Traitor's Masque Read Free

of dissipation, it was difficult to imagine her family rousing before midday for any reason, excepting perhaps a fire. Or rodents. Or a rich, handsome suitor come to carry one of them off. None of which were likely. Unfortunately.
    The house remained silent as Trystan left her room and padded down the hall, past her sisters’ bedroom doors to the stairs, keeping a wary eye out for the servants. Though most of them were unlikely to blab to their mistress about her stepdaughter’s unconventional habits, Trystan had no intention of staking her freedom on such a supposition. These stolen mornings were far too necessary to her sanity to risk them on the uncertain loyalty of anyone hired by Malisse.
    The older servants were another matter, but there were so few left now. Though Trystan had rarely taken the time to notice them before her father’s death, they had since begun to seem like the only familiar objects in an unfamiliar world, the last remaining links to a happier time. It was absurd, no doubt, to find consolation in such a thing, but Trystan did not have much to choose from.
    Distracted by her musings, Trystan paid too little attention to her descent and missed the last stair. Desperate to avoid a fall, she grabbed hastily for the post at the end of the bannister, but missed, and struck the ornamental knob atop the post instead. To her horror, the carved ball of mahogany was only resting there, unsecured by anything stronger than gravity and inclination. It flew off under her hand and bounced twice on the polished marble floor before caroming off the legs of a delicate enameled table. In the silent, high-ceilinged hall, the sound seemed deafening.
    Someone had to have heard. Trystan covered her mouth and felt nearly sick with disappointment as she listened for any hint of approaching footsteps. If she was discovered, her chance for escape would be ruined. But before she could even begin to feel hopeful that the echoes of her disastrous misstep had been missed, a new disaster threatened: the flower-filled vase atop the abused table was teetering noticeably.
    Her heart pounding in her ears, Trystan dropped her boots and leaped for the fragile piece of porcelain, struggling to swallow an undignified squeak of terror. Miraculously, she moved fast enough to catch the vase before it smashed into several million pieces, but not before it relieved itself of most of the water inside.
    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