she remembered nothing of their interaction.

No – not nothing: it came back to her now, something Andala had said to her as she lay there, mind spinning towards sleep. Two words, spoken so quietly that they should not have resonated as they did, subtly pervading her sleep and haunting her in full force now she'd woken.

Be careful.

Oriane lay cocooned in the bedclothes, that unease growing, creeping. Be careful. What had she meant by that? What had she been trying to say? It was unlike Andala to talk to her that way. And Oriane did not know why two whispered words should carry so much weight.

But they did. She hadn't been careful lately, had she? She'd been swept up, carried away. Twenty years of caution thrown to the wind, lost to the rhythm of a whole new life. 108

Oriane rose from the bed unsteadily, lit a lamp in the predawn dark. She blamed last night's wine for her shakiness, but not for this odd apprehensiveness she could not shake. The past weeks tumbled through her mind like pictures on the quick-flipped pages of a book, and she saw them anew, as if through a much sharper lens. It was the laughter in the woods all over again: a sleepwalker's gradual awakening.

There had been so many eyes upon her of late. She felt them during her dawnsongs, of course, and afterward, when she met with her audiences in the sun-gilded hall or dined with them at the formal meals King Tomas had begun to host. She did not mind their attention, though. If she were to be honest, she liked the way their faces lit up as they watched her sing – the way they all turned towards her, as if they were flowers and she the sun itself.

But that wasn't the only time people watched her. Oriane hadn't gone anywhere unattended since her very first night in the palace. There was always a guard nearby, or a maid, or some other member of Tomas's staff. Sometimes Lord Terault himself appeared as if from nowhere, bowing his head towards her with a serene smile. Even Andala seemed to be attending her more often. She was still as distant and unreadable as ever, but she was there, a constant, quiet presence.

And despite all those eyes upon her, Oriane was beginning to feel alone.

She had been lonely in her old life. She realised that now. But this was different. Who could she really trust in this place full of strangers? How had she not wondered that until now?

And why, why , had her father still not come?

Be careful. The words tolled in her head like a warning bell – insistent, portentous, drowning everything else out. 109

After her dawnsong, back in her chambers, Oriane was still thinking of her father. She clenched her fists, cursed her selfishness. She'd been so caught up in having people hear her sing – in having people around her at all – that she had barely thought of him, alone in their cottage. It had been far easier to push his absence and his silence from her mind, to lose herself in the flow of the days, never dwelling on the most likely reason he had not come: he was refusing to do so.

Fresh guilt flooded through her, twining with a new current of fear. What if that wasn't the reason? What if he'd had an accident? Been set upon by bandits or thrown from his horse on the way to the palace, and now lay injured on the road, unable to call for help?

Her heart raced, a chill descending from the crown of her head. Abruptly, she stopped pacing – she had not even realised she was moving.

After a few steadying breaths, she crossed to the door, opened it, peered out into the hallway.

Terault was there. The seneschal looked unashamed to have been caught standing guard – for that was surely what he was doing; there was no doubt about it now.

‘Hello, my lady,' he said, inclining his head politely, as if they were crossing paths on a stroll in the garden.

Oriane steeled herself. ‘Hello,' she replied, fighting to keep her voice even and her face neutral. ‘I wonder whether you might help me, Lord Terault – only, I wanted to send a letter, and I've no idea where to find the king's messenger boy.' She forced a smile. ‘Would you be so kind as to send for him on my behalf?'

‘I'm afraid the king's personal messenger is currently indisposed,' Terault answered, his tone apologetic. ‘But you may leave any 110 correspondence you have with me, and I will ensure it is dispatched at the earliest convenience.'

Oriane's stomach swooped unpleasantly. She dragged another smile to her face. ‘Very kind of you, my lord. I have not yet finished my letter, but I will be sure to pass it on when I am done.'

Terault inclined his head graciously again. ‘Allow me,' he said, reaching for the door to close it for her. A large gold ring glinted on one of his fingers; it caught Oriane's eye, the circular design it bore tugging some odd thread within her memory. But as the door clicked shut, more pressing matters took over her mind.

Indisposed … Terault's reason – or was it an excuse? – didn't sit well with her. But it wasn't the messenger's services she needed, anyway. It was his information. She needed to ask him exactly what her father had said when he'd delivered her letters. Even if she could escape her room unfollowed, though, she would not know where to start looking for the boy. With a fresh wave of shame, she realised she had no idea where the servants' quarters were – where the people who had been cooking her meals and washing her clothes laid their heads at night … where Andala laid her head.

Andala. Oriane pushed her guilt aside, desperate now. Andala might help her. She could track down the messenger boy.

This time, when she opened the door to speak to Terault, she drew herself up to her fullest height. She needed her lady's maid, she said, and it was a matter of some urgency. She would be grateful if Terault would send for Andala at once.

Terault's clear grey eyes bored into hers. Then, to her surprise, he nodded. At a clap of his hands, Terault's own personal attendant appeared from around the corner. The seneschal murmured instructions to him and the boy hurried off. 111

Sooner than Oriane had expected, the door burst open and Andala strode through, slightly out of breath.

‘Are you all right?' she asked, crossing the room to where Oriane had sprung up from her seat. ‘Terault's boy said it was urgent.'

She wore a look of such genuine worry that Oriane smiled almost involuntarily, touched by her concern. Her reaction seemed to have a strange effect on Andala, though. She stopped abruptly, six feet away from Oriane, the lines on her face morphing back into blankness, as if by a sculptor's hand smoothing imperfections from clay.

Feeling foolish, Oriane replied, ‘I'm fine. I just needed to make sure you would come – that they would let you come.' She cast a glance towards the closed door. ‘I need your help with something … Please. If you're able.'

A pause. Then Andala nodded.

‘I need to see the messenger boy,' Oriane explained. ‘The one who took the letters to my father. He's small, with bright red hair. Terault said he's indisposed , but I need to ask him something.'

As Oriane spoke, an emotion flitted over Andala's face, then disappeared. She couldn't quite identify it, though it had been something like … embarrassment, perhaps?

Andala cleared her throat. ‘He isn't indisposed at all,' she said quietly. ‘I just saw him this morning.'

‘You did? That's wonderful! So you know where to find—'

‘There's no use,' Andala interrupted.

Oriane frowned. ‘Why not?'

‘Because I've already spoken to him about your letters.'

Oriane blinked. How had she known to do so? ‘And?' she asked warily. 112

‘And …' Andala sighed. Silence pulsed in the room, loud as Oriane's heartbeat in her ears. She suddenly did not want to hear whatever it was that Andala had to say. ‘And he never delivered them, Oriane. The king asked him not to.'

The words reverberated, the echo of them warping and distorting in her head.

She fell back onto the window seat. She was vaguely aware of Andala standing beside her, but her mind was spinning, her senses whitewashed with shock.

‘So he does not know,' she whispered hoarsely. ‘All this time I've been here, and he does not even know.'

The more she thought about it, the more she cursed her foolishness. They had barely asked for any further detail when she'd told them where to send the letters. She'd assumed they would figure it out by her scant directions; that they made these kinds of things happen as if by magic; that they could be trusted to do so.

So stupid . She had been so—

‘I'm sorry,' Andala murmured, bringing Oriane back to the room.

It sounded like she meant it. But Oriane's brain was still sifting through everything this revelation meant – and she had questions.

‘Were you planning to tell me?' she asked Andala. ‘That he did not deliver the letters?'

A short pause. ‘What do you mean?'

Oriane dragged her eyes to Andala's face, suspicion rising like a tide once more. ‘If I had not requested you come here, if I had not asked you directly, would you have told me what you knew? Or would you have left it at the cryptic warning you gave me while you thought I slept?'

‘I—' Andala started to say something, but changed course mid-word. Again, the hint of some emotion passed over that 113 ever-composed face like a ripple over water. Again, Oriane could not read it. Then finally Andala asked: ‘How can I help?'

That brought Oriane up short. It was not an explanation, or an apology, but she heard something underlying Andala's question, clear as birdsong on a summer's day.

Guilt. Andala felt guilty that she had not immediately shared what she knew. Oriane had learned much about guilt in the weeks since she had left her father. So she knew that Andala would not refuse to do what she asked.

‘I need you to help me escape.'

The words burst from her, too loud in the quiet room. The two women stared at one another, saying nothing. Oriane suspected her own face was not so hard to read. Andala would surely see the plea there, the naked fear rising just beneath the surface. She had to get out of this place. She was a fool for not realising it earlier. But now that she had, every second that passed made her more desperate to leave.

‘Please, Andala,' Oriane said. ‘Will you help me?'

Andala looked at her a moment more. Dropped her gaze. Closed her eyes and took a breath, then opened them again, and nodded.