Cerúlia slept fitfully under a thick lilac bush that was threatening to bloom, until a skunk that kept watch over her through the dark hours woke her in the morning.
One must seek one’s den. It’s getting too bright for one.
Did anything happen while I was asleep?
No human saw you. A male came this direction, but one chased him away. The skunk chortled. Just a determined little rush and they always flee!
Thank you for your help. Cerúlia stroked the small animal from the top of its dapper head to the end of its long tail. The skunk flicked his long tail in a goodbye salute and scampered out of sight.
As the light grew bolder, Cerúlia tried to make herself more presentable, rubbing the dirt and dried blood off her hands and patting her braid (she had allowed Ciellō to fix it in a chignon to hide her burn) back into shape as best she could.
She spied on the red-sashed guards, noticing with relief that their rounds ended in the daytime hours. Servants, administrators, gentry, and white-sashed guards began carrying on their business around the palace; everyone looked busy and excited rather than wary. The princella carefully chose a place to join a traveled footpath and strolled out of the bushes with a pretense of normalcy. No one on the grounds paid any attention to a lone woman in working garb.
She asked the tanager to lead her to an inconspicuous doorway. It looked promising; only one footman, holding another clipboard, stood outside the unprepossessing entrance.
Cerúlia smiled at him. “Is this the way into the palace?” she asked in her most innocent voice.
“For servants of the wedding guests,” he frowned.
“Ah. What if I am Mistress Percia’s maid?”
“The wedding party came with no servants. And you’re not in livery.” The footman started frowning. “Guards!” he called, grabbing her arm. Immediately, two burly soldiers appeared from an interior vestibule.
Not a good choice, tanager, she sent to the bird, who looked away and pecked at nothing, avoiding responsibility.
“This woman tried to walk in,” said the footman to the soldiers. “Yet she can’t be a visiting servant. Look how dirty she is!”
“What’s your business here then, eh?” asked the taller of the guards.
“I’m a friend of the bride’s family,” Cerúlia answered, falling back on the truth.
“Ah! That would explain why you come to the palace dressed like this! Bumpkins! I told you!” said the footman to the guards with undisguised contempt.
The guards still harbored suspicions. “The bridal party didn’t invite any guests from Androvale, except for the duke and duchess, and they’re already in residence. Besides, how’d the likes of you get into the grounds? Show us your pass.”
Cerúlia ignored the question about entrance, again relying on the truth. “They didn’t know how to reach me. I have been traveling. Nevertheless, they will want me at Percia’s wedding, I am certain. Send for them and see.”
A bit of doubt crept into the guards’ eyes.
“Keep the minx here and keep a close eye on her,” said the shorter one, “while I check with the sergeant.” He disappeared inside.
The footman told her to “rest her arse” on a stone bench in the small patio outside the entrance. Cerúlia sat, trying to ignore such insolence and calm herself by looking around at the garden plantings, some of which were just coming into spring bloom. An azalea bush was studded with buds, each offering a tiny slash of pink.
A short walk to the left, down a stone pathway, she recognized the palace’s Church of the Waters. The building called to her; she longed to visit its Fountain to wash her face and drink cool water. She must have attended Waterday services there as a girl; some buried memory stirred.
She wiped her hands on her trousers and tried to think of how Percie’s Wyndton friend, Dewva, would handle this situation. How would she convince the guards that she really was part of the wedding party?
The guardsman returned after an absence of only a few minutes.
“Sarge says that the gentry are busy and he thinks it would be his head—or rather, our heads—if they were disturbed. He says to bring the dirty wench to him.”
“I don’t want to see any more of you fathead guards.” Cerúlia flared up with what she hoped would sound like a country woman in a huff. “Actually”—she stamped her foot—“I refuse. You’ve treated me so rudely! The Wyndton visitors are going to be angry. Where does your sort get the nerve!” She thought of Dewva and put her hands on her hips.
“Look, fatheads, why don’t you give me a piece of paper and a quill and I’ll write a note you can pass to the bridal family? Then they can decide. The longer you lot ill-treat me, the more trouble you’re gonna be in.”
The footman shuffled uneasily, exchanging glances with the guards. “I don’t see too much harm in that.…” He disappeared inside and came back with a sheet of paper, a quill, and a pot of ink, which he thrust at her.
Cerúlia stared at the writing implements a moment; her mind tumbled, empty of stratagems regarding how—all of a sudden—to address a note to her Wyndton family.
“I can’t write on this rough stone bench; I need a wooden surface,” she mumbled to the men watching her, before leaping up and speeding off into the Church of the Waters.
The taller of two guards and the footman followed after her, muttering “What’s this nonsense, wench!” But she didn’t care; she just wanted to be inside Nargis’s house. There she would be able to quiet her nerves, and she’d find the words to write to the family she had deserted.
The palace Church of the Waters was modest-sized, intended only for the private prayers of the palace community; but even so it possessed its own unique elegance and aura of peacefulness. Light flooded in through stained glass windows, making the polished walnut paneled walls and benches shine. The Fountain situated in the center stood as tall as Cerúlia herself; it had waterfowl images carved into rose quartz and water lilies blooming in its lowest basin; the water flowing down nine levels made a tinkling sound. At this midmorning hour on a hectic day at the palace, the room stood empty, its air soft and refreshing.
Cerúlia walked up to the Fountain, letting its movement and murmur soothe her.
The guard growled, “Hey! Wench! We’ve more pressing duties. If you’re going to write this letter do it now; otherwise we’ll tumble you off the grounds posthaste!”
Cerúlia found a smooth wooden bench to use as a desk and knelt on the floor beside it. She still didn’t know how to phrase this note, but the church had comforted her enough to start.
Teto Wilim and Teta Stahlia,
Fate has washed me up in Cascada. I’ve learned that you are here too, for Percia’s wedding. If you could find it in your hearts
At this moment they all heard a commotion outside the church of laughter, voices, and bustle. Cerúlia’s first instinct was to hide herself, but that was impossible in this open nave and, besides, her wary escorts stood watch over her. She just stiffened in her kneeling position like a terrified doe who hopes if she keeps completely still no one will see her half-hidden behind a shrub.
The double front doors opened from an energetic yank, letting in a flood of bright sunlight that edged a group of ten people in fancy dress, led by a Brother of Sorrow. Duke Naven’s bulk made him easy to recognize. And gliding in behind him … Stahlia, Percia, and Tilim.
Cerúlia’s breath caught in her throat. The guard and the footman bowed to the entering party, but busy with their own matters, the newcomers ignored the bunch of palace workers.
Quietly, Cerúlia stood up from the floor.
The Brother of Sorrow spoke to the assembly in a mild but authoritative tone. “Now, Duke Naven, you will escort the bride down this center aisle, while Lordling, you and your father and Master Tilim will be waiting at the end of the north aisle.” He was pointing out the locations to everyone. “We need to practice the pace of the walk so that everyone reaches the Fountain, where I will be standing with the nuptial cup, at the same moment. All right? Why don’t we take our places? Duchess Naven, would you oblige us by standing in for Lord Matwyck this morn?”
“I’d be honored,” said the duchess.
Chattering and laughing amongst themselves, the wedding party dispersed as he had directed them. Stahlia and a few others seated themselves on wooden benches to watch, while Duke Naven and Percia retraced their steps to the front entrance. Duchess Naven and a handsome young man walked toward the opposite lane without passing near the three onlookers, but Tilim chose the aisle that led him closest to the Fountain and thus closest to where Cerúlia, clutching the writing implements against her chest, stood, her heart thudding.
The guard gripped her upper arm to protect the gentry from this stranger under his supervision. As Tilim neared the grouping, his forward pace faltered.
Wonder at seeing the boy she had helped raise overcame Cerúlia. In three years he had grown much taller and his face had matured, losing the baby roundedness that had been so dear to her.
Almost without meaning to speak, she burst out, “You’re going to be as tall as your father or taller.”
Tilim’s shock rendered him mute.
“Don’t you recognize me, Tilim?”
His face came alight. “I knew you’d come back. I knew it! I told everyone. I knew it! I knew it!” Tilim launched himself at her, gathering her in a hug so forceful it almost knocked her over, while the inkpot spilled all down her leg.
“This is my sister,” Tilim shouted at the man holding her. “Let go of her! This is my sister! Mama! Wren has returned to us!”