Traitor's Masque (3 page)

With the vase in one hand and yesterday’s rather pathetic flowers in the other, Trystan looked around in frantic haste for some way to mop up the evidence. Unfortunately, no one seemed to have left a towel in the front hallway. Not even a strategically dropped handkerchief. It was most wretchedly inconvenient.

But time was not on her side, and even if the entire household was improbably and momentarily deaf, someone was bound to be up and moving about before too long. Trystan was not about to be found standing in a puddle before breakfast wearing trousers and a guilty expression. She set the vase down in the middle of the table, plopped the flowers back inside, picked up her boots and bolted for the safety of the kitchen.

Trystan could always smell the kitchen long before she entered it. Somehow, it was the smell of safety and comfort, even now that she should no longer need either of those things. It was also the smell Trystan would always associate with Vianne, whom Trystan used to appreciate chiefly for her cooking, and later for her habit of never requiring explanations. It wasn’t until Trystan was older that she realized Vianne had no need for explanations because she already knew everything.

Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, Trystan pasted a smile on her face and strolled through the doorway into the kitchen as nonchalantly as possible. In comparison with the silence of the rest of the house, the kitchen was a veritable hive of furious activity, warm and fragrant from the preparation for the day’s meals. The scullery girls scrubbed industriously at already clean fixtures, while the kitchen maids bustled about looking both flushed and flustered. The bread was rising, a compote was stewing, and the tea things were set out in anticipation of the morning’s demands, despite the fact that no one was likely to use them.

Vianne was in her usual chair by the fire, reviewing her notes while keeping a sharp eye on her domain.

A solid, unflappable woman with iron-gray hair and a firm sense of discipline, Vianne had been employed at Colbourne Manor since before Trystan was born. Her stern expression and long wooden spoon were the terror of the household, and a constant source of irritation to Malisse, who resented the fact that she found her own cook intimidating. Even when very young, Trystan had refused to be frightened, but she had always afforded Vianne a sort of awed respect. Though the cook was not what Trystan would call genial, her presence had been an unwavering fixture of Trystan’s childhood. And most important of all on this occasion, no one who worked for Vianne would dream of betraying Trystan to her stepmother.

“Child.” Vianne’s greeting was noncommittal, as always. Her face betrayed no sign that she found anything odd in Trystan’s appearance.

“Good morning, Vianne.” Trystan returned the greeting with her blandest expression. “Breakfast?”

One of the harassed-looking kitchen maids scurried up with a plate and a steaming mug, obviously prepared in advance.

Pleased to find herself expected, but in far too much haste to sit down and enjoy it, Trystan drank her tea. Perhaps a little too quickly. It burned her tongue, but at least it was hot and sweet. The mornings were not yet comfortably warm, and the tea would fortify her until sun and exercise banished the early spring chill. After returning the mug, Trystan turned her attention to the plate and wolfed down a piece of yesterday’s bread. She might have even grinned a little to herself as she imagined her stepmother’s horror at each enormous bite. As the last morsel disappeared, Trystan wiped the crumbs from her mouth and nodded her thanks, her mouth too full to actually say the words.

Before she went out by the scullery door, Trystan lingered in the warmth long enough to pull on her boots and braid her hair. The thick braid went under her coat and was covered by her shapeless, short-billed cap. Her disguise would never defeat a determined inspection, but she had never allowed anyone to get close enough to suspect her identity. They would, she thought with a secretive smile, have to catch her first.

As Trystan stepped into the scullery doorway, Vianne stopped her with a word.

“Wait,” she said. Trystan turned back, eyebrows lifted in curiosity. The cook’s expression remained unreadable. “Blessings of the day, child. You need not be back until dinner.” Trystan blinked and stared uncertainly. “I’ve arranged everything,” Vianne continued, not bothering to explain the details, “but be sure you return in time to change.”

It really didn’t seem possible. “Vianne, I…” Trystan stopped. Considered. Surely she couldn’t be gone an entire day. Someone would notice. There would be outrage. Indignation. A brief trial followed by a beheading. But somehow, none of that seemed quite as important as what the cook had
not
said.

Vianne remembered. She knew what this day meant to Trystan. And not only had she remembered, but she had ensured that it would not be as terrible as Trystan feared. But how? And even more importantly, why? It could not have been a simple undertaking. Excuses would have to be made, stories rehearsed and alibis invented. If anyone in on the deception proved untrustworthy, Vianne’s job could be at stake. Why would she risk so much for someone who had never been anything but a charge on her responsibility?

“Vianne, I…” Trystan tried again. “Did you…” How did one ask such a thing without sounding ungrateful?

“Child.” The cook frowned disapprovingly. “Stop mumbling at once.” She looked sternly at Trystan from under lowered brows. “And do not ask me to explain after all this time.”

Trystan’s mouth hung open briefly, but closed again. She had the uncomfortable thought that she might be about to cry. Or laugh. The unfamiliar feeling in her chest seemed to demand both. “How can I…” She started to say something, she hardly knew what, when Vianne, appearing almost amused at her inability to complete a sentence, held out a sack with Trystan’s lunch.

“Don’t be late.”

Trystan took the sack, feeling suddenly warm and a trifle overwhelmed. An alarming impulse took her by surprise, but she did not dare do something so forward. One simply didn’t hug a servant, and Vianne would not thank her for such demonstrative behavior. Instead Trystan said the words she had never said as a child, words Malisse would never utter, words that were completely inadequate to express what she felt.

“Thank you.”

Vianne’s eyebrows rose just a fraction, as near to an expression of surprise as the cook had likely ever permitted to cross her face. Trystan turned and slipped out the door before she could give way to any other strange impulses.

Trystan shivered as she left the warmth of the kitchen behind, but it was only partly due to the cool morning air. A sense of giddy anticipation lent her an energy that seemed impossible to contain. A full day to spend as she chose! It was a luxury she had not experienced for some time, and had barely even dared imagine. For the first time in what seemed an age, she was happy and no one was watching, so Trystan gave in to temptation and jig-stepped her way through the kitchen garden. She twirled past the compost heap and skipped around the beds of freshly tilled earth without losing sight of her destination: the only other place at the Manor where she could still find some measure of comfort.

Trystan had always loved the stables. She spent many hours underfoot there in childhood, where her education in all things horse had been seen to, not by her father, but by Andrei and Alexei, the quiet, dark-haired brothers who still ran the Colbourne stable. They rarely approved of anyone who didn’t have four hooves and a tail, but for some reason, they approved of their employer’s daughter.

It had been an educational experience for everyone, Trystan recalled with a small smile as she trailed rather muddy footprints across the stable yard. She had learned to respect both horses and fences, and to apply herself for the sake of accomplishment with a zeal she had never shown towards dancing, drawing, or embroidery. Once she had proven her ability to manage even the most difficult of his hunters, Trystan had begged and pleaded and cajoled until Lord Percival permitted her to join him on hunts, despite his second wife’s objections. The ensuing disagreements were a source of great satisfaction to Trystan, who resented her stepmother’s attempts to interfere as deeply as she scorned the woman’s notions of propriety.

But Trystan's youthful triumph had been short lived. When Malisse took over the estate and banished her stepdaughter from the stables, Trystan had been terrified that she would lose the closest thing she had to freedom. Without the cooperation of Andrei and Alexei, her stolen morning rides would be impossible. But even when Malisse had ordered the sale of most of Lord Colbourne’s prized horses, and the brothers could easily have found better, more lucrative opportunities elsewhere, both men chose to stay. Trystan had been so relieved that she refused to speculate about their reasons. Three years later, she still couldn’t bring herself to ask them why.

After pausing to wipe the worst of the mud off her boots, Trystan stepped through the open stable door, stopping only for a moment to close her eyes and breathe deeply. The aromas of leather and hay and horse blended together to produce a smell she loved so much it almost hurt, but today that ache was comforting. It reminded her of other birthdays that had not been so cold and lonely, and she found that she preferred the hurt of memory to feeling nothing at all.

When she opened her eyes again, it took a few moments for them to adjust to the gloom, but she could just make out the tall, shadowy shape of her horse, shifting his weight restlessly in the center of the long stable aisle. As she drew nearer, she noted that he was already saddled and waiting, his ears swiveling towards her in response to the sound of her arrival.

Theron had been one of her father's favorite hunters, a leggy gray gelding with speed, energy, and a boundless enthusiasm for hurdling anything that would stand still. He was a handful, but the only other options were Anya and Darya's placid saddle horses or one of the four matched bays that pulled the coach. None of them were acceptable mounts unless the rider fully intended to fall asleep in the saddle, which was hardly Trystan’s style.

For the first time, Trystan thought to wonder why her stepmother had chosen to keep Theron at all. Or whether Malisse even knew that he had been kept.

Andre and Alexei waited quietly next to the horse, watching Trystan's approach. The brothers knew of her morning excursions, of course. There was no way they could not, and Trystan trusted them without question; but they hadn’t saddled her horse for her in years. Not since she was tall enough to do it for herself.

“Ah, good morning?” Trystan was beginning to wonder whether anything about her day was going to go as she expected.

The brothers, who were not forthcoming by nature, doffed their caps and nodded in return.

“And a good morning t’you, m’lady” said Andrei, with as much deference as he might have shown to Lady Colbourne herself. Trystan’s brows shot up inquiringly.

“Since when does our relationship merit such exquisite formality?” She looked curiously from one brother to the next, curiosity shifting to suspicion when the men shared an amused glance. “Did Vianne have something to do with this?”

“Couldn’t say, m’lady,” Andrei offered with a straight face.

“Nor can I, m’lady,” added Alexei.

“And you can just stop m’lady-ing me like a couple of lackeys!” Trystan retorted, with an eye-roll of exasperation. “We haven’t stood on ceremony since you picked me up out of the manure pile when I was five!”

“You’re not five anymore, Miss Trystan.” Alexei spoke quietly, as he always did, but his manner seemed unusually direct. He and Andrei exchanged minuscule nods. “This is for you.” Alexei reached out, took her unresisting hand, and pressed something into it. Something small, and tightly wrapped.

Trystan stared at her hand, too shocked to respond. She looked up at him, her question in her eyes. Alexei’s face proved too enigmatic for her to read, so she glanced at his brother.

“In honor of the day,” Andrei explained. Alexei nodded, a faint smile crossing his lips.

“I believe it is customary,” he added softly.

It was a birthday present. They had given her a birthday present. She supposed she should, as befitted her station, be appalled. Young ladies did not receive gifts from servants. It was an affront to her dignity and her station. But Trystan did not feel appalled; she felt like crying, at yet another unexpected proof that she had not been entirely forgotten. It was astonishing and thoughtful and actually rather embarrassing, but she would not cry. She would not.