“Well, if there is one skill that I have, it is sampling punch—and goodness knows I need
some
thing to wash the dust of the road out of my throat. My lungs are near frozen, too.”
Skander appeared uncertain what to do with her. He made a little gesture, as if he meant to take her arm, then caught himself and tucked his arms awkwardly at his sides again. “It is a long ride up from Marenové for a lady, especially at this time of year,” he admitted sympathetically. “And now the sun is going down, it will be twice as chilly. I oughtn’t keep you out talking in the wind. Come along inside and tell me if I have made the place cheery enough.”
But Rupert, in his iron-dark, level tone, protested, “Lady Margaret is in need of a little time to herself to wash and dress for supper. I will go with you.”
“Will you?” laughed Skander, rather bitingly. “Then we are certain of cheer.” He gestured to Margaret as they began walking toward the doors. “Of course you will want to wash and dress. Only say the word: all I have is at your disposal.”
“You are very kind,” Margaret replied, with genuine gratitude.
They went indoors, into a long, lofty hallway like the nave of a cathedral, well-lit and golden. It was lightly but lavishly furnished to allow for traffic. The low side-tables, the columns, the arcades all sported wreaths and garlands of cranberry and bright mistletoe; a sweet scent of cedar-wood burning filled the air.
“Why,” said Margaret, turning from the servant who took her wrap, “I had no idea you lived in church.”
Skander’s smile, quick and pleasant, was oddly mirthless. “You think so? Perhaps you’re right. I had always thought it the other way around…Just this way.”
He took them down the nave, past the groups of servants putting last-minute touches to the garlands, dusting, adjusting, seeing to the perfect angles of the carpet. Carried along on Rupert’s arm, Margaret felt a twinge of embarrassment: it seemed they had arrived early.
As they approached the foot of a swooping staircase, far grander than Marenové’s and positioned so as to give to any viewers below a perfect image of anyone poised above them, Skander called a maid over and said to Margaret, “I believe your maid has already gone up. Is that so?”
Rupert nodded wordlessly.
“Excellent. Aikaterine will show you the way, then. I look forward to your presence at supper.”
Skander nodded deferentially and took a meaningful step backward away from her. Rupert, on the other hand, set his palm into the small of her back—a very informal gesture—and, bending to her ear, murmured, “I will see you soon, my dear. You should have every comfort. Only ask if you need anything.”
She resisted shying away. With a curt nod she disengaged herself from the pressure of his hand against her back and glided away with the maid in tow, feeling her heart thumping in her throat with each step and the eyes of both young men burning into the skin on the back of her neck. And she had to walk with that feeling on her up the massive steps and across the walkway that spanned the width of the nave. Then, as she was passing through the arched doorway, she heard the click of boots behind her and Skander, his voice muffled by the distance, say,
“Well, coz—would you care for a drink?”
With a smooth motion the maid Aikaterine slipped in front of her and beckoned her on with a jerk of her chin. Margaret was too tired and too cold and too preoccupied to offer even the most gracious comment to the maid; she followed after the girl in the white gown that was more like a nurse’s outfit than a maid’s attire, down the carpeted, well-lit hall, turned a few corners, went up a short stair, and stepped off of another short hallway into a little vaulted room.
Aikaterine stood aside for Margaret to stoop through the doorway and straighten. She found herself in a not unpleasant place, simple but adequately furnished, high enough for the late light to stream through the single window—the lead lattice made diamond-patterns on the east wall around the little dressing table. Her travelling trunks were arranged on the floor and her fawn-coloured gown, which she had requested, was already laid out on the bed.
From the second chair in the room, set in the corner, rose Rhea upon her entrance. She broke up the light as she stood, and the sun’s rays made an angry, glorious halo of amber around her hair. For a moment it seemed to Margaret that the careful veil which Rhea kept behind her eyes was pulled back and there was but only one maid in the room. She could not see those eyes through the silhouette’s darkness, but she could feel the genius of the woman more clearly than ever before.
“Rhea…Thank you for laying out the dress. Now you may go. I am sure you are as tired as I am: I give you leave of the evening’s duties. Aikaterine will see to my needs.”
With a war-like fierceness, Margaret watched the sting sink into Rhea. That careful expression never flinched, but she felt the barb hit true. Nevertheless, with perfect poise, the maid said, “Of course. As my master’s lady wishes.”
Without a further glance Margaret turned into the room and stepped up to the bed, looking over the gown prepared for her. She heard, rather than saw, Aikaterine step aside for Rhea to pick up her wrap and depart. She heard, rather than saw, Aikaterine press the door gently shut.
For several minutes complete silence reigned over the little room. No, not complete—from far off and rather far below came the rhythmic bell-tang notes of a blacksmith working late. Those notes were the only sound around them, and they came to Margaret’s ears thinly, making the room seem hollow. The softness of the gown’s fabric between her fingers felt like a link between her and the real world: a surreal, sleepy emptiness lay in between.
At last, with a heavy intake of breath, she broke away from the dress and shot a forced smile at the white-clad maid. She spread out her arms and the maid dutifully stepped forward, dismantling her cloak and coat, and working at the buttons of her habit. She was cold, but the cold only increased as the heavy layers of her travelling gear were taken away and laid across the back of the room’s second chair.
As though it were the room of a little inn, everything seemed low to Margaret; she looked sidewise in the mirror but could only see her hip and abdomen, and the late light breaking up in the windowpanes beyond. It struck her how thin she had grown in the past month. Breakfasts, dinners, suppers came back to her, all the ones she had taken with Rupert, all lacking appetite, all hollow and the hollowness full of a straining against Rupert’s dark presence. The wholesomeness and richness of his table had done no justice to her figure.
There is a moral in that, I suppose
, she thought grimly.
Vegetable dishes in peace rather than lavish meals where there is strife, or something like that
.
Even Aikaterine noticed. The maid had a friendly look to her eye, if she was politely silent, but after she had taken off Margaret’s boots and began removing the last layer of her dress, the maid said in a swift, soft, husky tone,
“Lord love you, madam. And here I thought you wore a corset.”
Margaret put herself quickly into the dressing gown Aikaterine held for her, sliding the warm inside of rabbit-fur over her skin, tucking the outsides of pale blue satin close and tying it off. “Did you so?” she asked, seating herself before the mirror. How haunted and pale her face looked! “I was just thinking much the same thing about myself.”
“You sound regretful, madam.” Aikaterine began unpinning Margaret’s hair. “I’ve handled dozens of women in their corsets trying to reach a figure like yours. And you come natural.”
Margaret resisted informing the maid that she suspected her figure was unhealthy.
Long, waving strands of hair fell out of their braids across her shoulders. Aikaterine drew them through the comb with precise gentleness, her fingers working with perfect deftness to keep the body in the hair. With each loosed strand Margaret could smell the scent of wind and pine-woods.
“You are having supper with only the master, I think. I will keep the style casual, if it pleases you.”
“Yes, of course.” Margaret turned her head and held still as Aikaterine caught up a length of hair. Moved to be polite, she added, “You are very good at this. Have you been long a lady’s maid?”
“Oh, long and long…My mother was lady’s maid to my Lord Skander’s mother and I tend to my lord when it befits the occasion. But I got the knack of it from my mother, and I’ve always been blessed with a good constitution, if I may be so bold to say. I’ve never had a chance to regret being lady’s maid so early.” There was a brief pause. A single hair, straying from the rest, tickled Margaret’s nose unbearably for a moment. “Have you a maid of your own, madam?”
It was a bold question, almost unforgivably bold, but as the dart of rage ran up into Margaret’s chest she remembered how swiftly news spreads among servants, and guessed that Aikaterine already knew she was a foreigner and only lately come to Plenilune. She breathed low to find her temper again.
“Not as such,” she said briskly. “Lord Rupert’s handmaid sees to most of my needs, but I don’t have a maid of my own.”
“That’s a shame,” purred Aikaterine soothingly. “And
she
has the Evil Eye.”
Margaret burst out in a peal of honest laughter. “Doesn’t she, though?” And suddenly the laughter, which was completely unexpected and relieving, broke and threatened to turn into something else. At the last minute she caught herself and resumed her still position before the mirror while Aikaterine drew a damp cloth over her hands and neck and gently applied perfume. A low, golden, elusive scent of roses threaded through the air as she left the table to put on her gown.
It was a pretty but simple gown, the sort of simple prettiness she thought best suited her English complexion: it was a fawn-brown colour, pale and unassertive—and, like a fawn’s coat, it had paler speckles of varying size ascending from the hem which, on closer inspection, proved to be dog-wood blossoms. It went on over a long white under-gown, and a simple string of pearls was added to the ensemble. In a few moments Margaret was bending to look into the mirror and take in the effect of it before heading down to supper.
“It becomes you very well,” Aikaterine remarked. “Your shoes, madam, and I will take you to join my master.”
Margaret sat a moment with her feet on a little ottoman while the maid put soft indoor shoes of doeskin on her. Then, somewhat stiffly for the room was chilly and, after a long ride, the time sitting had turned her muscles to unresponsive iron, she got up and followed white Aikaterine out of the room. They went back down the hallway and across the high width of the nave, down the impressive staircase and along the nave aisle toward the east end. There they passed through a stone-capped archway, through a high atrium, and, ducking into a low doorway in one corner, began to ascend a heady flight of stairs. They passed a number of doors on their way up, and numerous narrow windows all sporting a stained-glass falcon in red at the top. Neither lady nor maid said anything about the climb, but Margaret’s limbs were screaming in agony by the time they were halfway up, and Aikaterine mercifully went at a leisurely pace.
Pausing for a fraction of a second to rest, Margaret chanced a look out of one of windows. It was a good pane, unwrinkled by time, and she was afforded an eagle’s view of the countryside. Lookinglass was perched on the brow of a cliff, and this tower in whose bowels she climbed rose higher even than that: the mighty fells were below her now, drenched in Tyrian purple and darker greens than jade or emerald could ever be. The horizon in the south distance was a mingled pale sea-colour where it seemed Plenilune faded into the fabric of the sky; in the high quiet of the tower, Margaret could hear the uncanny surf-sound of the wind murmuring all around them.
At last they reached the top of the stairs, the very last landing, the very last door. It broke on Margaret then that she was going to supper, again, with Rupert—that all interludes of peace without him were but passing and brief. She balked at the last moment and felt her already chilly veins go frozen-cold.
Aikaterine knocked pre-emptively and, with a little bang, pushed down the old latch. She open the door and announced,
“Lady Margaret Coventry, my lords.”
It was pure instinct that pushed Margaret into the doorway. It was pure pride, a moment later, that found her cool, proper mask and allowed her to look around the enclosure.
It was a low, round room with all its narrow windows shuttered; the floor was of dark-stained wood, the limed walls were white. In the light of the candelabras and braziers, Margaret felt as though she stood in that curious circle-place where light and dark divided. Likewise, the room gave her an impression of paradoxical Spartan features and rich comfort. A small circular table, obviously meant for private meals, stood in the middle of the room, attended by a number of richly carved, straight-backed chairs, each with a red velvet cushion on its seat. Along one side of the room was set up a sideboard; against the opposite curve of the room were two braziers, sparking warmth, and two low Roman couches. It was simple, yet comfortable.
Margaret allowed herself the time to take in the room before letting her eye fall, unfocused and dilated, on the two young men at the table. Her heart was pounding horribly in her chest, especially at the light, scrutinous gaze Rupert was giving her new gown, but she dared not show emotion. She wanted, above all, to sit down.
There was a brief scuffle among the two men which, in her tired, uncertain state, made her almost sadistically amused. Skander, as the host, half-rose in his chair to assist her, but at the same time Rupert, lancing a deadly look across the table at him, stopped him mid-rise. Rupert slid gracefully out of his chair and came toward her, his right by being escort. She turned her head away to one side as he took her arm.
“Did you find all you needed?” he asked, drawing her forward. She saw him glance over his shoulder at Aikaterine, who still stood waiting at the door.
“I did.”
“Aikaterine,” said Skander—he crooked a finger.