back, you can trust that
every word—every cross out—scrupulously reproduces
the papers kept in the Heraldry Archive, written in the queen's
own hand. Their purpose is to spread knowledge, not to comment
or to alter or improve."
She closed the books and replaced them, then turned to face
me. "This library was a haven for many of us during the late
king's reign. He liked appearing suddenly hither and yon, but
he never did come in here." She gave me a faint smile. "Are you
chilled, my dear? Shall we rejoin the others? You can warm up
again by dancing."
"Thank you for showing me the library, Your Highness," I
said.
"I hope you will find time for exploring in here during your
stay at Athanarel," she replied, leading the way to the
doors.
She was kind and unthreatening; and because we were alone, I
took a chance. "Did you know I was using your carriage to
escape that night?" I blurted. My words sounded sudden, and
awkward, and my face burned.
She sighed, looking down at her hand on the door's latch,
but she did not open the door. "It was an ill-managed thing,
not a memory one wishes to return to. Those were dangerous
days, and we had to act quickly." Then she opened the door, and
there were the footmen, and when she spoke again, it was about
the new musicians that were to play.
We'd reached the reception room before I realized that her
answer had admitted to a conspiracy without implicating anyone
but herself—and that it had also been a kind of apology.
But it was equally clear that she didn't want to return to the
subject, and I remembered what Nee had told me during our first
real conversation:
They don't talk of the war at
all.
Why?
I thought, as we joined the rest of the
company. The Renselaeuses won; surely such talk could no longer
harm them. And it was impossible to believe that they wanted to
protect those who had lost... those such as myself.
I shook my head as I made my way to Bran and Nee.
Impossible.
The reception room was larger now. Folding doors had been
thrown back, opening two rooms into one. The second room had
the customary tiers along its perimeter, with gorgeously
embroidered cushions and low tables for those who did not want
to dance. Above, in a cozy gallery, musicians played horns and
drums and strings, and in the center of the room, toes pointed
and arched wrists held high, eight couples moved through the
complicated steps of the taltanne.
The music was stirring and so well played I had to keep my
feet from tapping. Among the Hill Folk it was also impossible
to stay motionless when they played their music, yet it was
very different from this. Up on the mountains the music was as
wild as wind and weather, as old as the ancient trees; and the
dances retold stories even older than the trees. This music was
more controlled, with its artfully modulated melodies, themes,
and subthemes; controlled too were the careful steps of the
dance. Controlled, yet still beautiful.
And dangerous,
I thought, as I watched glances exchanged over shoulders and
across the precise geometric figures of the dance.
Then the Duke of Savona appeared before me. He bowed,
smiled, and held out his arm—and there was no time for
thought.
It was my very first dance in Court, and I would have liked
to try it with someone I knew. But at Court one didn't dance
with one's brother. With the Hill Folk, dance was a celebration
of life, sometimes of death, and of the changing of the
seasons. Here dances were a form of courtship—one that
was all the more subtle, Nee had said once, because the one you
danced with might not be the one you were courting.
Savona did not speak until the very end, and then it was not
the usual sort of compliment that Nee had led me to expect.
Instead, he clasped my hand in his, leaned close so that I
could smell his clean scent, and murmured, "Your favorite
color, Meliara. What is it?"
No titles, just that soft, intimate tone. I felt
every word—every cross out—scrupulously reproduces
the papers kept in the Heraldry Archive, written in the queen's
own hand. Their purpose is to spread knowledge, not to comment
or to alter or improve."
She closed the books and replaced them, then turned to face
me. "This library was a haven for many of us during the late
king's reign. He liked appearing suddenly hither and yon, but
he never did come in here." She gave me a faint smile. "Are you
chilled, my dear? Shall we rejoin the others? You can warm up
again by dancing."
"Thank you for showing me the library, Your Highness," I
said.
"I hope you will find time for exploring in here during your
stay at Athanarel," she replied, leading the way to the
doors.
She was kind and unthreatening; and because we were alone, I
took a chance. "Did you know I was using your carriage to
escape that night?" I blurted. My words sounded sudden, and
awkward, and my face burned.
She sighed, looking down at her hand on the door's latch,
but she did not open the door. "It was an ill-managed thing,
not a memory one wishes to return to. Those were dangerous
days, and we had to act quickly." Then she opened the door, and
there were the footmen, and when she spoke again, it was about
the new musicians that were to play.
We'd reached the reception room before I realized that her
answer had admitted to a conspiracy without implicating anyone
but herself—and that it had also been a kind of apology.
But it was equally clear that she didn't want to return to the
subject, and I remembered what Nee had told me during our first
real conversation:
They don't talk of the war at
all.
Why?
I thought, as we joined the rest of the
company. The Renselaeuses won; surely such talk could no longer
harm them. And it was impossible to believe that they wanted to
protect those who had lost... those such as myself.
I shook my head as I made my way to Bran and Nee.
Impossible.
The reception room was larger now. Folding doors had been
thrown back, opening two rooms into one. The second room had
the customary tiers along its perimeter, with gorgeously
embroidered cushions and low tables for those who did not want
to dance. Above, in a cozy gallery, musicians played horns and
drums and strings, and in the center of the room, toes pointed
and arched wrists held high, eight couples moved through the
complicated steps of the taltanne.
The music was stirring and so well played I had to keep my
feet from tapping. Among the Hill Folk it was also impossible
to stay motionless when they played their music, yet it was
very different from this. Up on the mountains the music was as
wild as wind and weather, as old as the ancient trees; and the
dances retold stories even older than the trees. This music was
more controlled, with its artfully modulated melodies, themes,
and subthemes; controlled too were the careful steps of the
dance. Controlled, yet still beautiful.
And dangerous,
I thought, as I watched glances exchanged over shoulders and
across the precise geometric figures of the dance.
Then the Duke of Savona appeared before me. He bowed,
smiled, and held out his arm—and there was no time for
thought.
It was my very first dance in Court, and I would have liked
to try it with someone I knew. But at Court one didn't dance
with one's brother. With the Hill Folk, dance was a celebration
of life, sometimes of death, and of the changing of the
seasons. Here dances were a form of courtship—one that
was all the more subtle, Nee had said once, because the one you
danced with might not be the one you were courting.
Savona did not speak until the very end, and then it was not
the usual sort of compliment that Nee had led me to expect.
Instead, he clasped my hand in his, leaned close so that I
could smell his clean scent, and murmured, "Your favorite
color, Meliara. What is it?"
No titles, just that soft, intimate tone. I felt
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