Passion Play (19 page)

“An interesting clue, my lord.”

“Ah.” Kosenmark waved Ilse away. “You may go. We shall serve ourselves.”

Ilse curtsied, but their attention had already returned to the map and Hax’s paper. She stacked the two trays together and quickly gathered up the rest of the dirty dishes. The two men were conversing in low tones, obviously still aware of her presence, but just as she exited the door, she heard Kosenmark’s voice saying, “I see your point, but can we trust Benik’s judgment?”

“I would,” Hax said. “Interesting that Armand has also …”

Armand of Angersee. What did Lord Kosenmark have to do with Veraene’s king? Or Károví’s coastline?

Only the memory of Kosenmark’s unnerving gaze kept her from pausing to listen. She shifted the tray to a more comfortable position and hastened back to the kitchen. Thankfully, the evening’s preparations had already begun, and an ordered chaos had taken hold of the huge room. Kathe, engaged in measuring out coffees and spices, looked up at Ilse’s appearance—a long questioning look. Ilse smiled as convincingly as she could, before turning to unload her tray and plunge into the next round of tasks.

*  *  *

THE FIRST RUSH
had passed. Most of the girls were washing dishes, except for Lys, who kept the common room supplied with wine, and Rosel, whom Mistress Raendl had set to scrubbing the floors. Rosel’s eyes were bright, as though she had been crying. “Scut work,” Janna hissed in Ilse’s ear. “I told you.”

Ilse looked around the kitchen. Dana and Steffi scowled at her. “I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t make it better.”

“What if I told Mistress Raendl what happened?”

Janna’s eyes widened. She hesitated, then said, “Go ahead. I dare you.”

Ilse set down the plate she was washing and went to find Mistress Raendl.

The cook was just checking over a tray of sugared biscuits. She was frowning and muttering to herself, something about glazes and colors. “Yes,” she said, without looking up. “Did you come to tell me the dirty dishes all disappeared?”

“No, Mistress. I came to ask—to say …”

“To say what, girl?”

Ilse started at her sharp tone. “I came to say that Rosel meant no harm with her joke.”

“And?”

The kitchen was too noisy to hear any whispers, but Ilse could sense the other girls watching this scene. It was another prank, she thought. Or maybe not. Maybe she could do nothing to make friends with these girls, not with her accent and her manners and how she arrived at this house.
I can still try. I have to.

“Nothing else,” she said. “But I thought it was important to tell you.”

Mistress Raendl pursed her lips. Her gaze flickered toward the other girls. “I see. Thank you. You may go back to washing dishes.” Her voice rose slightly, cutting through the clatter. “Rosel will take no harm with her chores tonight. She might even learn some good sense.”

Ilse turned back to her workstation. Dana was chewing her lips. The other girls were blank-faced and silent. She could not tell if she had made things better or worse.

She had just finished with the plates and had started on a stack of pots, when Lys came into the kitchen. Her sharp gaze took in Rosel kneeling on the floor. She frowned. With the ease of long practice, she conducted one whispered exchange with Steffi as she dropped off her load of dirty dishes, and another with Dana, while she loaded up a new tray with more wine and cups. Ilse tensed, but no one looked in her direction. She thought Lys had gone, when a loud groan penetrated the general din.

Several girls left their stations and rushed over to Lys, who bent over, clutching her stomach. “Something I ate,” she announced, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Mistress Raendl turned around with an exasperated expression. “What now?”

“Lys is sick,” Janna said at once. “I’ll take her to her bed, if you don’t mind.”

Mistress Raendl waved her away impatiently. She scanned the other girls, frowning. Ilse could almost read her thoughts—Hanne too small, Dana coming out in spots, Rosel in disgrace, Janna occupied with Lys. It would be her or Steffi.

“You,” Mistress Raendl said, pointing at Ilse. “I need you to serve in the common room. Put on a fresh gown. Rinse your face and brush out your hair. Good enough. Here, take this tray and set out the wine and new cups. Clean up the table, and bring back the dirty cups and whatever empty carafes you find. We’ll have another tray ready when you get back.”

A runner brought a new gown from the stores, and Ilse made ready in a small closet off the kitchen. She picked up the tray and hurried to the common room, ducking between runners and other servers. Outside the doors, she stopped, her heart beating painfully fast. She could not wet her mouth.

It’s just another room.

Except that courtesans entertained their clients in that room. She had never asked if the courtesans did more than sing or talk. She hoped she would not see them pleasuring their clients. She couldn’t face that. Not tonight. Not ever. It occurred to her that Lys knew or guessed far more about Ilse’s time with the caravan than Ilse had admitted.

She knows I’m afraid.

Ilse drew a breath to settle her stomach. Today or next week or next month, she would have to face this room. She gripped the tray firmly and went inside.

She thought at first she had stepped into a well of sweet-smelling darkness. A chandelier illuminated the room’s center, but the rest was enveloped in shadows. As her eyes adjusted, Ilse saw Adelaide entwined with another woman. She skirted them, only to see Nadine and Eduard, sitting on a couch with an older man between them. Nadine was singing softly, and Eduard had just laid his palm against the man’s cheek. The man rose and walked toward the staircase, hand in hand with Eduard. Nadine trailed behind, still singing.

Passion. Desire. Panic. For a long moment Ilse could do nothing but breathe, and that with difficulty. She thought about Lys. That didn’t help. She thought instead about Kathe, who had always shown her kindness and patience, and her nerves steadied.

Pretend the room is empty. Pretend you are walking through a forest.

She found an open path around the next grouping of chairs and to the central tables. She knelt and cleared out a space for the full carafes and clean cups, then stacked the dirty cups on the tray. She swept crumbs from the table into her hand and deposited those in one of the dirty cups. Though she tried to concentrate only on her task, she could hear too much of what went on around her. A prolonged kiss. An answering sigh. When a man’s rough voice asked Tatiana to come at once to another room, Ilse stood up quickly with the tray.
I’ll come back for the rest later.

She turned toward the doors, only to collide immediately with a stranger. One cup went flying onto the carpeted floor and shattered. Ilse caught herself before the rest followed. She heard a gasp from someone nearby, and then a smothered laugh. The stranger, a young man, lurched against her a second time. He smiled and leaned heavily against her shoulder, breathing wine and smelling of exotic perfumes. “Pretty,” he mumbled, sliding his arm around her waist.

Ilse stiffened and choked back an exclamation. “My lord. Please.”

“Please. Oh pretty please.” He buried his face against her neck.

The entire room had to be watching. She tried twisting away, but she could not without dropping more cups. “I’m not what you think,” she whispered. “Please let me go.”

“Yes. Let her go, Lord Gerhart.”

Lord Kosenmark removed the young man’s arms from around Ilse.

“She’s pretty,” Gerhart mumbled.

“Very pretty,” Kosenmark agreed. “But you don’t want to keep her from the kitchens.”

Lord Gerhart blinked. “I don’t?”

“Of course not. See Johanna waving? She wants to hear about the baron’s dinner party. She told me so.”

Lord Gerhart paused, swaying. When Johanna blew him a kiss, he broke into smiles and stumbled toward her. Ilse knelt to pick up the broken wine cup. Splinters of glass pricked her fingers. She wrapped her hand in a napkin and brushed the shards onto the tray, trying to ignore Lord Kosenmark’s presence.

Kosenmark knelt beside her and plucked another shard from the rug. “You should not be out here,” he said quietly. “Have Mistress Raendl send Rosel or Janna in your place.”

Ilse shook her head. “I’m not afraid, my lord.”

“You aren’t? Look at me then.”

He was studying her with the same assessing look he’d given her earlier, when he asked her about the maps. Ilse bore it steadily, though her cheeks were hot. “You are afraid,” he said softly. “And I will not have my servants teased and tormented.” He paused. “Unless you believe I would rather torment you myself.”

“Ne’muj Panvíje,” she said. “No, my lord. But I would like to make another try.”

“Ah.” Humor lit his eyes then. “Understood. As you wish.”

He stood, his movement unhurried, and selected a new wine cup from those Ilse had brought. He filled it and crossed the room, where an energetic conversation was taking place between several older men. Kosenmark smoothly inserted himself into the group and the conversation. Ilse watched a moment longer, but Kosenmark seemed entirely engrossed by his companions and did not look back.

Laughter broke out in one corner. Lord Gerhart was nuzzling Johanna, who giggled and shrieked with delight. Other couples were joining in the card game. Ilse drew a long breath. Another tray waited for her in the kitchen. Another after that, if Lord Kosenmark’s guests continued their thirsty mood. And she would have to expect more teasing from the girls. Lys especially liked to play pranks. If that’s what it took to win their friendship, then she would try to take it with good humor. Think of that, she told herself, and not what takes place in the private rooms above.

She picked up the tray and hurried back to the kitchens.

CHAPTER NINE

AS ILSE EXPECTED,
Mistress Raendl scolded her for breaking the wine cup. “Lys is sick. Janna is playing games no doubt with that boy from the stables. I’ll have a word with her, too, when she gets back. I should send Steffi out, but you’ve got to learn the trade some time.” Still muttering, she sent Ilse back into the common room with a new tray and a warning about malingering. Dana and Steffi snickered behind their hands.

The next day, however, Mistress Raendl did not send Ilse into the common room. Nor the next. The other girls noticed—Ilse could tell from their half-finished conversations in the dormitory and the looks they gave her. No one said or did anything obvious, but after two more days of silent glares, Ilse approached Mistress Raendl.

“Lord Kosenmark said one of the guests frightened you,” Mistress Raendl said to her questions. “Thought you were one of the courtesans, being drunk.”

“But Mistress Raendl, I told Lord Kosenmark I wasn’t afraid.”

Mistress Raendl eyed her with faint astonishment. “You
told
Lord Kosenmark?”

Ilse flushed.

“Tell me,” said Mistress Raendl in a milder voice. “Does it bother you still? The courtesans, I mean, and what they do here.”

Yes,
Ilse thought, but she would not say it. Nor could she tell Mistress Raendl about the girls and how they viewed her treatment as a special favor. She curtsied, which brought an impatient laugh from Mistress Raendl, and went silently to the counters and the heaps of garlic and mushrooms and onions piled up for cutting.

I do need more time,
she thought, as she fine-minced a clove of garlic.
Months or years. But however long, I will get used to seeing touches and kisses and open desire. I have to.

“Don’t chop so fast,” Kathe said, as she passed behind Ilse. “You’ll cut your fingers.”

“And bleed all over the food,” Ilse said. She had done that her first time chopping and had suffered both laughter and a scolding.

Kathe took the station next to Ilse and started paring fresh carrots into fanciful shapes. She worked quickly and deftly, the knife flashing between her fingers. Kathe liked the pleasure house well enough, she had told Ilse, but eventually she would leave for a better position, ruling her own kitchen in some other lord’s household. Lord Kosenmark would certainly give her an excellent recommendation.

I wish I could go with her. It won’t be the same when she’s gone.

Kathe glanced up. “What’s wrong?”

Ilse shrugged. “Nothing.”

“What kind of nothing? A large one, judging by your face.”

“Nothing at all.” Ilse pressed the chopped garlic into a flat mass and began a second pass, mincing the pieces into smaller bits. She had known, once, how to hide all her emotions. It had been a necessary skill in her father’s household.
We were all afraid of him, even Ehren. We learned to make our faces into masks, our hearts into emptiness, all to avoid provoking his anger. And not just for ourselves, but for each other.