The Tower of the Forgotten by Sara M. Harvey

glass
windows.
    Imogen
looked at the estate. "Who lives here? It
smells like magic."
    "Lord
Alaric Regalii, unless I miss my guess."
    "Oh, him. Can we trust him?"
    "I don’t know, honestly. But we have no other allies,
and I wouldn’t turn aside any Regalii
support."
    Imogen
nodded. "Not a bad idea. Even if he isn’t completely trustworthy, he shall have to swear an oath of
hospitality; it’s custom. We can get
some rest and hopefully find out about Radinka."
    Portia
rubbed her temples. "So, I suppose we should
stroll on up to the front door and knock, then?"
    "I suppose we should."
    Fine. Let’s."
    They
climbed over the wall and headed straight for the elaborate front doors. Portia
yanked on the bell pull. To her surprise, Alaric came to the door himself.
    He
looked as if he had been in his study; a long gentleman’s dressing gown hung open over his shirt and trousers. He
gazed at them with an expression that was half irritation, half amusement.
    "You
have diverged from our agreement, my dear," he said.
    "Circumstances
changed. May we beg hospitality from you, Lord Regalii?"
    "We?" He made a great show of looking around Portia.
    "Yes,
myself and the Mistress Imogen Gyony." She hardly needed to
point Imogen out to him. Even in the misty dawn, her fiery red hair shone and
she stood nearly half a head taller than Portia.
    "Our
intelligence clearly stated that Imogen Gyony had been killed…years ago."
    "Your
intelligence was obviously flawed," Imogen told him tartly.
    Portia
laid a hand on her beloved’s forearm, tasting the
lie in Alaric’s words. "Does that matter? From the feel of this place you have no
problem consorting with the dead."
    "Are
you Aldias, now, hmm?"
    "Are
you going to let us in?"
    He
looked them over, appraising them, his eyes resting on Portia’s eyes and hair, on Imogen’s
face, and almost hungrily on the golden axe.
    Of
course, of course. Excuse me." He stepped back,
throwing both doors open wide. "Welcome, ladies, to my
home. I offer you my household’s hospitality."
    The
main foyer arched high above, chandeliers shining with fragrant beeswax
candles. Inlaid in cunningly wrought marble and bronze, an elaborately detailed
family crest decorated the floor. Imogen sucked in a breath at the sight of it
and stepped carefully around it.
    Alaric
reached out and tugged on a velvet bell-pull. "I’ll have the servants roused to draw you ladies a bath and
have some more suitable clothes sent up."
    A
plump maid appeared, bobbing her head in such a deep curtsey that it made her
round cheeks quiver and her auburn curls bounce.
    "Ah,
Matilda, excellent. Can you see these ladies to their rooms in the guest wing
and see that they aren’t disturbed until they’ve slept enough to rise refreshed? Goodnight, Mistresses
Gyony, or should I say, good morning? Either way, sleep well. We have much to
discuss later."
    Matilda
seemed the motherly type, even though she was quite young. She clucked and
fussed the entire way up the stairs, fretful over finding something that Portia
could wear with those wings of hers. She also studiously ignored the axe that
flickered and gleamed in Portia’s hand.
    She
brought them to a suite of rooms that opened onto a central sitting room and
held two small bedrooms and a well-sized bathroom with a curved enameled copper
tub. She disappeared down the hall and returned with an armful of white cloth.
    "This
one is the largest, has a drawstring neckline, too. You should be able to make
it do until Favrielle gets through with you." She tossed one gown in
particular to Portia and handed another to Imogen. She pointed out the bell
pulls in each of the rooms and curtsied dramatically once more before
disappearing from the room.
    "What
shall we do now?" Portia tossed her
nightgown onto the bed in the first bedroom.
    A
fierce blush had risen in Imogen’s face. "I don’t like it here."
    "It’ll be all right—I won’t let anything happen to you."
    "It isn’t me I’m worried