The Laurentine Spy Read Free Page B

that for half a minute she’d been caught by her mistress’s eyes.
    Saliel inhaled a slow, shaky breath and turned to look out the window again. The ache behind her eyes was sharp. She pressed fingertips to her forehead.
     
     
    S ALIEL CURTSEYED. “N OBLE Gerda, may I join you?”
    “Of course, my dear,” the Admiral’s wife answered.
    The Royal Consort favored spending her days in the formal gardens atop the Citadel, her ladies gathered around her, gossiping and embroidering. On fine mornings the servants erected a canopy and spread thick rugs on the grass and piled them with silk cushions. Saliel settled alongside Lady Gerda and arranged the full skirt of her gown modestly around her. There was tension in her shoulders. Relax. Do it as you planned.
    She opened her embroidery basket and began to thread a needle. “Excuse me,” she said, feigning a yawn and hiding it behind her hand.
    “Tired?” Gerda looked up from her embroidery silks. Her figure was full-bosomed and motherly, her face plump-cheeked, but her posture was unyielding and her mouth tightly held.
    “A little,” Saliel confessed, keeping her voice shy and deferential. “I did so enjoy the ball last night.”
    “I found it somewhat tedious,” her companion said dampingly. “But young people like these entertainments.”
    “Surely not only young people... The Admiral was...” Saliel lowered her eyes. “Forgive me, most noble Gerda. I did not mean to...”
    “You are quite correct, my dear,” Lady Gerda said, faint contempt in her tone. Her mouth, when Saliel glanced up, was thin with disapproval. “My husband did enjoy the ball.”
    “He seemed in very high spirits,” Saliel ventured.
    “Yes. It grows wearying. Fortunately one does not have to endure it much longer.”
    “Ma’am?” Saliel allowed herself to sound bewildered.
    “Men are a tiresome subject of conversation.” The Admiral’s wife held up two strands of silk. “Which shade of green do you prefer?”
     
     
    T HE SKY WAS blue and the sunlight bright and warm, but beneath the canopy there was cool shade and the gentle murmur of voices. Servants circulated, bearing trays of sweetmeats and juice in crystal glasses. Saliel glanced around. A Laurentine poet would liken the ladies of the court to exquisite flowers, clustered sweetly about the Royal Consort, their voices as soft on the ear as running water. A Corhonase scholar—for there were few poets—would snort at such hyperbole and note that the ladies were attired in a manner befitting their station and that they spoke in well-bred tones.
    The scholar would be the more accurate of the two, but Saliel missed the poetry in life. She stifled a sigh and bent her head over her embroidery.
    “Petra.”
    Saliel looked up. The Consort stood before her, a round, sleek woman with cold eyes and a small smile. Her stature was short, but the force of her personality made her appear tall. She wore no crown, not even a circlet of gold in her dark hair. Her status was proclaimed by the keys hanging at her waist.
    “Walk with me. There’s a subject I wish to discuss.”
    Saliel obediently put down the embroidery and rose to her feet. A servant handed her a parasol trimmed with dainty tassels of colored silk. She opened it as she stepped from beneath the canopy. Relax. You’re Lady Petra. There’s nothing to fear.
    The paths were fashioned of crushed white marble that crunched delicately beneath her silk slippers. Saliel walked a respectful half-pace behind the Consort, her eyes meekly lowered. The Consort’s keys clinked together faintly with each step, silver against silver, musical.
    “I’ve been giving thought to your betrothal,” the Consort said.
    Saliel’s head jerked up. “But your Eminence, the mourning period!”
    “You’ve been with us nearly two years.” The Consort paused by a fountain in the shape of a rearing horse. Its stone nostrils flared wide. “You’ll soon put off your mourning clothes.”
    A faint