Traitor's Masque (13 page)

She turned her head to one side, still watching Trystan, who thought she looked remarkably reptilian. And remarkably dishonest. Trystan could not imagine her stepmother regretting anything.

“I will, of course, respect your wishes, Stepmother,” she mouthed stiffly, drawing a sharp look, but no further recriminations.

By the following day, life, for Trystan at least, had returned to normal. She regretted the loss of her “punishment” in the garden, and within a very short time was actually contemplating some small misbehavior in hopes of having her penance reinstated.

But she resisted the temptation, despite what proved to be no small degree of upheaval in the household. Dressmakers and seamstresses came and went, fittings and re-fittings filled the morning hours, and a steady train of excited female callers filled the afternoons. Dinners were rife with speculation on Prince Ramsey’s probable tastes and possible preferences in female intellect and fashion, and bedtime became, at least for Anya and Darya, a dizzying progression of beauty routines that Trystan was endlessly thankful to escape.

Resigned to the chaos, she was busily engaged in hoping to be struck very hard on the head and so spend the next two weeks unconscious when Malisse summoned her to the salon where she dealt with whatever affairs of business she chose to care about.

When Trystan entered the room, Malisse was sitting at her writing desk. She did not bother to turn around, only held up one small white hand with a number of envelopes in it.

“Trystan,” she asked sweetly, without looking up, “I need you to deliver these for me immediately.”

Trystan took them, gave them a cursory glance, and looked at Malisse cautiously. “What are they?” she asked without thinking. Each envelope bore the name of one of the servants in Malisse’s extravagant script. Farley, the footman. Beatrice, one of the housemaids. Hoskins. Millson. Andrei and Alexei. Only the six of them. Six people Trystan had known for years. Except for Farley, she had known them quite literally all her life.

Expecting a sharp demand that she stay out of her stepmother’s business, Trystan was surprised when Malisse turned to face her, showing even white teeth in what could only be termed a predatory smile.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear, just a few servants I have decided to dismiss. I have found excellent candidates to replace them who are better able to suit my more formal way of doing things, and it will, I think, be a relief for all of us to have a bit of a fresh start, don’t you agree?”

Trystan looked back, into her stepmother’s ice cold eyes and felt ice cold herself. Then she felt hot. Blazing fury swept through her and left her shaking in the face of her stepmother’s triumph.

Somehow, Malisse had guessed. Had realized that some of the servants had so far forgotten themselves as to reserve their loyalty for someone other than herself. Perhaps she even suspected that the stepdaughter she was determined to render powerless might have found some measure of power by accepting that loyalty.

Except that she was terribly, tragically wrong. Trystan had not until recently understood what they offered her. Had been unable to recognize their loyalty for what it was. She had certainly never dreamed she might use that loyalty for her own ends. But now it was too late, for all of them, and it was Trystan’s fault.

Malisse had most likely come to the conclusion that there might be a connection between Trystan’s rebellion and the people who cared for her. Lady Colbourne would do whatever was necessary to remove anything that stood between her and complete control over her domain. By ridding herself of the last of the servants Lord Percival had hired, Malisse was effectively banishing the last reminders of a time when her own will had not been law.

All that would be left was Vianne. Even Malisse would never dare fire Vianne, who had three times been offered a position at the palace itself. But the others had no such protection. Nothing to stand between them and the destruction of their livelihoods. All because they cared for a selfish, spoiled child who had never noticed. Who had only just begun to see the people around her as friends.

“No,” said Trystan, her head beginning to shake, and her hands clenching uncontrollably.

“I beg your pardon?” Malisse’s voice was ice and steel.

“No!” Trystan repeated, louder this time, the blood roaring in her ears. “You cannot.”

Malisse sat back in her chair and smirked. “I think, dear child,” she said, speaking as if to an infant, “you will find that I can.”

“These people”—Trystan’s voice shook with anger—“have given their lives to this place. To this family! They could have left when my father died, but they stayed and now you will turn them off to find new positions as a reward for their loyalty? Farley is young, but the rest are past their prime! They have given up chances at advancement because they trusted us! Trusted you!” Trystan was past any point of controlling her temper or her tongue. She could not have stopped if Malisse threatened her with hanging. “And all this for what? So you can have your twisted revenge on me? Why take it out on them? Don’t you realize that you compromise your ability to hire loyal servants at all when you prove yourself untrustworthy? They are not fools just because they are forced to work for a living! You will end up regretting this betrayal, one way or another!”

Trystan had said far too much and she knew it, but she hovered on the brink of tears, both hurt and furious. If she stopped, the torrent would fall and she would die before she cried in front of her stepmother.

Malisse rose, regal and triumphant. “You have officially gone too far, Stepdaughter.” Her voice dripped with quiet, controlled malice. “You will be confined to your room until I can determine what is to be done with you. As I cannot spare the attention from these preparations”—she waved a languid hand at the papers on her desk—“that may be for several weeks.”

Trystan’s chin came up. Her eyes were wide and her lips compressed to hold back tears. Her face burned with the effort, but she would not, could not let them fall. She looked past Malisse, out the window, to the carefully manicured garden and beyond, where the green haze of the Kingswood was just visible in the distance.

A vision swam before her eyes, of a silent, hidden place that promised peace, and without another word, she turned and left the room. Malisse followed, calling after her, ordering her to…

Trystan barely heard her. She broke into a run, down the long, carpeted hallway, down the sweeping front stairs, scattering pristine white envelopes in her wake like so many dead leaves. The door seemed to open before her of its own accord and she caught a brief glance of Hoskins' face as she flashed by. It was both sad and resigned, with a note of farewell. She doubted he would still be there when she returned. If she returned.

The walk blurred by under her shoes, worn kid letting her feel the crushed rock under her feet. They stung like the tears that had begun to leak from her eyes as she ran. She reached the stables before she really understood where she was going.

Andrei looked at her in surprise. She shook her head, not really willing or able to speak, but when she met his eyes, she found that he, too, seemed to know already. Reaching out impulsively, she took his hand and pressed it, and felt his sympathy and sadness roll over her. It only made her tears fall faster. Tearing herself away with an oath, she yanked Theron’s bridle off its hook and threw open his stall.

“Miss Trystan, don’t!” Andrei sounded almost panicked as he followed her. “You’ll break your neck. And his. Please don’t!”

She was past listening, past caring. Malisse was taking away everything Trystan had only just realized she had, and the prospect of picking herself up out of the ruins of that fragile happiness held only terror and pain.

“I’m sorry, Andrei.” She forced out the words between her tears as she climbed onto a trunk and threw herself onto Theron’s bare back, her skirts bunching up over her knees. “Tell your brother goodbye. I don’t think…” She couldn’t finish, and couldn’t look at her friend. Bending low over the horse’s neck, she kicked him, hard, in the flanks. Theron threw up his head and bolted out of the stable at a run, throwing up clods of dirt behind them and leaving a stunned Andrei in their wake.

They ran for some time. Theron’s back was warm and slippery with sweat, her skirts were bunched too high and her eyes were half blinded by tears, but she did not pull up until Theron’s breath began to sound labored and his strides began to slow.

Even then they kept moving. It was late morning, but cloudy and gray, and the sun did not warm her as it had on her last ride. Whether she shivered with cold, with fury or with anguish she could not and did not try to determine, but simply gave rein to her misery.

Theron, tired as he was, felt something was amiss. He seemed anxious, blowing hard and widening his eyes at anything that moved as they passed finally under the trees. Trystan shortened the reins and guided him into the wood, trying to clear her eyes long enough to find the path she remembered. It took time, and it was even cooler under the trees than it had been in the open. She was wishing for her coat long before she found the tiny path.

Tying Theron to the same tree as before, she pushed through the thicket, around the tree, and let out a gasp of relief. She had, somehow, feared that the pool might not be there. Or that it would not be as she remembered it. The moss and ferns were just as green, the water-lilies still bloomed, and the silence was all that it had been. But the surface of the water seemed dull and blank, reflecting only the flat gray of the clouds, the flat gray of her future.

Even if she remained at Colbourne Manor after today, nothing would be the same. Even if she survived being locked in her room until Malisse decided to relent, everything would have changed. Just when she had finally realized that there were people who cared for her, they would be taken away. And without her fellow conspirators, her rides would be impossible. Whomever Malisse hired to take over the stables would never permit them to continue. Without that escape, without that tiny scrap of freedom, Trystan could anticipate nothing but bleak emptiness for each and every moment she remained in her childhood home.

Heedless of her already stained and rumpled skirts, she seated herself on the soft moss covering one of the rocks at the edge of the pool, drew up her knees, and wrapped her arms around them. A lump under her elbow startled her, until she remembered and reached into the pocket of her skirt to draw out the tiny horse figurine. She had kept it with her ever since she realized what it meant, but today, it seemed almost as dead as her own heart. There was no sun to strike sparks from its polished golden surface, and the friendship it symbolized would soon be gone forever. Wrapping her hand around the horse but feeling no warmth, Trystan pressed her face into her knees and let the tears fall unchecked.

She lost track of time as she sat there, shivering in misery, and was only brought back to herself when she heard footsteps approaching along the path. Her first, panicked thought was that Malisse had sent someone after her. She could not hope to untangle herself fast enough to get away, so instead she swiped viciously at her ravaged cheeks, determined to face whoever it was with what dignity was possible when your eyes were puffy and your nose was red.

When the feet finally rounded the last bend, however, she found herself looking into the startled face of Donevan. Only then did she remember that this was Firstday, a day he had mentioned was his usual period of freedom. She had, without meaning to, used the gift of his secret to trespass on his peace. The reflection was mortifying, and she tried to rise, choking on the words of her apology as she noted his sudden lack of any readable expression.

“Wait,” he said, and disappeared back into the brush.

Left with little choice, Trystan dropped back down onto the rock. Her heart could sink no lower and her dignity was in shreds. How much worse could it be to lose the regard of a man she hardly knew?

Donevan returned a bare moment later, walking quickly through the brush, carrying his coat. Without a word, he approached, crouched down beside her and wrapped the garment firmly around her shaking shoulders, his gray eyes warm and questioning. She sensed his scrutiny, but could not look up for more than a brief moment. Not even to thank him for another piece of unexpected kindness.