Sitting in the window seat of the luxurious second-floor suite that had been allotted to the Wyndton family, Cerúlia and Stahlia watched the wedding carriage as it rolled away down the avenue and out the palace gates. Then, sniffling a few times, Stahlia rose and went to hang up Percia’s wedding finery in a nearby wardrobe.
Cerúlia sat watching her foster mother, the woman who had adopted her out of compassion and had cared for her the very best she could, even when her foster daughter had been secretive or cool. Stahlia may not have been as pretty and refined as the beautiful mother in the portrait gallery, and her manner decidedly less indulgent, but she had nurtured and protected her second daughter with a fierceness that had had as much of an influence on Cerúlia as heredity.
Stahlia had designed and sewn the gown she wore herself; one could tell from its stark simplicity. The gray velvet dress had a narrow skirt and severe lines, softened only by blue cuffs and a blue collar. Stahlia had included none of the lace, embroidery, or jewels that other women in the ballroom had worn; her only concession to vanity was the inset of an intricately woven wide waistband in which blue alternated with gray, yellow, green, lilac, magenta, and gold.
Cerúlia interrupted their quiet moment by stating, “I don’t want to return to that banquet. Must we?”
“Definitely not. But I don’t want to stay here, in this empty set of rooms. Do you think, perchance, we could take a turn in the Palace Gardens? I haven’t had time before, and tomorrow Tilim and I will move into our new house in West Park.” She amended her statement. “That is, me, Tilim, and you.
“I will be quite thankful to leave the palace, but I’d like to see the fabled gardens.”
“Going outside sounds lovely.” Cerúlia checked that the knot on her head scarf was still tight, then pushed herself to her feet and led the way to the door.
Declaring that she had seen an exit down a corridor, she led them instead into a dead end. Laughing at their confusion, the two women blundered around until at last they came to a grand first-floor entryway attended by a footman.
“Where are we?” Stahlia asked the man.
“We call this ‘West Door,’ madam,” he replied.
“And the Palace Gardens?”
“They are that way, madam, to the east of the palace.” He walked a few paces outside, pointing. “From here you have to walk past the Church Entrance, the rear of the Throne Room, Kitchen Door, and Servants’ Door.”
“Thank you,” said Stahlia, following him and looking where he pointed. “Is it far?”
“Well, yes, madam, it is a bit of a distance.”
“I don’t care,” Stahlia said to Cerúlia. “I’m so happy to be outside and away from that party.”
They walked east around the massive building, recounting again to each other the details about the wedding that needed to be savored.
“Marriage is a big step,” Stahlia said, with a meditative look in her eye. “When I meet a couple, I always try to figure out if they’re happy—or at least content—with one another. How much trust, how much comradeship, after the courtship days? I can usually read at a glance how tight a marriage is. The duke and duchess of Lakevale would actually like to kill each other. That elderly couple from Maritima, now they have a rare bond.”
“Hmm-mm,” Cerúlia commented, not really listening, because she was scanning their surroundings.
“My feet hurt in these fancy slippers; a maid dug them out for me, but they don’t fit well,” she said. “Can we stop a minute?”
“Mine too,” agreed Stahlia. “Let’s kick them off!”
“I was just going to adjust the strap. How would that look—the lordling’s mother-in-marriage walking barefoot in the grass like a village girl!”
“Do you think I care what these people think of us?” Stahlia said. “What you’ve seen is only a portion of the indignities these ‘high-class’ people have heaped upon us. I fear for the country, Birdie, in the hands of this lot. Duchess Latlie wore baubles that would feed all the orphans in Northvale for decades. Not that she ever sees those orphans; I learned she lives full time in the capital rather than take care of her people. Naven often grates on me, but at least he truly cares for the folk of Androvale!”
Cerúlia, bent over her shoe, didn’t respond.
Her mother continued, “I think the world of Marcot, and Percie’s happiness lies with him, but all week I’ve been dying to sail back to Wyndton. Wouldn’t that have caused a scandal!”
Stahlia kicked off her shoes vehemently.
Cerúlia laughed at the force of the kick. “Are you thinking of kicking that cad of a duke who insulted Percie at the dinner last night?”
“Oh, if only I could!”
“Just a moment—my buckle is caught,” Cerúlia said. While she pretended to work on the shoe, she also sniffed her wrist to see if the rose water still lingered. She didn’t want all the animals at the palace racing to her side. She had closed her mind to them but she feared their recognizing her scent. The perfume was still noticeable, though much fainter.
“I’m not sure, though, whether it would even be safe to return to Wyndton,” Stahlia mused. “Did Duke Naven tell you about what happened last fall?”
“No,” said Cerúlia, a touch absently, still bent down.
There! Is that bit of rumpled earth, hidden under that bush, the exit of the catamounts’ tunnel?
“Do you need help with that?” offered her mother.
“Oh, no, I’ve got it. See?” said Cerúlia as she pulled off her second shoe and stood up. “What happened last fall?”
As they continued strolling Stahlia told the story of the attack on the cottage.
“Did Hecht ever find out more about the ruffians or their goal?”
“No. I’ve a suspicion, but I’d rather not speak such dark thoughts aloud.”
“Was Tilim all right afterward?”
“Aye. He’s a wonder, that boy. What pained him most about everything was leaving Baki behind. The dog was too old for a voyage and a new life. Lemle took him in for his last moons.”
Stahlia stopped walking a minute. “Lemle, now, there’s another worry!” And she filled Cerúlia in on Lemle’s baffling disappearance.
When the apple fritter woman had spoken of an acquaintance going missing, Cerúlia had sympathized, but she had not completely understood what this felt like: now this same anxiety and dread had fallen on her. She wanted to reassure Stahlia that she would find him and free him, but could she promise such a thing?
Aloud, she said, “Oh, for Water’s sake! This is horrid news!”
“Aye,” said Stahlia, with a grimace. “But I’m getting used to people disappearing on me.”
Cerúlia flinched at the blow—accidental or intentional—but she couldn’t blame her foster mother for being angry at her. She could imagine how much that anger and heartbreak had smoldered over three years.
“Look, Birdie”—Stahlia put such love into the old dear name that her foster daughter heard an apology—“this must be the original garden laid out by Queen Calendula. Oh, it has not been well tended for some years! So overgrown and weedy. How could they let it go like this? I’m sure I read that famous statues stand in the center.…”
They wandered through the gardens alone together. Enough of the original lines were visible to show how magnificent they must have once been. Cerúlia thought she must have run through these paths as a child, perchance with her parents or Nana chasing after her. Now she looked about with Gardener’s eyes, seeing that the shrubs needed pruning and the flagstones wanted mortaring, but that hardy bulbs still persisted in pushing through the leaf clutter to reach the sun.
The two women found the marble statues of select Nargis Queens arrayed around a “river” designed out of blue flowers, early spring snow glories that poked up amongst weeds and debris.
“I’ll bet in its day, the landscapers designed this bed so that blue and white flowers changed with the seasons.” With lips compressed, Stahlia dropped to her knees and began pulling up the biggest and ugliest weeds around the blooms, heedless of how the activity stained her hands and her dress. Cerúlia took half a step forward to help but then stopped; she couldn’t bring herself to dirty Queen Cressa’s beautiful lace.
“Tell me about the statues,” Cerúlia tried to distract her foster mother.
Stahlia left the river of flowers, straightened, and studied the weathered marble. “Well, this must be Carra the Royal. This has got to be Cinda the Conqueror. And here we have Cashala the Enchanter. How dare they let creepers grow around her robe!”
As they walked by each statue, Stahlia told Cerúlia the story of each queen’s reign. All the while, her angry hands yanked away the worst of the vines.
The last of the marble queens was Carmena the Perseverant.
“I’m surprised to see Carmena honored,” said Cerúlia. “Chamberlain Vilkit implied she’s out of favor.”
Her mother scraped some moss off the statue’s bare marble toes with her fingernails. “I don’t know who chose the queens. But she’s a good choice, right? All any of us can do is persevere.”
“Teta … it must have been so hard for you and Percie and Tilim,” Cerúlia said. She was thinking about the pain of Wilim’s death, but reluctant to say his name.
“Well, it hasn’t been easy,” Stahlia admitted. She managed a small smile. “But there’s others that have had it worse. And we had friends in Wyndton, good friends, loyal friends.”
Stahlia patted Carmena’s feet and then turned to her daughter. “You write a fair hand, as I recall; mayhap you’d help me write to Sister Nellsapeta and all the Wyndton folk, telling them the good parts about the wedding and about your return. They’ll sleep easier for the news.”
Her mother gathered up the vines she had torn away. “We won’t tell them about Lemle. Some of them aren’t fond of him—and anyway, we still have hopes of finding him safe and sound.”
Placing the weeds in a neat pile under a shrub, Stahlia continued, “Percia’s settled now, though I foresee a whole new set of problems for her, living amongst those people. And I fret at night about Tilim, growing up without a father, in a new, unfriendly city.”
Stahlia met Cerúlia’s eyes. “And I’ve anguished over you these past years, and even without your telling me anything yet, I know that you’re in some kind of trouble.”
This was an invitation to confide in her strong teta. Cerúlia had to beat back her longing to throw her arms around Stahlia’s neck and lay all her burdens on those sturdy shoulders. But she had to keep to her vow of honor.
“Let’s not disrupt our memory of Percia’s wedding day with me and my troubles,” she answered with a self-mocking smile. “Tomorrow is soon enough.” Stahlia bit her lips at the rejection.
Cerúlia swung her dressy shoes in her hand. “Teta, tell me the story of how Percia and Marcot met. Duke Naven jabbered at me last night, but I was distracted. I’d love to hear the full story.”
They wandered through the rambling garden paths as they talked, occasionally pausing to pick up a fallen branch or marvel over an overgrown arbor. The spring light started to fade, and the air crisped. Their bare feet began to grow chilly. Reluctantly, the women turned around to head back to the interior of the palace.
Throughout this excursion, shades of the dead stood between them. Ambrice and Cressa had always lingered in Cerúlia’s heart, keeping her from committing fully to the foster family that offered her love, and yesterday she had learned that Wilim had joined her birth parents. Desperate for reconciliation before tomorrow’s peril, Cerúlia intertwined her arm around her foster mother’s waist. Stahlia kissed her on the top of the head and intertwined her own arm, each dangling their worthless slippers in her outside hand.
Cerúlia relished her touch, but fear still coursed through her.
She will never forgive me when she learns that Wilim died on account of me. Will she blame me for killing the duchette? Will she love a murderer?
Cerúlia felt overwhelmed and dizzy from the rush of events. But in this instant one need pushed to the fore. Stahlia is my true mother now. This may be the last moment she loves me. I want to hold on to it.
As an invitation, she sang the opening notes of “The Lay of Queen Carmena,” an overture to a duet. Stahlia, smiling, let her carry the melody while she joined in down a third with the harmony. They leaned close to one another, blending their voices. Gaining confidence, they sang louder, and the breeze swept up their ballad.
Scullery maids paused before the tower of wedding china. Footmen counting their tips, stable boys carting clean straw, and guards on patrol heard the music carrying through the twilight. Even those gentry smoking at their windows caught the whisper of the tune. All who heard it were seized with nostalgia and yearning—yearning for the heroic era of the Nargis Queens, when Weirandale lay secure, or at least felt secure, in Nargis’s Blessing.
Evening birds broke out in background accompaniment, and after a moment one particularly enthusiastic participant caught Cerúlia’s eye.
Tanager! There you are. Thank goodness you haven’t retired yet. I would talk to you. Meet me at the window of my chamber. We must make plans for tomorrow.