surprise in his eyes.
“My lady, please. You’ve had a long day. You should be resting—”
“Who’s been in my chambers?” Livia demanded. “Who’s been in my chambers since the last time I left?”
They gave each other helpless looks.
“A…a few people, my lady. Chambermaids, your valet, several of us of course. Why? Is something missing?”
She almost said
yes
, then bit her tongue. Sending her people to scour the keep was the last thing she needed. She’d have to find Squirrel’s book—and deal with the thief—by herself.
“No. No, I just…need to have a word with someone about my linens. It’s all right. I think I’m just disoriented.”
“Kailani’s been sleeping too,” the other Browncloak said. She beamed. “She objected, but we thought she could use the rest. The entire city’s talking about what you did, my lady. It’s a sign. The Gardener is blessing your rule and proving your virtue.”
Livia winced. “I…did nothing. The Gardener simply chose to work through my hands. He could have chosen anyone in the crowd.”
“But he chose you,” said her partner. “You
are
his instrument.”
And what will you say
, Livia thought,
when the thief exposes me and you find out how I really saved Kailani’s life?
Will you be there when they lash me to the pyre?
* * *
In the cold grassy fields outside Lychwold, in the shadow of the craggy, flame-pitted city walls, Amadeo savored the rare feeling of strain in his old muscles. He lugged a splintery wooden crate to a waiting wagon, workmen and volunteers swirling around him in a buzz of activity.
The tent city was coming down. When the refugee fleet had first arrived in Itresca, King Jernigan had offered Amadeo’s people shelter and food as a token of his benevolence. Now, with Livia on the papal throne and almost all of the refugees pledging allegiance to the Itrescan flag, the tents weren’t needed anymore. The survivors of the Alms District massacre were moving into permanent homes, taking on jobs in Lychwold, doing their best to start a new life and leave that horrible night behind them.
Amadeo wished them luck. He feared he’d be dragging those memories—the roaring flames, the agonized screams, the stench of burning flesh—behind him like a ball and chain for the rest of his days. Every now and then he’d think they’d faded, only for a chance sound or a smell to bring that night back to vivid life.
In the swirl of conversation from the workers, one topic ruled the day: Livia. Livia, and her miracle in the streets.
“It’s not even the first time,” one of the laborers said, grunting as he hauled back on a rooted tent peg. “I heard one of those—I don’t know what they are, the people in the brown cloaks that follow her around. He said assassins jumped ’em in the queen’s gardens, and the Gardener’s hand came down and swept them all away.”
“Aw, they’re making that up,” said the worker at his side. “I bet nothing even happened at the parade today, neither. Just people getting all worked up and seeing things.”
“What, you don’t believe in miracles?”
The man shrugged, rocking a stubborn tent peg back and forth in the dirt with both hands. “Sure. But centuries ago, like in the scriptures. Not
today
, here in
Lychwold
of all places. And if the Gardener’s so hot to show us Livia’s the real thing, why doesn’t he just…I don’t know, hit Carlo with a bolt of lightning?”
“You,” said his partner, “need to go to church.”
Amadeo left them to their argument, strolling past as he looked for anyone needing a helping hand. What he found, instead, was Sister Columba. The elderly woman—once Pope Benignus’s personal aide, and one of the key conspirators in the early fight against Carlo—gave a hesitant tug at Amadeo’s cassock sleeve.
“I need to talk to you,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Of course, Sister. What’s on your mind?”
“Not here.
“My lady, please. You’ve had a long day. You should be resting—”
“Who’s been in my chambers?” Livia demanded. “Who’s been in my chambers since the last time I left?”
They gave each other helpless looks.
“A…a few people, my lady. Chambermaids, your valet, several of us of course. Why? Is something missing?”
She almost said
yes
, then bit her tongue. Sending her people to scour the keep was the last thing she needed. She’d have to find Squirrel’s book—and deal with the thief—by herself.
“No. No, I just…need to have a word with someone about my linens. It’s all right. I think I’m just disoriented.”
“Kailani’s been sleeping too,” the other Browncloak said. She beamed. “She objected, but we thought she could use the rest. The entire city’s talking about what you did, my lady. It’s a sign. The Gardener is blessing your rule and proving your virtue.”
Livia winced. “I…did nothing. The Gardener simply chose to work through my hands. He could have chosen anyone in the crowd.”
“But he chose you,” said her partner. “You
are
his instrument.”
And what will you say
, Livia thought,
when the thief exposes me and you find out how I really saved Kailani’s life?
Will you be there when they lash me to the pyre?
* * *
In the cold grassy fields outside Lychwold, in the shadow of the craggy, flame-pitted city walls, Amadeo savored the rare feeling of strain in his old muscles. He lugged a splintery wooden crate to a waiting wagon, workmen and volunteers swirling around him in a buzz of activity.
The tent city was coming down. When the refugee fleet had first arrived in Itresca, King Jernigan had offered Amadeo’s people shelter and food as a token of his benevolence. Now, with Livia on the papal throne and almost all of the refugees pledging allegiance to the Itrescan flag, the tents weren’t needed anymore. The survivors of the Alms District massacre were moving into permanent homes, taking on jobs in Lychwold, doing their best to start a new life and leave that horrible night behind them.
Amadeo wished them luck. He feared he’d be dragging those memories—the roaring flames, the agonized screams, the stench of burning flesh—behind him like a ball and chain for the rest of his days. Every now and then he’d think they’d faded, only for a chance sound or a smell to bring that night back to vivid life.
In the swirl of conversation from the workers, one topic ruled the day: Livia. Livia, and her miracle in the streets.
“It’s not even the first time,” one of the laborers said, grunting as he hauled back on a rooted tent peg. “I heard one of those—I don’t know what they are, the people in the brown cloaks that follow her around. He said assassins jumped ’em in the queen’s gardens, and the Gardener’s hand came down and swept them all away.”
“Aw, they’re making that up,” said the worker at his side. “I bet nothing even happened at the parade today, neither. Just people getting all worked up and seeing things.”
“What, you don’t believe in miracles?”
The man shrugged, rocking a stubborn tent peg back and forth in the dirt with both hands. “Sure. But centuries ago, like in the scriptures. Not
today
, here in
Lychwold
of all places. And if the Gardener’s so hot to show us Livia’s the real thing, why doesn’t he just…I don’t know, hit Carlo with a bolt of lightning?”
“You,” said his partner, “need to go to church.”
Amadeo left them to their argument, strolling past as he looked for anyone needing a helping hand. What he found, instead, was Sister Columba. The elderly woman—once Pope Benignus’s personal aide, and one of the key conspirators in the early fight against Carlo—gave a hesitant tug at Amadeo’s cassock sleeve.
“I need to talk to you,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Of course, Sister. What’s on your mind?”
“Not here.
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