The Boy with the Porcelain Blade Read Free Page A

eyes were filled with what Lucien thought at the time was amusement, but would come to realise was tenderness. It was Rafaela’s day off, but she looked much as she always did. She wore a cream blouse, rucked and ruffled where it met her black bodice, tightly laced. Her skirt was a rare shade of scarlet, the colour of cheap wine, and her lips. Buttoned boots peeked out from the demarcation of her hemline, heels adding inches to her height. At that time Rafaela was fifteen or thereabouts; the first blush of womanhood had taken to her well. She had neglected to wear her apron, sending out a clear signal she was not present at Demesne to perform duty.
    ‘Ella. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. What are you doing here?’ He set the book aside and kicked off the blanket, becoming tangled in it a moment before finding his feet.
    ‘Come to find my charming prince, of course. What are you reading?’
    ‘Oh, just some nonsense for children.’ He shrugged.
    Rafaela laughed and shook her head.
    ‘You are funny. The things you say. Come on, I’ll take you on an adventure and you can hear a much better story. How about that?’
    ‘Won’t we get into trouble?’ he said, glad to be released from being alone.
    ‘Not much.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’ll be fine.’
    They left Demesne and Lucien was wide-eyed with excitement and more than a touch of fear. He’d not set foot outside the brooding collection of stones before. The towers reached into the sky, pointing at pale blue heavens. The last of the stars were fading and the moon remained only as a chalk smudge. The squat bulk of the sanatorio stood apart from the castle proper, with gargoyles flocking the roof, staring after them as they retreated into the countryside. Rafaela had dressed him in peasant’s attire when they’d reached the kitchens of House Contadino.
    ‘It’s a disguise,’ she explained. ‘Today you are not Orfano; today you can be a normal little boy. We’ll call you Luc.’
    ‘I’m not a little boy, I’m eight,’ he replied affronted and wishing he were already nine or even ten. He couldn’t even imagine what it must like to be ten. Incredible, most likely. He’d probably have to start shaving when he reached ten.
    Cook Camelia had given them apples, watered-down wine, a good cheese and some bread past its best. She spoke quietly to Rafaela in that voice the teachers used, seemingly below the range of children’s hearing. Perhaps he’d learn how to talk like that too when he grew up.
    The wind whipped about them and Rafaela concentrated on driving the cart, the mule plodding, perhaps less than walking speed. The countryside stretched away ahead of them, orderly hedgerows and drystone walls marking boundaries and paths. In the distance a copse of cedar trees clustered together, swaying at the dictates of the weather. Birds broke from cover in a commotion of wings and sleek bodies, flying in formation, wheeling about high above. They swooped and climbed, turning back to retake perches among the whispering trees. Lucien pulled the knitted skullcap down, clutching at the simple jacket he wore.
    ‘Make sure you keep your hat on all day: it’s cold,’ said Rafaela. Lucien nodded, thinking this an obvious thing to say.
    ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘We’re going to the Contadino Estate. It’s where I grew up, where my family live.’
    ‘Is your father a farmer?’
    ‘No. Not everyone who lives on the Contadino Estate works the land or fishes the sea, just as not everyone who lives on the Fontein Estate is a soldier.’
    ‘That’s what I want to be. I want to be adopted by House Fontein when I’m sixteen.’
    Rafaela laughed, her hazel eyes twinkling, ‘And I’m sure you will be, if you practise with your blade and don’t spend windy days reading fairy stories.’
    Lucien blinked a few times, not sure if he was being chided or not.
    They continued onwards, the cart creaking and rocking on the road, which was in good repair. They