The Emperor exhaled loudly, a sigh of resignation and despair. Looking up into her terrible pale face, the things he saw reflected there made him unable to dissemble any further, merely deny.
“I will not speak of Fiomarre any longer, Claere. Enough, do not ask me things I cannot answer. And—do not ask me why. Simply take my word as your Father and your Emperor.”
“In that case, my Father and my Emperor, I must beg leave to depart the Silver Court. And if there is no blessing, I will proceed without it.”
Josephuste Liguon II had no heart to deny her, especially not now. After a long pause, “Very well . . .” he said. “A carriage will be made ready for you, and you can leave on the morrow—”
“No! I must leave
now
, Father. There is no time, no time to waste, not a moment. . . .”
He nodded again. And then in a dead voice called the servants to arrange his daughter’s final departure.
As he did this deed of love for her, the Infanta raised her hands slowly and touched the platinum and diamond Crown that she wore.
She paused briefly, as though considering her next movement, or memorizing the moment. And then her cold, numb fingers gripped the precious metal. She removed the glittering Crown and placed it carefully on the nearest pillow. And then she removed her wig, pulling at it without mercy and knowing no pain, until a cascade of pins that held it in place scattered on the floor. Underneath, her thin pale hair, ashes-and-wheat, was revealed, gathered into a small twist in the back and pulled so tightly that it was flattened against her scalp. Traces of white powder remained, dusting the rim of her hairline.
The elaborate, coiffed wig fell to the floor, ignored.
The Crown sat twinkling with lights on the pillow, and she paused another instant to observe it.
Then, she turned her back on it in silence.
T
ussecan was not all that different from Oarclaven, maybe just a tad larger and more crowded, Percy thought, as their cart clattered into town along the wide, cobblestone-paved and treacherously icy thoroughfare which the road had become. The blanket of show had melted into brown sludge on the edges near the storefront walks alongside the buildings that lined main street. And the sludge got iced over into two deep perpetual ruts on both sides of the street from all the traffic of carts and carriages and sleds that wore it down into slippery smoothness.
It was late afternoon and urchins bundled in woolens took running leaps and then slid on their feet along the icy grooves, flailing with their arms to maintain balance and then barely getting out of the way of oncoming equipage traffic. There were cries and hoots and laughter in the air together with the pungent scent of wood-smoke from the many piping chimneys. Percy took it all in as she sat hunched over in the cart, her thickly bundled feet dangling next to Jenna’s.
“Goodness, what a messy little town,” said Lizabette from the back, rubbing the side of her sharp, cold-reddened nose with her mittens. Lizabette, who it turned out was the daughter of a school headmaster in another town just south of Letheburg, was a fount of running commentary on everything from the density of snow at this time of the season, to the correct pronunciation of words, to the so-called gauche tactics of the mercantile class—as she referred to the street vendors who plied their trade in small carts and earned her annoyance. The more Lizabette shared her knowledge and lofty opinions, the more Emilie rolled her eyes behind Lizabette’s back and then made nose-thumbing gestures.
Gloria, the Oarclaven blacksmith’s shy daughter, remained perfectly quiet and distracted for the entirety of the journey as she sat next to Percy. Then, at one point during their “rotation” switch, she got out of the cart to walk, still without speaking a word.
The other young women—Flor, the sisters Catrine and Niosta, and the Letheburg girls, Regata and Sibyl—giggled and talked on and off among themselves, occasionally including Percy in their conversation. Jenna just sat humming loudly, and at one point broke out into a flat rendition of “Cobweb Bride, Cobweb Bride, come and lie by my side,” until Emilie reached over and pulled her kerchief around her face and shoved it into her mouth—at which point Jenna sputtered with indignation while Percy hid a smile.
“And what exactly makes you call this town messy, Lizabette?” Grial said, as she skillfully maneuvered Betsy’s reins while the stately mare plodded along, pulling them with no visible effort. “Looks to be rather a neat and orderly place to me—pretty buildings with new roofs, and those newfangled glass windows everywhere, freshly painted red panes, doors with shiny brass handles—why, I’d say it’s a very presentable place, this Tussecan! Even the smell is right—right about now, smells like hot cinnamon buns and pumpkin soup!”
“No offense, Grial,” said Lizabette, and everyone stared at her, waiting for the proverbial offense to drop, “but compared to Letheburg or even my own distinguished home town, Duarden, this is a provincial outpost. I mean, just look at those shabby carriages, not one sporting a noble crest, and the jostling crowds of townsfolk all dressed in Lord knows what. . . .”
And then Lizabette went silent, since pretty much everyone else in the cart surrounding her was dressed in Lord knows what. Percy and Jenna wore poor woolen hand-me-downs (even if one accounted for Percy’s mother’s so-called “heirloom” shawl), Emilie bundled in a greasy old quilted coat, while the two sisters from farthest down south wore near-beggar clothing. The two well-dressed girls, Sybil and Regata, chose wisely to keep quiet. And so Lizabette pulled her own stylish coat with shiny brass buttons closer together and decided for once to keep her opinions to herself.
“Aha!” Grial exclaimed suddenly, “I smell it! Yes, on the wind, there’s warm stew in somebody’s pot! Or, at least a fine leather shoe, eh? Or is it hickory? Or just freshly baked bread? In any case, who’s hungry?”
“Who’s not?” Regata said with a groan, while all around came the chorus of “Me, me!”
“What should we do, ladies?” Grial continued. “We have a long road ahead of us, no doubt, once we pass the town, since it’s the last outpost between here and the Northern Forest. But it is getting late in the day, and the cold’s going to bite our noses off and leave us with little red stumps, unless we warm up. We’ll rest up tonight in Tussecan, I say. Who’s with me?”
“Me! Me!”
“Ma’am . . . Grial,” said Niosta who had just climbed into the back of the cart, trading places with Emilie. “What are we gonna do for money? We don’t ’ave nuthin’ to pay for any lodging or food. Really, we weren’t plannin’ on it. Just find a spot in somebody’s barn’s all we need.”
“Aha!” Grial said again. “But ‘nuthin’ is what’s indeed required for us to get food and lodging here in Tussecan. In fact, not only nothing, but probably less than that. About half of nothing will do. And certainly, since we’re talking about nothing, not even money is required, if you get my drift.”
“Not really,” Emilie said from the side of the cart where she now walked.
“Huh? I’m confused! That is, Ma’am, I’m confused—sorry,” Jenna said.
Grial gave a sudden bark of laughter. As always, it sounded a bit crazy, but also harmless.
“Here’s the deal, my pretties. It may be our impossible Cobweb Bridal luck, or just—well, who knows what really, probably nothing—but I have a cousin here in Tussecan, and her name’s Ronna Liet. And Ronna’s an excellent woman for oh-so-many reasons, the most important, as far as we’re concerned, being that she owns and runs an inn. Not just an inn, but a fine and generous inn with two stories and at least a dozen grand and yet delightfully cozy rooms, if I remember correctly—it’s been ages, I say, since I’ve been here last—and it’s called Ronna’s Imperial Crown and Dream. Or, maybe Ronna’s Regal Lethe Palatial Arms? In any case, here it is, ladies, right there, see this house coming up ahead? That’s it! There’s our free food and lodging!”
And with another bark, Grial pulled up Betsy’s reins while the cart rambled to a slow stop in front of a pleasant looking storefront with a brass-decorated shingle hanging on clean new chains and fresh red and green lettering that said “Ronna’s Inn.” Just below, in smaller white letters it said “Welcome, Dear Travelers!”
Sibyl, whose father was a Letheburg tailor, attempted to read the lettering on the sign and moved her lips silently, while Lizabette proudly read the sign out-loud in a school-marmish tone of voice.
Percy, who could read because her mother had made sure of it, said nothing. She and her sisters had been fortunate to have been taught letters by Niobea with her “city learning,” and spent many winter nights before a flickering candle, turning precious parchment pages—one of the three books that were in their house, each one treasured and re-read a hundred times, and stored in her mother’s ancient dowry trunk. But just because she could read did not mean she wanted others to know about it, especially now, as they were deciphering the lettering on the sign above the inn, and Lizabette was showing off.
“Yes, yes, well,” Grial said, as she started to maneuver the cart into the inn’s small alley on the side of the building. “And so it is, as you can see, exactly as I described.”
Just as they almost had Betsy turned around and into the alley, a very fast-moving vehicle driven by four very fine horses—followed by a groom and four spares, and flanked by an escort of another four riders—sped by the street, sending up icy sludge in every direction and scattering urchins.
The girls walking next to the cart jumped back to get out of the way while those in the cart had their necks craned to look. And then Lizabette gasped and her mouth fell open. “Did you see that carriage?” she cried, raising mittens to her cheeks. “It bore the Imperial Crest! And those horses? All purebred Arabians, no less, with braided tails and curled manes! And those Imperial uniformed knights! Good heavens, who could that be, here in this provincial outpost of a town?”
“And you said Tussecan has no crests,” muttered Regata.
In moments they were in the back of the inn, and everyone got off the cart, grabbed their belongings, and helped Grial unhitch Betsy. At the same time a matronly woman dressed in warm red woolens with an apron came out from the back door and, seeing Grial, beckoned with a smile and a nod.
“Hello there, Mrs. Beck!” Grial cried in her loud sonorous voice, turning to wave, and finishing up with the cart. “I’ve brought visitors for you and the Mistress—all Cobweb Brides, to boot! Have you got room in the barn for my Betsy here? Oh, and a room or two for the girls and me would be nice too!” And then she added, “Now, go on in, ladies, don’t just stand here in the cold! We’ve got plenty of work to do tonight!”
Everyone hastened inside. Percy was one of the last ones, because she and Jenna helped Grial take Betsy into the barn and got her settled in a clean and warm stall between two other horses. Then Percy pushed Jenna forward and into the back entry of Ronna’s Inn.
W
hat Grial said about work was not a joke. They ended up waiting tables, scrubbing dishes, and helping Mrs. Beck and her women with the meal to pay for their supper and beds, which was more than fine with Ronna Liet, the innkeeper and Grial’s relation, a slightly plump and short woman in a full brown skirt topped by a starched white apron, a clean cotton blouse, and an easy smile on her face. Her expression was lively, with more than a bit of an attitude, and she had greying hair sticking in messy frizzy tendrils from underneath her bonnet.
That frizzy hair was obviously a family trait. When they unbundled inside, Grial turned out to have an unruly mop of witchy-wild hair with enough kink in it to make you dizzy if you stared at her head too long. But she was also revealed to be a younger woman then Percy had expected, middle-aged to be precise, and with a rather shapely figure that was not done justice by her messy multi-colored dress.
“Cobweb Brides, you say?” Ronna began, following Grial around, as soon as the girls were shown to their various tasks. “Well, indeed. They’re all over town, like vermin. First, a day ago when the Decree was read, there were mass hysterics and families weeping, as you can imagine. Then the town practically emptied. Our own girls have all gone on ahead—including half of my serving staff, which is why we’re so shorthanded now—while these newcomers from all parts are passing through. What a mess!
“We have at least three of them staying in the inn tonight, and I think two more came in just earlier and are eating right now. Very subdued and haggard-looking, the poor things—quite unlike your own lively lot in that sense. But as long as they don’t bother the other guests and do their part in paying, I don’t mind, I suppose. Though, if you ask me, this whole thing is crazy and sad.” And Ronna shook her head, then rested hands on her ample hips.
“Tragic it is, but what can we do? Death’s demand it is, and we mortal fools must comply if we want to go on with the mortal part.” Grial spoke this while putting on a rather sooty and grease-stained apron that she removed from her own bag of belongings; she was getting ready to help in the kitchen. And then she added, “So, dumpling, tell me how you’ve been. What’s the talk these days? Any juicy gossip for me? Letheburg’s all gone dry, what with the Cobweb Bride business. They’ve even forgotten the Ducal warring in these here parts.”
“Over there, child.” Ronna pointed to a place on the hallway table for Jenna who’d just come in from the kitchen, to deposit a laden tray of freshly baked dinner rolls. And then she replied, “Yes, the Red and Blue Duke’s armies had a meet over Lake Merlait—the same night that Death stopped, they say. Horrific stuff happened, and apparently they carried half the men home in pieces—living pieces!” Ronna shuddered.