relations. Yvelliane sighed and raised a hand to rub her eyes.
Laurens said, “Sigeris and his entourage will expect to call on Kenan. We’ll raise the level of monitoring, but we can’t do more. There’s no proof that Quenfrida is anything more than she seems. One of my people in their embassy reports on her regularly, and the most he’s found is that she’s carrying on a flirtation with the Vicomte de Guares.” He patted her had again, and Yvelliane looked up. “I’m keeping my eyes on them, Yviane. Stop worrying.”
If only she could . . . Yvelliane made herself smile at him. He was a good man, a kind one, and she trusted him. And he was right: there was little they could do at present except keep a careful watch on their troublesome foreign guests. Firomelle coughed again, this time for longer, and Laurens rose and went to her. Firomelle pressed a hand to her side, fighting to regain her breath.
Yvelliane rose also. “Fielle? Shall I call someone?” She made to move toward the bellrope.
“No,” Firomelle said through a cough. Laurens poured cordial into a glass from the carafe that stood on a side table and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly while they watched. Yvelliane found her hands clenching and put them behind her back. As far back as she could remember, Firomelle had been her closest friend and comforter, dearer to her than anyone in the world save Valdarrien. When she and Valdarrien had lost their parents, Firomelle had brought them to court and raised them almost as younger siblings. After Valdarrien’s death, they had grown even closer. The resemblance between the two women was marked; both were tall and slender and dark-eyed, even though Firomelle’s face was hollow these days and there were gray streaks in her soft brown hair. If she were to die . . . Yvelliane did not want to think of that. She made herself unclench her hands and straighten her spine. Think about the policies, about now,not the future.Think about what we have to donow . . . She was very tired suddenly. Despite herself, she frowned.
Firomelle said, “Come here, Yviane.”
The coughing fit was over: the queen held out a hand. Laurens stood beside her, his hand on the back of her chair. Yvelliane sank to the rug at her feet, and Firomelle stroked her hair. Yvelliane caught the hand. “Fielle . . .”
“Hush.”
Yvelliane leaned back. “Listen,” Firomelle said, “you’re tired. You should go home.”
“I still have work . . .”
“You have a husband who wants to see you. He’s a good man. Don’t neglect him.” Yvelliane looked down, hiding her face. Firomelle went on. “He could help you a lot, if you let him. He’s intelligent and he adores you.”
“Politics don’t interest him. He likes to ride and play cards and . . .”
“He’s not Valdin,” Laurens said. “And he’s over thirty.”
“I don’t . . .” Yvelliane said, and stopped. She liked to think of Thiercelin at home, removed and protected from the grind of government work. Unlike Miraude, he had never shown any interest in it. He had been Valdarrien’s friend; he did not belong in her world of papers and gray intrigues. She did not think she wanted him to belong. She had not been able to keep danger away from Valdarrien, and now death reached out for Firomelle. She wanted Thiercelin to be safe. He was her haven: always there, always calm and loving and ready to smile at her. Except that he, too, lately seemed to be hiding something from her . . .
Kenan and Quenfrida in the city. Firomelle dying. Thiercelin perhaps drawing away from her. Yvelliane turned her face into the queen’s skirts and tried not to be afraid.
Gracielis was trying to enjoy himself. The rain had finally stopped, and the night’s chill had yet to penetrate Thiercelin’s carriage. It was drawn up in the shadows at the road’s edge, and showing no lights. Clouds covered both moons. Music rang from the bright windows of the nearby Rose Palace. Gracielis could
Laurens said, “Sigeris and his entourage will expect to call on Kenan. We’ll raise the level of monitoring, but we can’t do more. There’s no proof that Quenfrida is anything more than she seems. One of my people in their embassy reports on her regularly, and the most he’s found is that she’s carrying on a flirtation with the Vicomte de Guares.” He patted her had again, and Yvelliane looked up. “I’m keeping my eyes on them, Yviane. Stop worrying.”
If only she could . . . Yvelliane made herself smile at him. He was a good man, a kind one, and she trusted him. And he was right: there was little they could do at present except keep a careful watch on their troublesome foreign guests. Firomelle coughed again, this time for longer, and Laurens rose and went to her. Firomelle pressed a hand to her side, fighting to regain her breath.
Yvelliane rose also. “Fielle? Shall I call someone?” She made to move toward the bellrope.
“No,” Firomelle said through a cough. Laurens poured cordial into a glass from the carafe that stood on a side table and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly while they watched. Yvelliane found her hands clenching and put them behind her back. As far back as she could remember, Firomelle had been her closest friend and comforter, dearer to her than anyone in the world save Valdarrien. When she and Valdarrien had lost their parents, Firomelle had brought them to court and raised them almost as younger siblings. After Valdarrien’s death, they had grown even closer. The resemblance between the two women was marked; both were tall and slender and dark-eyed, even though Firomelle’s face was hollow these days and there were gray streaks in her soft brown hair. If she were to die . . . Yvelliane did not want to think of that. She made herself unclench her hands and straighten her spine. Think about the policies, about now,not the future.Think about what we have to donow . . . She was very tired suddenly. Despite herself, she frowned.
Firomelle said, “Come here, Yviane.”
The coughing fit was over: the queen held out a hand. Laurens stood beside her, his hand on the back of her chair. Yvelliane sank to the rug at her feet, and Firomelle stroked her hair. Yvelliane caught the hand. “Fielle . . .”
“Hush.”
Yvelliane leaned back. “Listen,” Firomelle said, “you’re tired. You should go home.”
“I still have work . . .”
“You have a husband who wants to see you. He’s a good man. Don’t neglect him.” Yvelliane looked down, hiding her face. Firomelle went on. “He could help you a lot, if you let him. He’s intelligent and he adores you.”
“Politics don’t interest him. He likes to ride and play cards and . . .”
“He’s not Valdin,” Laurens said. “And he’s over thirty.”
“I don’t . . .” Yvelliane said, and stopped. She liked to think of Thiercelin at home, removed and protected from the grind of government work. Unlike Miraude, he had never shown any interest in it. He had been Valdarrien’s friend; he did not belong in her world of papers and gray intrigues. She did not think she wanted him to belong. She had not been able to keep danger away from Valdarrien, and now death reached out for Firomelle. She wanted Thiercelin to be safe. He was her haven: always there, always calm and loving and ready to smile at her. Except that he, too, lately seemed to be hiding something from her . . .
Kenan and Quenfrida in the city. Firomelle dying. Thiercelin perhaps drawing away from her. Yvelliane turned her face into the queen’s skirts and tried not to be afraid.
Gracielis was trying to enjoy himself. The rain had finally stopped, and the night’s chill had yet to penetrate Thiercelin’s carriage. It was drawn up in the shadows at the road’s edge, and showing no lights. Clouds covered both moons. Music rang from the bright windows of the nearby Rose Palace. Gracielis could
Similar Books
