Dragonwitch by Anne Elisabeth Stengl Page A

extended too long between them. No expression revealed his thoughts. His face lost its concentrated lines and fell into a relaxed blank. Had the Wall risen yet again? Would he block her out for the rest of the day behind barriers she could not understand? She waited, hoping and dreading she knew not what.
    But at last the Chronicler said quietly, “This piece was done by Earl Ferox’s wife.”
    He handed the parchment back to Leta and returned to his stool. Relieved enough to breathe once more, Leta stared at the work, the elegant, unfamiliar hand, almost too elegant to be easily read. Now that the idea was in her mind, she could detect a feminine touch. She frowned a little. “I thought you said you’d never known a woman to read or write.”
    â€œI haven’t,” the Chronicler replied. “Lady Pero died before I was apprenticed to Raguel.”
    â€œBut this is indeed her hand? She truly could read and write as well as any man?”
    â€œThat she could,” the Chronicler said. “According to my predecessor, she was the cleverest woman in all the North Country. Delicate of body but strong of mind.”
    Leta felt warmth fill her at this thought, a bond to this woman she had never met. “What does it say?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s a bit of nonsense,” said the Chronicler, picking up his quill and pumice. “An older version of that nursery rhyme you know, the one about the Smallman and the House of Lights. This version must have been that one’s forerunner. It’s a better piece. Nonsense, but better nonsense.”
    â€œHow would Lady Pero have come upon it? And why would she take the time to write it down?”
    â€œEverything should be written down,” he replied, “however unimportant it may seem. She must have heard significance in this piece when some wandering minstrel visited Gaheris and sang for her and the earl.”
    With that, he bowed again over his work, leaving Leta to study Lady Pero’s writing on her own. She knew she should set it aside and go on with her cataloguing. But somehow she could not resist trying to make out the words, disguised as they were behind embellishments and curls. Her lips formed the sounds under her breath.
    â€œFling wide the doors of light, Smallman,
    Though furied falls the Flame—”
    The library door opened, and Lady Mintha stood looking down on them. Leta gasped and dropped the slip of writing, her body filled with the urge to flee. But she couldn’t move.
    Mintha looked at her as though she could not see her, her gaze unwilling to admit what she did not expect to find. She said, “What by Lumé’s name are you doing here?”
    â€œI . . . I’m sorry, my lady,” Leta said, rising and curtsying, scrambling for something more to say. She had over the last several months prepared many explanations should she be caught at the books. But she had grown so used to being completely ignored by the members of Gaheris’s household, especially Lady Mintha and her son, that the need for excuses had faded into obscurity.
    Now, when need pressed, she found her tongue tied.
    Lady Mintha studied her, taking in the ink stains on Leta’s fingers and the pile of work surrounding her. Then her gaze flashed, however briefly, to the Chronicler, who had turned upon his stool and regarded her, his face a cool mask.
    What conclusions Lady Mintha drew, Leta could not guess. She said only, “You should not be in this part of the keep unchaperoned. What would your good father say? Return to your chambers at once.”
    Leta did not try to protest. Years of ingrained subservience worked their own power on her limbs, and she dropped Lady Pero’s writing and scurried from the room, her head bowed, her face hidden behind her veils. She paused once she gained the hall, however.
    You should never eavesdrop, said her practical side. Do what you’re told and return