An Embarrassment of Riches by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

side.
    Csenge watched her leave. “A bit skittish,” she said as if to herself.
    “She’s still half a child,” Kunigunde said quietly, as if she were vastly older than Imbolya. “Your guidance will help her.”
    Satisfied that she had impressed the Konige, Csenge shrugged. “Yes. She’s new; she’ll learn. Shall I send for Tirz Agoston to play for you?”
    “No.” She knew she should explain her refusal, but nothing came to mind.
    “Would you like me to rub your feet?”
    “I suppose so,” said Kunigunde, who realized that her lady-in-waiting needed to do something for her. “Yes, if you would. And turn the mirror away.” Her chainse was sticking to her body and it was not a pleasant sensation. “Do you think it would harm my child if I were to bathe?”
    Csenge considered the question. “Klotild would know better than I, but if bathing would make you more comfortable, I doubt it could be too harmful.” She dropped into her chair.
    “I will speak to her myself, later.” She took a deep breath. “Who is with my daughter this hour?”
    “Rozsa and Betrica are with Kinga,” she said, using the four-year-old’s nickname. “They will tend to her until Teca and Milica take her into their care at sundown.”
    “She was fussy this morning,” said the Konige.
    “It’s the heat,” said Csenge. “The leaves are wilting on the trees.”
    “Well, at least it should bring us a rich harvest.” She tugged at her bleihaut, exposing her lightest solers.
    “Would you like me to use wool-fat while I rub? It should soothe your skin, soften it. There is the jar of it that Comes Santu-Germaniu sent four days since, in your private room. He said it has ginger and arnica mixed in it.” She spoke soothingly as she removed the Konige’s solers, exposing Kunigunde’s bare feet, the upper flesh puffy from pressing against the straps of the solers. “Would you like me to wash them first?”
    “That would be nice. If you can find some cool water,” said the Konige.
    “Cool water it shall be.” She rose and went to the door. “Gyongyi, the Konige would like a basin of cool water,” she called to the waiting-woman sitting in the open window at the end of the corridor.
    Gyongyi of Tolna, a sturdily built woman with pock-marked skin and a lantern jaw, who was a few years older than Csenge, got up quickly and ducked her head before hurrying away toward the stairs and the distant kitchens.
    On her couch, Kunigunde turned her head toward the windows. “No clouds,” she said in disappointment.
    “Not in the east, no: there may be some in the west,” said Csenge, coming back to the Konige’s side. She wished Imbolya would return so that she could have a little rest. They could not leave the Konige alone, but Csenge was so uncomfortable, she wondered why Kunigunde had not sent her away to rest, as she had done with her body-servant Davni, who was a commoner, and a Bohemian, not Hungarian and noble as she was. Feeling ill-used, she patted her brow with the edge of her sleeve. The heat had made her nauseated and she knew she would soon become dizzy if she had no chance to lie down. It had happened before, but not with such vehemence as she feared might now be the case. There was a sourness in her mouth and a tightness in her throat that did not bode well. If only Erzebet of Arad was not laid low with a fever, she could demand some relief, and not only from her flibbertigibbet cousin—running off to the midwife like that!—but from tried and tested women of maturity and good sense, women who would not abandon the Konige so recklessly.
    “Pader Stanislas said it will rain tonight, or tomorrow at the latest,” Kunigunde said; the Polish Augustinian served as her scribe and secretary and was the most educated man in her immediate Court, one whose pronouncements were highly regarded. “He has been praying for rain for the last three days.”
    “A pity God hasn’t answered him yet,” said Csenge, forcing a smile to