Lilith Saintcrow: The Hedgewitch Queen

“I am not practiced at this at all, Sílvie. I belong at Court with my books and nothing more pressing than which skirt to wear and which gossip not to repeat.” And Lisele to watch for. “I shall get us all murdered and d’Orlaans will triumph…” I bent my head, dabbed at my eyes with a linen napkin. It was terrible manners to weep so, but I could not stop myself. “And I ruined the lovely dress you had made for me,” I finished mournfully. The indigo would likely never be the same.

“The dress matters not a whit.” She selected a biscuit of her own. “Of all those in the world, in Arquitaine, the Aryx chose you.”

We were not truly speaking of the Aryx, were we? No, we were not. “What good is it if I have not wits enough to play these games? No. They are not games, they are deadly serious, and I—”

“Vianne, have another biscuit. You are merely frightening yourself.” She pressed the biscuit on me, and more chai.

I managed half the crunchy, delicate pastry before my stomach closed. “I am frightened.” It did not sound so terrible a secret when I let the air carry it. “I only leap from one crisis to the next. And what if Tristan decides…” Even my newfound hardiness could not carry me further.

“One moment.” The Baroness rose, laying aside her cup and saucer. She crossed her sitting room, her skirts soughing sweetly, and opened the drawer on her small desk covered with letters and two inkstands, a rack of charmed quill pens bobbing their feathered fringes at her. She drew out a sheaf of papers, rolled and tied with a crimson velvet ribbon. “I would show you summat.” She pulled out the dainty rosewood chair next to me and settled down with a sigh of silk. “Tristan wrote these.” She shuffled through them, laying the ribbon aside. “Does that look familiar? It should; you dropped it at a fête. He sent it home and asked me to keep it for him.”

“A hair ribbon?” It seemed so unlike the practical, levelheaded Tristan I knew that I picked up the velvet, smoothed it in my fingers. If it was one of mine, I would have worn it with my red satin, the one cut so low I was always half afraid my breasts would spill out, though I was laced so tight they never did. “I would have worn this with the red satin. It was too tight, I thought I was going to expire halfway through the pavane.”

“Suffering for fashion; and Perseval wonders why I do not wish to visit Court. Ah. Here we are.” She finished ruffling the pages. “Listen. I watched the d’mselle again today, Mami, and I have to ask: how does one approach a woman? Do not laugh. I leave flowers for her, follow her from one end of the Court to the other, and yet she never notices. I take it back, you will laugh at me, ma Mére , you warned me, did you not? ” Sílvie’s smile was proud and tender in equal measure. “He did not know quite what to do. I wrote back to ask him what you liked, and he replied, books! So I told him to send you a package of books, and he replied that he could not without casting suspicion on himself.” Her sudden laughter rang in the sunshine falling through the windows. “I promptly wrote back demanding if that was not exactly what he wanted , your suspicion.”

I had to laugh as well. The thought of Tristan penning frantic missives to his mother about an oblivious woman was highly amusing. Curiosity overcame good manners. “What else did he write?”

Her mischievous grin shouted that pricking my curiosity had been her intent. “Well, here, see for yourself. As long as you eat, child. You have not gained a red copper since you came here. Have a bread-and-cress, and read this one. No, wait, this one’s better.”

I had forgotten what it was, to converse with another woman so. She made me laugh, and roundly scolded me into eating while I read some of Tristan’s old letters, choice passages escaping aloud. It was deliciously wicked. For a moment I was back at Court, and she a little wickeder and certainly sharper than my Lisele, and good company to boot.

We were laughing heartily, our heads close together as we conferred like myrmyra birds, when there was a courteous tap at the door.

Sílvie dexterously swept the letters under the table and into her lap as I clapped my hand over my mouth, tears of merriment making my sight waver.

Tristan glanced over the room. “Vianne? You said to call for you when Divris di Tatancourt — good gods, are you well?” The soft edge of duel-hunger was gone from his tone; he sounded concerned.

I blinked away merry tears and nodded. “Well enough, indeed.” My voice did not tremble, though I had difficulty keeping another spate of laughter caged. I rose slowly, another small chuckle escaping me as I saw his face wander into perplexity.

Sílvie patted my hand, the letters kept out of sight in her lap. “Tomorrow. Lunch again. We shall speak more on this.”

“Oh, indeed we shall.” My mouth wanted to twitch. The letters were amusing indeed; though I felt a bit guilty reading a son’s private musings to his mother. It was a welcome shock to find just how closely Tristan had watched me at Court.

Yet the Baroness had just steadied the world under my feet. And I had eaten, my stomach calming and accepting lunch with good grace. “My thanks, Sílvie. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”

She waved her fingers, unable to speak for suppressed laughter. It set me to grinning foolishly as well, my heart light as a maying breeze.

Tristan held the door with a slight bow as I swept past. Luc di Chatillon saluted me and I nodded in return.

“What mischief are you twain planning?” my Consort asked incuriously, as we set off down the hall. “Do you feel better, then?”

“Much.” Yet I sobered. The holiday was past, now twas time for the disagreeable. My hands took care of my skirts so I could match his longer stride, but he tarried a little. “Where is di Yspres?”

“Possibly afraid to face you.” He looked somber, his mouth a straight line. “Tinan woke for a short time; Bryony says there is no doubt he will recover.”

“Thank the gods for that.” Fervent relief threatened to weaken my knees. “Why is your lieutenant afraid to face me? I asked di Montfort to bring him.”

Tristan shrugged. There was a shadow in his blue eyes. “They fear your displeasure, or being thrown from the Guard. Perhaps.”

Oh, perhaps. I sighed. He did not move to take my hand as he usually did. This new distance between us was painful. “You are angry, again. At me.”

Did he pale slightly? His left hand dropped to his rapier, touched the hilt. “The Pruzian could have killed you. You must take more care with yourself.”

“He was chained and beaten, Tristan. Against my orders, I might add.” Irritation made my tone much sharper than it needed to be. “I require information from him. I need to know precisely who hired him and precisely who their targets were.”

“Why?”

How can you not know? Or do you think me empty-headed, caviling merely to be obstinate? “Because if the Duc has stooped to sending assassins after me as well as after you, it means he has reexamined his willingness to let me come back to Court so he can bed me as he pleases and get a filthy brat to carry on his line. It will mean the game has changed, and I must learn the new state of the draught-board so I may play with a clear head.” I stopped in the hall, my own irritation bouncing off the stone and rustling against a tapestry with the Arcenne mountain-pard worked in scarlet against a black field. “If his target was merely you and your father, what dance was the third trio intended for? You see, it is a riddle, and I dislike this manner of riddle.” And I will not be responsible for more death if I can possibly help it. You do not seem to understand that, no matter how much I love you. And oh, gods help me, but I do love you more than you may ever know.