make
himself alert. The hall seemed empty, but after listening carefully he heard the faint
rustle of cloth from the door of the girls' bedroom, and realized that Miralys and
Valenta were likely watching him. Relief coursed along his veins, and he realized he
had been half expecting someone to pounce out of the shadows with a knife. He was
spooked, for certain, and he had better get hold of himself immediately.
After a moment, Miralys came out of her room, trying very hard to appear casual. "Do
you feel better now?" she asked softly.
"Yes, much better."
She was a beautiful child, in spite of her soiled garments and unwashed hair. Her skin
was almost translucent, with an alabaster complexion that other women tried to
accomplish with baths of milk, and her eyes were a pale gray that was almost silver.
He suspected that when washed, her hair would be red, but now it appeared to be a
dirty brown. She had a blossom of a mouth, and a dainty nose, and
resembled, Mikhail thought, some princess out of one of Liriel's fairybooks.
"I am glad for you. You looked so funny, trying to sort out the linens."
"Well, I have never made a bed before, actually. Why are there no servants, except for
your nurses and old Duncan?"
"She won't permit it, and most of the folk in the village are afraid to come here."
"Why?"
"I am not allowed to say." Her eyes were wide now, fully dilated, as if she longed to
speak but was unable to. Help me!
The silent cry was heartrending, but before he could answer her, Miralys turned and
ran back to her room, banging the door closed behind her. He could hear her sobs, and
then the voice of one of the nurses, hushing her. Mikhail started to reach for the
doorknob, then drew back. He had no business in the room of a young girl.
Instead, he went back to his own room, found his comb, and tried to bring some order
to his damp hair. The mirror above the dresser was black with dust, and he looked
around for something to wipe it with. He found a rag, cleaned off the mirror, then gave
the dresser top a lick and a promise, missing the good clean smell of wax and polish
that the rooms should have had. Then he looked at himself, clean-shaven, his dark
blond hair already curling across his brow. If they ever managed to overcome the
opposition of his parents, Mikhail decided, he and Marguerida were going to have a
brood of curly-mopped urchins, for certain. This thought, so new and odd, made him
laugh, and his blue eyes crinkled. It felt good to laugh, but it made him miss her even
more, for laughter had become their custom, almost a second language between them.
What will we name them? he wondered, as he walked out of the bedroom and started
down the stairs. There were already a great many Gabriels and Rafaels in the family,
but he would not object to a son called Lewis, even though his sister Ariel had already
used it for one of hers. And Yllana, perhaps, after Marguerida's Aldaran grandmother.
That would offend Javanne, his mother, of course.
Mikhail walked into the living room--before he had quite finished his list of names,
knowing that he would tell Marguer-
ida about them at the first opportunity, and that she would be amused. He found
Priscilla Elhalyn sitting at the embroidery frame, one hand holding a needle above the
linen, staring into the fire. She started a little, stabbed the needle into the material, and
folded her hands into her lap demurely.
"Good evening, domna."
"Is it evening?" She looked around, for the room was rather dim now. The fireplace
had been lit, but none of the candles in the sconces. "I had not noticed. No wonder I
was having trouble seeing my stitches."
Mikhail took a long stick of wood from one of several' on the mantelpiece, set it
aflame, and started to light the candles. "This should make it easier to see."
"I suppose. But it is so wasteful."
"Wasteful?"
"Candles are very expensive."
"Domna, you are a great lady, of a great Domain. There Js
himself alert. The hall seemed empty, but after listening carefully he heard the faint
rustle of cloth from the door of the girls' bedroom, and realized that Miralys and
Valenta were likely watching him. Relief coursed along his veins, and he realized he
had been half expecting someone to pounce out of the shadows with a knife. He was
spooked, for certain, and he had better get hold of himself immediately.
After a moment, Miralys came out of her room, trying very hard to appear casual. "Do
you feel better now?" she asked softly.
"Yes, much better."
She was a beautiful child, in spite of her soiled garments and unwashed hair. Her skin
was almost translucent, with an alabaster complexion that other women tried to
accomplish with baths of milk, and her eyes were a pale gray that was almost silver.
He suspected that when washed, her hair would be red, but now it appeared to be a
dirty brown. She had a blossom of a mouth, and a dainty nose, and
resembled, Mikhail thought, some princess out of one of Liriel's fairybooks.
"I am glad for you. You looked so funny, trying to sort out the linens."
"Well, I have never made a bed before, actually. Why are there no servants, except for
your nurses and old Duncan?"
"She won't permit it, and most of the folk in the village are afraid to come here."
"Why?"
"I am not allowed to say." Her eyes were wide now, fully dilated, as if she longed to
speak but was unable to. Help me!
The silent cry was heartrending, but before he could answer her, Miralys turned and
ran back to her room, banging the door closed behind her. He could hear her sobs, and
then the voice of one of the nurses, hushing her. Mikhail started to reach for the
doorknob, then drew back. He had no business in the room of a young girl.
Instead, he went back to his own room, found his comb, and tried to bring some order
to his damp hair. The mirror above the dresser was black with dust, and he looked
around for something to wipe it with. He found a rag, cleaned off the mirror, then gave
the dresser top a lick and a promise, missing the good clean smell of wax and polish
that the rooms should have had. Then he looked at himself, clean-shaven, his dark
blond hair already curling across his brow. If they ever managed to overcome the
opposition of his parents, Mikhail decided, he and Marguerida were going to have a
brood of curly-mopped urchins, for certain. This thought, so new and odd, made him
laugh, and his blue eyes crinkled. It felt good to laugh, but it made him miss her even
more, for laughter had become their custom, almost a second language between them.
What will we name them? he wondered, as he walked out of the bedroom and started
down the stairs. There were already a great many Gabriels and Rafaels in the family,
but he would not object to a son called Lewis, even though his sister Ariel had already
used it for one of hers. And Yllana, perhaps, after Marguerida's Aldaran grandmother.
That would offend Javanne, his mother, of course.
Mikhail walked into the living room--before he had quite finished his list of names,
knowing that he would tell Marguer-
ida about them at the first opportunity, and that she would be amused. He found
Priscilla Elhalyn sitting at the embroidery frame, one hand holding a needle above the
linen, staring into the fire. She started a little, stabbed the needle into the material, and
folded her hands into her lap demurely.
"Good evening, domna."
"Is it evening?" She looked around, for the room was rather dim now. The fireplace
had been lit, but none of the candles in the sconces. "I had not noticed. No wonder I
was having trouble seeing my stitches."
Mikhail took a long stick of wood from one of several' on the mantelpiece, set it
aflame, and started to light the candles. "This should make it easier to see."
"I suppose. But it is so wasteful."
"Wasteful?"
"Candles are very expensive."
"Domna, you are a great lady, of a great Domain. There Js
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