Fairest Read Free

Imilli. I don’t think she noticed me. “Oh, the sweetie.” She took him. “Aren’t you a sweetie?” She gestured at the ostumo. “Put it next to the bed. I have sweeties at home. Would you like me to tell you their names?”
    She was talking to Imilli, but I nodded. She no longer looked petulant. I followed her into the room.
    â€œI have ten sweet cats. Their names are Asha, Eshe, Ishi, Osho, Ushu, Yshy, Alka, Elke …”
    The duchess didn’t seem to have much imagination. I said the next two names in my mind as she spoke them.
    â€œâ€¦ Ilki and Olko. Then there are my sweet kittens.” She sat on her bed. Imilli leaned against her chest and purred.
    I put the ostumo on the night table and backed away.
    â€œI’ve named only two kittens thus far.” She looked at me.
    I raised my hand in front of my face.
    She went on. “Do you have any suggestions for the rest? Sit down. There are seven in the litter.”
    I sat on the stool by the washstand.
    â€œNot there. There.” She nodded at the chair by the fireplace, where I wouldn’t have dared to sit.
    I took it. “Perhaps you could name them Anya, Enye, Inyi, Onyo, and Unyo.”
    â€œThose are possible. What’s this sweetie called?”
    â€œImilli, Your Grace.”
    â€œAh. Then I will name the rest Amilla and Emille and so on.” She tasted her ostumo.
    I held my breath.
    Her complaining tone was back. “It isn’t hot. Moreover, it’s weak. The kitchen will have to do better when I come again. Would you like me to tell you which is my favorite sweetie?”
    She would come again! I nodded. The duchess told me, and told me which was her second favorite and her third.
    Two hours later, wild with worry and curiosity, Mother opened the duchess’s door a crack. There was the duchess, snoring in her bed, Imilli curled up in the crook of her arm.
    And there I was, sleeping in the duchess’s chair.
    The duchess became a regular guest at the inn. She remained fractious and difficult to please, but she adored Imilli and tolerated me.
    In the year of Forest Songs, when I was fourteen, I discovered a new way to sing. I was cleaning the Falcon chamber, which had been occupied by a Kyrrian merchant, Sir Peter of Frell.
    After I dusted the mantelpiece, I went to the washstand. The basin was there, but not the pitcher. As I sang, “Where is the pitcher?” I began to hiccup.
    I sang, “Did Sir Peter”—hiccup—“steal the pitcher?” I knew the tricks of less-than-honorable guests. “But,” I sang, “it’s very large for stealing.”
    I opened the top drawer of the bureau. “Empty. Then where is the—” I hiccuped. My next word, pitcher , seemed to come from the center of the canopy over the four-poster bed.
    The hiccup had flung the word across the room. How odd. I opened the middle bureau drawer. Empty. I opened the bottom drawer.
    â€œAh-ha!” Shards of pitcher. “Sir Peter”—hiccup—“hid his crime.”
    An honorable guest would have confessed to breaking the pitcher and would have paid for the damage.
    â€œSir Peter is a—” I hiccuped again. Scoundrel seemed to issue from the flowerpot on the windowsill.
    Hmm. I stopped cleaning and began a love song that was on everyone’s lips lately.
    â€œFrom your roses I’ve won just a—”
    I tried to fling thorn from my throat the way the hiccup had flung scoundrel , but it wouldn’t go. I sounded half strangled instead. I tried again and failed again. I went on with the song.
    â€œIn your wide eyes, I’ve seen only scorn.
    Â Â  From your heart song, I’ve heard but a …”
    I hiccuped. Sigh emanated from the corner by the door.
    I stayed in the Falcon chamber, not cleaning. I couldn’t stop trying to fling my voice. My hiccups passed, but I kept trying—and failing.
    Mother found me