A short while later, Céline and Amelie were hiding out in their room. The scene following Amelie’s revelations had not been pretty, culminating in Jaromir ordering Pavel to take Master Feodor down beneath the old barracks and lock him in a prison cell.
Feodor had not taken this with bravery or good grace, subjecting the servants in the great hall to quite an unseemly display as he was dragged from the chamber.
As soon as possible, Céline and Amelie had both fled for the stairs, hurrying to the solitude of their room.
“What do you think will happen to him?” Amelie asked, sinking down onto the bed.
Céline understood what she was going through—the latent responsibility for having spoken up about the events in a vision. “I suppose it depends on whether or not Jaromir can find any proof. I know he believes you, but right now, all he has is the word of a ‘gypsy seer,’ as Feodor will state in his own defense.”
“Yes,” Amelie said, nodding. “There has to be some kind of hearing, right? Even if it’s just Anton and his council presiding? And Jaromir has to find proof, doesn’t he? It won’t all rest on what I saw.”
“No, of course it won’t.” With mild annoyance, Céline then noted that the miniature portrait of the chestnut-haired woman was back on the dressing table. She picked it up. “How does this keep getting back out here?” She didn’t know why the sight of the portrait bothered her, only that it did.
The door opened and Helga hobbled in carrying a plate of bread, ham, and sliced carrots. “I know you’ve had no lunch,” she said, “either of you.”
She left the door open, but Céline didn’t mind. Few people ever came down this passage, and the open door made their space feel bigger. But as Helga set the tray on the dressing table, Céline asked her.
“Helga, are you taking this miniature from the drawer and setting it back out again?”
Helga blinked. “Of Lady Bethany? No, I’ve not touched it. I thought the prince must have given it into your keeping for some reason.”
That made no sense at all.
“Who is Lady Bethany?”
“Who is…why, she was the prince’s mother. He used to have that picture in his bedroom, and I would sometimes dust it when I helped the housemaids.”
“What?” Amelie asked, hopping off the bed and coming closer.
“You didn’t know?” Helga responded in genuine surprise.
And then Céline realized why the face in the miniature seemed vaguely familiar. Her face was round, and she looked more cheerful than exotic, but her chestnut hair and skin tones were similar to Lady Karina’s.
“This is Anton’s mother?” Céline asked, alarmed now as she remembered something else. “He told me he’d lost this. How could it have ended up in here?”
“Should we try and give it back to him?” Amelie asked, sounding reluctant.
Céline understood why, and she herself didn’t care for the idea of simply walking up to Anton, handing him a miniature of his mother, and saying, “Oh, by the way, we’ve had this in our room since we arrived.”
How would that look?
“No…,” she said. “Let me think of something else. I’ll try to put it someplace where he’ll find it.”
Amelie nodded. “Good. I think that’s best.” She studied the tiny portrait. “She was pretty. Helga, do you know how she died?”
“Of the rupture, when his lordship was only eight years old.”
“The rupture?” Amelie asked.
“You know,” Céline said quietly, “that pain that starts in the right side, like Jareth’s oldest son back in Shetâna.”
Amelie fell silent. She and Céline had both seen people die this way. Normally, it began with someone feeling sick to their stomach, followed by a sharp pain in the right side of the abdomen that turned to agony, followed by an organ erupting inside them, followed by death. Once it began, there was nothing the finest physician could do to stop it, and it was a terrible way to die.
“Poor lamb,” Helga said, still gazing at the portrait. “I heard the pain started in the morning, and she was gone before the next day.”
And poor Anton, to have lost his mother so young.
No one spoke for a moment, and then Céline put the portrait back in the drawer.
As if eager to change the subject, Helga began slapping ham onto slices of bread and glanced at Amelie. “I heard what happened downstairs with Master Feodor,” she told Amelie. “So you found your side of the coin.”
Amelie didn’t respond. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to talk about her new ability yet.
Sitting on the bed again, Amelie leaned back against the headboard and said to Céline, “I wanted to stay here so badly…but now I’m not sure. I thought this place was different from home, but you saw Jaromir and Pavel down there. Maybe it’s not so different.”
Céline wasn’t surprised that her sister had been suffering the same doubts. “Well, we could set up someplace else. With me reading futures and you reading pasts, I doubt we’d starve.”
“You could go and find your own people,” Helga suggested. “Always a place for the Mist-Torn with the Móndyalítko.”
A sound in the doorway caught Céline’s attention, and she turned to see Anton standing there. Two male servants stood behind him, carrying the portrait from the upstairs hall. Anton looked terrible. His hands were trembling and his skin was tinged green. She had a fairly good idea of what was wrong with him, but she feared offending him by speaking up.
However, his expression was stricken, and she wondered how long he’d been there. She knew he hadn’t been there when they’d spoken of his mother, but had he heard them discussing the possibility of leaving Sèone?
“My lord,” she said, for lack of anything else to say.
Thankfully, Amelie broke the moment by climbing off the bed and moving closer to the door. “Is that it?” she asked, fixating with a kind of awe on the image of the pale, dark-haired young woman by the fire—wearing long black gloves.
Anton recovered his composure. “Yes, I’m having it moved to my rooms. I want to keep it close to myself and away from everyone else.”
Céline wondered about the wisdom of that but knew better than to challenge him. Why had he stopped at their door? It was unusual for him make any sort of visit. If he wanted to speak to someone, he normally sent a messenger and had the person summoned.
“Did you need anything from us?” she asked.
“Yes.” He hesitated. “The lieutenant has arrested Master Feodor, pending some…unsettling charges. I want you and Amelie to both do readings of Master Feodor with me inside the room, for her to see what else she can learn of the past, and for you to try and see his future. And I want to hear both your reports immediately afterward.”
Although Céline thought he should be in bed, she answered, “Of course.”
But Amelie spoke at the same time. “Again? So soon? I just read him.”
Anton frowned and Céline tensed. He wasn’t used to having his orders questioned.
To his credit, he answered, “It would be a great service to me, Amelie.”
With her mouth set tightly, she nodded once. “All right.”
“My thanks.” He waved off his two servants holding the large portrait between them. “Take that up to my apartments.” Then he stepped back from the door, motioning to Céline and Amelie. “Come, then. It’s a bit of a walk down to the prisons.”
* * *
Jaromir strode through the old guard room of the castle prison to find Pavel waiting outside a locked cell door.
After conducting a full search of Master Feodor’s rooms and finding nothing he could use for proof, Jaromir decided he would have to rely on other methods. Taking off his sword, he handed it to Pavel, but he kept the dagger on his hip and a second one in his boot.
“Don’t let anyone inside,” he ordered Pavel. “Not anyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Unlock the door.”
The prison at Castle Sèone was rarely used except for the occasional petty thief or anyone else Jaromir thought worthy of a lockup. Last fall, an old woman had come to him complaining that her daughter’s husband had badly beaten the girl. When Jaromir went down into the village and saw the young wife, he’d ordered the husband locked up for six months.
He was the law here, and everyone knew it.
Master Feodor clearly knew it, and he backed up against the dank wall of the cell when Jaromir entered. Pavel remained outside, locking the door again.
“You cannot keep me in here without evidence,” Feodor said. “I demand that Prince Anton be informed.”
“He’s been informed.”
Feodor didn’t seem surprised. He must have known Jaromir wouldn’t keep someone of his status locked up without Anton’s consent.
“How are you doing it?” Jaromir dove in without hesitation. “Murdering the girls, using some woman who pretends to be a ghost? How is it done? Poison on the gloves?”
At that, Feodor’s face went completely white. “Murdering the…?” he sputtered. “You can’t possibly believe I have anything to do that.”
Jaromir walked closer, keeping Feodor backed up against the wall. “Who else has a reason to discredit Anton?”
Shaking his head wildly, Feodor insisted, “No! I’ve murdered no one. My only task was to…” He trailed off in horror, aware of what he’d almost said.
“To what?”
“To care for Prince Anton’s health.” Feodor collected some control of himself again. “And you have no proof otherwise. You’ve nothing but the word of a gypsy who dresses like a boy.”
Jaromir jerked the dagger from his belt and pressed the sharp edge below Feodor’s left eye. “How long have you been working for Damek? Since before Prince Lieven decided to send you here?”
Terror twisted the physician’s features. “You cannot do this! You have no right.”
In a quick movement, Jaromir sliced the man’s cheek open, watching blood run down his face. “My duty is to my prince,” Jaromir whispered. “I can do anything I want.”
Feodor’s eyes widened in fear and pain.
“How long have you been working for Damek?” Jaromir repeated.
“Two years,” Feodor blurted out.
“And Damek somehow convinced his father that Anton needed a court physician?”
“Yes, but not on his own word. He did it through the counsel of others. His father would never believe him to be concerned for Anton’s health.”
Jaromir put the blade back to Feodor’s face. “And he told you to poison Anton slowly, with hemlock?”
“I never intended harm! Only to weaken him, to make him appear unfit to rule.”
The rage inside Jaromir kept growing. He’d left Anton’s health in the hands of this piece of filth…and he’d not even suspected. He should have routed this out long ago.
“Have you sent word to Damek of the murders here?”
Feodor breaths were coming quickly. “Yes.”
“Have you informed him of Anton’s recent downturn in health?”
“No.”
Jaromir stepped back, thinking. If he left Feodor alive long enough for an official hearing, there was a chance Damek might find some way to interfere. Feodor was clever. In the process, the physician could even find a way, some way, to keep feeding Damek information about what was happening at Castle Sèone.
No, this needed to stop here. Jaromir had overlooked a spy and a traitor in their midst. Such an act could not be forgiven on his part, but it could be amended.
Reaching down with his left hand, he jerked the other dagger from his boot and held it out, hilt first.
“Take it.”
Realization dawned in Feodor’s eyes, and he tried backing further against the wall. “No! I’ll not give you an excuse to murder me.”
“Take it or I’ll kill you and put it into your hand after you’re dead. At least this way you have a chance.”
Nothing happened for the span of a few breaths, and then Feodor went for the dagger, grasping the hilt. Jaromir rammed forward with his right hand, driving the other dagger through the hollow of Feodor’s throat, grinding it in a half circle.
Moving back, he watched the body fall.
It was done.
* * *
Céline walked quietly beside Anton down a dank, wet stairwell and through what must once have been a guardroom. Now the entire prison gave off an eerie, lonely sensation, and she wondered what tragedies must have taken place down here over the past hundred years or so.
Amelie came just behind them, and as they passed from the guardroom into a larger area sporting six wooden doors with narrow slits at the bottom, Céline saw Pavel standing at attention, and Jaromir was just coming out from one of the cell doors.
At the sight of Anton, he froze in the open doorway, and Céline’s gaze moved down to the dripping dagger in his hand. She went cold.
“I came to question the prisoner myself,” Anton said. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, my lord,” Jaromir answered. “I obtained a full confession, but as I finished, he managed to pull a dagger from my belt and attack me. I had to defend myself.”
“Is he dead?”
“I fear so. I don’t believe he was involved in the deaths of the girls, but he confessed to his betrayal of you.”
At the calm, detached manner of this exchange, a roar began growing in Céline’s ears. As if Feodor would ever attack Jaromir. She was having trouble breathing.
“Unfortunate,” Anton said, “but if he gave a full confession, your word will not be questioned.”
The roar in Céline’s ears grew louder, and she rushed past Jaromir into the cell. He whirled to come after her, but she was already looking down.
Master Feodor lay there on the damp floor of the cell with a dagger gripped in his right hand. His eyes were still open, and his cheek had been sliced. Blood flowed from a hole at the base of his throat, forming a pool around his head.
“You murderer!” she cried, turning on Jaromir.
“Céline,” Anton said in alarm.
The roar in her ears was almost deafening now, and her lunch threatened to come back up.
“You just came in here and killed him,” she went on, unable to stop. “Judge and executioner. And your lord and master isn’t going to say a word.”
The cell was going dark around her.
“Corporal Pavel,” Anton said, his voice tight, “Mistress Fawe is not well. Please carry her back up to her room.”
When she saw Pavel coming toward her, she dodged deeper into the cell, nearly slipping on the pool of blood. “No,” she told him. “You just stood outside that door and listened. You didn’t even try to stop it.”
Then suddenly, Amelie pushed past Pavel and ran inside the cell, grasping Céline’s arms, holding her up, and glaring back at the men with an expression that gave even Jaromir pause.
“I’ve got her,” Amelie said. “We don’t need your help. We don’t need anyone but each other.”
Something in those words caused the roar to quiet.
“Céline, come on,” Amelie whispered in her ear. “Don’t make Anton order Pavel to carry you again.”
Still sick to her stomach, Céline let Amelie lead her toward the door. All three of the men got out of their way.
* * *
Amelie took Céline directly back to their room and forced her into the bed, beneath the covers, to rest.
Thankfully, Helga was still there, and she dampened a cloth, pressing it gently to Céline’s forehead. Céline stared blankly out into the room, her gaze fixed on nothing.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered.
“I know,” Amelie answered.
“Shhhhhhh,” Helga said to Céline. “Go to sleep, my girl. You’ll feel better when you wake.”
Amelie didn’t think so, but she kept quiet, sitting down on the end of the bed, wishing she knew how to stroke Céline’s forehead like that.
A soft knock sounded on the door.
Oh, what could anyone here possibly want from them now?
Annoyed, Amelie hopped off the bed and jerked the door open to find Pavel standing on the other side. He was the last person she wanted to see—well, second to the last. And he was sadly mistaken if he thought she’d let him in.
“What?” she asked, blocking the doorway.
“Is Céline all right?” As he’d made no move to enter and he looked genuinely concerned, she softened a bit. “No. She’s not.”
“If she hadn’t caught him off guard, the lieutenant would never have let her slip past him and see that. I’d never have let her see it.”
“Oh, and so her not seeing it means it didn’t happen?”
He winced and she sighed.
“What is it you want, Corporal?” she asked.
He held out a piece of paper. “Read this and don’t refuse. Please don’t refuse, Amelie.”
Then he was gone, walking down the passage for the stairway that led down. Amelie moved back into the room and unfolded the paper.
Inside was a message to her:
I’m in the upstairs portrait hall, alone. Please come up.
Jaromir
She tossed the note on the dressing table and shook her head.
“What is it?” Helga asked.
“His lord majesty lieutenant wants me to come up to the portrait hall and see him.”
“Then you should go.”
Amelie turned. “You’re not serious?”
For once, Helga wasn’t rambling or speaking halfway to herself. “Things were different here before he came. He’s kept this place safe for a good while now, but he keeps himself apart, alone. If he’s so wounded that he’s asked for help, you should give it.”
“I don’t owe him anything.”
“Don’t you?”
Unbidden, a memory erupted in Amelie’s mind of her home burning behind her, of her arms growing weary in a fight she couldn’t win…of Jaromir clubbing a soldier in a black tabard.
Helga turned back to Céline. “You go to him. I’ll care for her.”
Amelie stood watching the bed for a moment. Without completely knowing why, she turned and left the room, heading for the other end of the passage, with an odd, dark stairwell leading up. She’d not ventured there herself before, but Céline had described it.
After climbing the stairs, she walked out into a long hall with tall archers’ slits along its outer wall, serving as windows, and a line of enormous portraits down the inner wall. Even from here, she could see an empty space where a painting had been removed.
Jaromir was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. An unexpected wave of pity passed through her, but if he’d called her up here to offer comfort, he would be disappointed. She didn’t even know how to comfort Céline.
“I’m here,” she said weakly, walking toward him. “What do you want?”
He kept his eyes on the opposite wall. “To make you understand why I did what I did.”
“I already know why, to protect Anton. I’d probably have done the same for Céline.”
Then he looked up at her, with a hint of relief. Maybe she could give him some comfort. The thing was…she did understand why he’d killed Feodor, and she wasn’t even sure he’d been wrong.
“Sit down,” he said.
Cautiously, she crouched beside him. While she didn’t enjoy watching him play the bully, she found that she didn’t like seeing him like this either. He seemed diminished somehow.
“No, I mean that I want you to understand,” he went on. “I want to show you why I’d do anything for Anton.”
She frowned. What was he talking about?
“I want you to read my past,” he said.
She started to rise. “No.”
To go inside his head? To look at his past? That was too intimate.
In a flash, he had ahold of both her wrists and wouldn’t let her get up. “Don’t go.”
On instinct, she jerked hard once, but she knew the strength in his hands only too well by now, and she couldn’t even make his arms move. Instead of kicking him, she said, “This is why Céline is so tired of this place! You get us to trust you. You behave like our friend…until one of us doesn’t do exactly what you want, and then you act like one of Damek’s men.”
He let go as if her skin burned his hands. “Don’t leave. Please.”
That was the third time in about the last ten minutes that he or Pavel had used the word “please.”
“I’m no good with words,” he rushed on, “and you’re the only one who can see, who can know why I’d do anything to protect Anton.” He was silent for a moment. “I want somebody to know.”
She breathed out through her nose and sat down on the floor. Maybe Helga was right, and he had cut himself off from everyone. He needed some kind of connection after the horrors of the past few days. But she couldn’t bring herself to touch him and try to look at his memories. She feared it would create too much of a…connection.
“Couldn’t you just tell me?” she asked. She could give him that much. He deserved that much.
His eyes fixed on her face as he appeared to be considering the option of truly talking to someone, and she suddenly wondered about the wisdom of her offer. Perhaps Jaromir never talked to anyone—or at least not about anything that mattered. Would letting him unburden himself to her be even more intimate than trying to read his past?
She was well aware that he often looked at her with more than a passing interest, and she’d been determined to keep him at arm’s length. It wasn’t that she didn’t find him attractive. She could finally admit that to herself. What woman wouldn’t find him attractive? He was tall, strong, and comfortable with himself. He looked out for those he cared for, and he was one of the most capable men she’d ever met.
But…she’d met his mistress, and while playing cards, she’d heard casual talk from the guards about his previous mistresses. He liked wealthy, beautiful, shallow women who followed his orders, and he never kept one woman for very long.
Since Amelie was a far cry from his usual type, she might hold his interest a little longer, but how much longer? She had no intention of becoming just another cast-off mistress on Jaromir’s list.
Still, he was in pain, and for better or worse she did want to help him.
“Talk to me,” she said. “If you want me to understand, you’ll have to tell me. I’m not going to try to read your past.” Settling more comfortably on the floor, she asked, “When did you and Anton meet?”
Still staring at her, he answered, “Four years ago…at Castle Pählen.”
She sat, just waiting, until he opened his mouth again, and he began to talk, weaving a story in which he’d given up his place as a lieutenant for the House of Hilaron, out of loyalty for a fallen prince, without having any idea what life as a mercenary on the open road would be like.
“You wouldn’t believe some of the things I did to survive,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t want to tell you.”
She just listened.
“Then I heard that Prince Lieven was hiring guards for a family gathering and I went to beg for anything he’d give me,” he went on. “I had no pride left. I was filthy and starving…even once I was hired, I had to beg food and a razor, and I was facing being turned out as soon as the gathering had ended.”
He was quiet for a moment. “But then Anton…he saved Lizzie from his brother, and so I saved him from a group of his brother’s assassins.”
In spite of her determination to keep quiet and listen, she couldn’t help blurting out, “What?”
He nodded and went on speaking quietly, telling her of a dirty deal Damek had made with the captain of Anton’s guard, of a bloody fight, of Anton’s tragic surprise that anyone would go as far out of his way to help as Jaromir had.
“He was so alone,” Jaromir whispered. “I didn’t realize at the time, but I did later.”
“And he asked you to come back with him? To head up the guard here?”
Jaromir was breathing fast now, lost in the past, and his eyes were glassy.
“Yes. By the time we reached Sèone, he and I had become friends. But I didn’t understand how high he’d placed me until we entered the castle and he assigned my apartments. I became the Lieutenant, like the title of a lord. Soon, almost no one used my name. I was either ‘sir’ or ‘the Lieutenant.’” He leaned back against the wall. “Can you imagine how that would feel? To be nothing one day…nothing, and then suddenly find you’d become more than you thought possible?”
Amelie leaned back on her hands. “Yes, I can imagine how it feels.”
* * *
A few hours past sunset, Céline was still beneath of the covers of their bed, listening as Amelie told her Jaromir’s story, of all that he had told her. Helga was gone now, and the two sisters were alone.
Without wanting to be, Céline was moved by Jaromir’s story, but it wasn’t enough.
“It doesn’t excuse what he did to Feodor.”
“He’s protective of Anton.”
“To the point of judicial murder?”
Amelie didn’t answer, and Céline wondered what her sister was thinking. But Céline was drained, tired. Everyone that she or Amelie had pointed out as a possible victim or villain was dead.
Helga had been right, though, and after sleeping through the afternoon and early evening, she was calmer.
“I’m still not sure I can do this anymore,” Céline whispered.
“Do you want the shop?”
“I don’t know.”
Before Amelie could answer, a pounding on the door made them both jump. The pounding continued, and Amelie hurried to the door, pulling it open.
Jaromir leaned in over the top of her head. If he’d looked haggard earlier, he looked positively aged now. “Céline, you have to come. Anton’s worse.”
She sat up. “How much worse?”
“I think he’s dying.”
* * *
Up in Anton’s bedroom, Céline sponged the sweat off his face. He was unconscious, but his body was shaking. Amelie sat beside her, and Jaromir sat on the side of the bed, almost ill himself. If Céline hadn’t known him better, she would have said he was frightened.
Pavel stood by the door with his arms crossed, little better off than Jaromir. The oversized portrait of the dark-haired woman by the campfire leaned against the wall beside him.
“Was he vomiting before he fell unconscious?” Céline asked. All the broken ties between them didn’t matter in this moment.
“Yes,” Jaromir answered. “I thought it was a good thing. I thought if Feodor had managed to give him some kind of poison before he was locked up…that Anton was purging himself. Is that possible? Could Feodor have fed him poison?”
Céline chewed on the inside of her lip. She knew what was wrong with Anton. She’d known that afternoon. But men of his status—and the people around them—did not like to acknowledge a dependency upon elixirs or wine or anything but their own power. Even suggesting such a thing could be construed as insulting. That was why she hadn’t said anything earlier. She’d simply hoped he wouldn’t get worse.
“Céline!” Jaromir insisted.
The room was dim, with only a few candles glowing. Anton groaned in pain, sweating into his bedsheets.
“No,” she said as matter-of-factly as she could. “He’s having the opposite problem. Master Feodor had been finding a way to feed him an opiate for a long while. His body has become dependent upon the opiate, and now the lack of it is making him ill. His organs can no longer function properly without it, and I’m afraid the dependency is so severe that he may continue to grow worse.”
Pavel tensed in the doorway, and Jaromir sat up straight.
But then, to her great relief, the lieutenant asked, “Can anything be done?”
“Yes, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Just tell me!”
“He’ll need small, weakened doses of the opiate for a while, possibly weeks, decreasing in amount until he’s weaned away from it. Then he’ll need a tonic made from colewort to help his liver cleanse the toxins from his body.”
She knew the thought of giving Anton more of the drug that had made him ill in the first place probably went against every instinct Jaromir possessed, but she could see the pain on his weathered face. Jaromir viewed Anton as far more than a means to position and power.
“And you can make these potions?” he asked.
While she hardly considered either the poppy syrup or the cleansing tonic to be a potion, she nodded. “Yes, but only if you give me full access to the apothecary shop and its herb garden, and if you want this done quickly, I’ll need some assistance.”
Her words had an almost magical effect on him. He stood up, some of the haggard lines vanishing. He was a man who needed a plan, a mission. He was only truly miserable when he felt helpless.
“What kind of assistance?” he asked.
“I’ll need Amelie with me, and we’ll need several lanterns if we’re going to harvest poppies at night. Oh, and a good deal of firewood, as we’ll need to make a blaze in the hearth.”
Looking down at Anton, Jaromir seemed torn for a second or two about something, and then he said, “I’m staying here with him. Pavel, you gather lanterns and firewood. Take Céline and Amelie down to the apothecary’s shop. Keep them safe, and give Céline any help she needs.”
Pavel jerked the door open, as if equally glad for something to do, for some action to take. “Yes, sir.”
As Céline hurried toward the door, she called over her shoulder to Jaromir, “Send someone to wake the Lady Karina.”
* * *
Making a vial of the weakened poppy syrup went much faster this time. Pavel proved useful, both in helping her and Amelie gather the best poppies and in building the fire while they prepared the components.
But somewhere during this process, Céline was struck by a startling thought: She had altered a vision. When she’d read Inna the day before, she had clearly seen Inna putting a double dose of the powder into Anton’s wine that same afternoon. By speaking up, Céline had caused Jaromir to trap Inna inside the small guest room, preventing her from drugging Anton’s wine.
As a result, Anton was now suffering, but there was no denying that Céline had changed an event she had seen in a vision, changed the future. It could be done.
This was a revelation.
But she wiped the sweat from her forehead and worked faster on the poppy syrup.
Sooner than she expected, she was back in the castle, nearly running back down the passage to Anton’s rooms carrying a spoon and a vial. Amelie and Pavel trotted behind. Upon reaching the door, Céline knocked, and Jaromir opened it.
Lady Karina was inside the room now, her expression unreadable. “How bad is he?” she asked instantly.
Céline had no idea how to answer, so she didn’t. Instead, she hurried to the bed. “Jaromir, come and lift him up. He should be sitting so he won’t choke.”
The lieutenant moved in quickly, putting one arm beneath Anton’s back and lifting him into a sitting position. “Get his mouth open,” Céline instructed. She hoped Anton wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t help a little.
“Anton,” she said, touching his face with two fingers. “You must swallow. Do you hear? You need to swallow this.”
She poured a spoonful of the poppy syrup over his tongue and then closed his mouth with her hands. He sputtered and convulsed once, but he swallowed it.
“Again,” she told Jaromir. “One more.”
When they’d finished, she sat beside Anton, still holding the spoon.
“How long till we know if it works?” Jaromir asked.
“Not long, but it will work. I’ve seen this before…with ex-soldiers back in Shetâna. My mother taught me what to do.”
Karina came over to sit on the bed, her lovely face a mask of calm, but her eyes gave her away; she was beyond worried. Both Amelie and Pavel hovered in the doorway. Jaromir began to pace back and forth across the room. But about a half hour later, Anton stopped moaning in pain, and he stopped sweating. Céline felt the temperature of his face and listened to his breathing.
“All right, he’s just sleeping now, not unconscious. He’s not in pain, and he should keep his food down once he wakes.”
Karina lowered her head and closed her eyes, as if finally allowing herself to express emotion.
Jaromir let out a shaky breath and leaned over, putting his hands on his knees. “Céline, I didn’t know you could…I had no idea you were a physician. You should have told me.”
“I’m not a physician. I’m an apothecary.”
Amelie came closer to the bed. “He’ll really be all right?”
Amelie, Jaromir, and Pavel all looked about done in, and Céline had no idea what time it was. “The three of you should all go get some rest. I slept this afternoon, so I can sit with him.”
“I’ll stay, too,” Karina put in. “Céline’s right, Jaromir. You should all go and rest.” This last suggestion sounded more like an order.
Relenting, Jaromir nodded. “Send for me if there’s any change.”
Moments later, Céline and Lady Karina were alone with the sleeping Anton, and Céline had time to struggle with her own feelings, her own realization that the futures she saw could be changed. But also, to her partial shame, she’d loved working in the shop tonight, perhaps more than she had back home at the Lavender and Thyme. Even neglected, the herb garden promised a wealth of life, and the shop was so well equipped…and it seemed to need her. Silly thought.
“Thank you,” Karina said, breaking the silence. “I’ve some knowledge of herb lore, and yesterday I was informed what Master Feodor had been giving him. But I’d no idea this could happen.” Her mouth tightened, and she stood up, pacing the room. “I should have routed Feodor out long ago. How could I not have seen?”
“You cannot blame yourself, my lady. Jaromir is a virtual watchdog, and he didn’t catch Feodor either. The man was sent by Anton’s father. How could either of you have guessed?”
Karina stopped pacing and studied Céline. “I cannot tell you how glad I am that you’ve come to us. In spite of Anton’s…illness, I’ve seen a change in him since your arrival, as if he wants to live now, to rule, to best his brother. I’ve hated to see Anton alone these years, but I knew another marriage would be a terrible mistake, and with you, there are no worries on that score.”
Céline stiffened, caught off guard and offended on several levels. First, did Karina believe she was—or would be—Anton’s mistress? A plaything to provide him with entertainment and keep him from marrying again? Second, Céline had never thought this lady given to typical noble snobbery, but the words “with you, there are no worries on that score” made Céline want to flinch.
For all Karina’s apparent kindness, it seemed she viewed Céline as one or two notches above a castle servant.
“Jaromir and Pavel dragged us here,” Céline said, trying to keep the anger from her voice, “and I remained to help Anton solve the murders of these poor young women…and to keep Anton from appearing as a weakened leader to his father. I fear for this entire region should Damek be named heir.”
Karina waved one hand in the air. “Damek will never be the heir. Though tragic, the unsolved deaths of a few girls would mean nothing to Prince Lieven. I’ve met him, and I can see how his mind works. I’ve understood the situation for years. No, Lieven is simply waiting until Anton is ready, but you need not worry. Anton will soon enough be head of the House of Pählen, and then he will be the grand prince of Droevinka.”
Perhaps Karina was still shaken from her fears that Anton might have been on his deathbed. But the words coming from her mouth were startling. Céline had no idea she was so ambitious for Anton. Was she equally ambitious for herself? Seeking at least partial power to help rule through him? Pavel had clearly said she was given a voice here in matters of state.
Karina ceased her pacing near the bed. “But the deaths of these girls will have no impact on Prince Lieven’s decision, and I fear the murders will not be solved, even with your good help.”
“They must be,” came a whisper from the bed.
Anton’s eyes were open, and he’d been listening. Though probably as weak as a puppy, he wasn’t sweating or shaking. He was looking at his aunt. “We must stop these murders. My lady, arrange another banquet, for tomorrow night. Céline must continue reading the young women. At present, we have nothing else to try.”
The thought of even one more reading was almost more than Céline could face, but she had other worries.
“You won’t be on your feet by tomorrow night,” she insisted.
His quiet voice was firm. “I will.”
* * *
Although she was weary to the bone, Amelie couldn’t sleep. Finally, she climbed out of bed and stood on the cold floor, wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t just go and sit with Céline and the Lady Karina. Here, alone in this room, she had too much time to think. Much too much.
Her mind kept going over her experience that afternoon with Jaromir, how he’d told her of his past. It was difficult to admit, but she felt differently about him now. She understood him better.
And she didn’t want to understand him.
She certainly didn’t want to be standing by the firelight from the hearth, thinking about him.
Sighing, she reached for her breeches and then noticed that the miniature of Lady Bethany was back on the dressing table, leaning against the mirror. How did that thing keep getting out of the drawer?
Walking over, she picked it up. With everything that had happened in the past day and night, they’d completely forgotten to try to get it back to Anton. Pausing, she looked down into the pretty face of Lady Bethany. Poor woman, to have died so young, leaving her sons without a mother.
Bethany’s face was rounder than Karina’s, and so were her eyes. Their thick chestnut hair was the same, though, even the manner in which they wore it, piled high with a few loose curls hanging down.
Then suddenly, even in the light of the fire, Amelie felt cold, and she looked up. The room appeared to be filling with white mist. Her eyes dropped back to the portrait just as the first jolt hit.
“No!” Amelie said aloud, speaking to the portrait.
But she was jerked backward, rushing down the corridor of swirling mists, almost unable to believe what was happening. The journey was long, and she grew light-headed, fighting to break free from the mists, to get back to her room.
The mists cleared, and she was outside, in broad daylight, with a cluster of red apples hanging over her head.
Half turning, she saw that she was standing only a few paces from a young woman, perhaps sixteen years old, who knelt on what appeared to be damp ground beneath an apple tree, inside an orchard. The day was clear and the sun shone bright in the sky, but beyond the orchard, Amelie could see pools of still water filled with more cattails than she could count.
The Everfen?
“Bethany?” a smooth voice called. “Are you out here?”
The young woman raised her head. It was Anton’s mother…only younger than the image in the miniature. She was little more than a girl, wearing a muslin gown, soaked through the skirt where she knelt.
At first she didn’t answer the call, and then finally said, “I’m here, Karina, over here.”
The sound of sweeping skirts answered, and another woman came around a tree. Amelie gasped. It was the Lady Karina…but she appeared to be in her late twenties. She looked exactly the same as when Amelie had seen her in Anton’s rooms less than an hour before.
“Whatever are you doing? Father is waiting to tell you good-bye,” Karina said as she stopped walking. “You’ve ruined that dress.”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh, stop playing the martyr and get up.”
“I don’t want to go.” Bethany seemed near to tears. “Can’t you go for me? Can’t you take my place?”
“Would that I could,” Karina answered coldly, and then her face softened. “Forgive me…I’m…I know this isn’t your fault. But Prince Lieven is determined to expand his territories here in the south, and he wants a bride from the House of Yegor. The head of any southern house would jump at the chance to connect with Pählen. Father wrote to offer him a daughter, with some lands thrown in for a dowry, and Lieven agreed. That’s all there is to it.”
“But Father has four daughters. Why did he have to pick me?”
“Because of your youth. Because princes like Lieven tend to prefer sixteen-year-old girls; that’s why. Father says I’m too old, that if I arrived at Castle Pählen as the sacrificial lamb, Lieven might send me back. He won’t send you back.” This last was spoken with bitterness.
“Yes, but you’ve rebuffed every man who’s asked for you.”
“Because there’s been no one from a great house!” Karina answered. “Which is why Father never tried to force me…and now it may be too late.” She moved closer to her sister. “But it’s not too late for you. Prince Lieven’s influence and his lands are growing. You’ll have sons. Lieven may not be the grand prince in his time, but if the power of Pählen continues to grow, you could be the mother of a grand prince, enjoy power through him. Try to imagine that far ahead, Bethany. It will sustain you.”
Bethany stared at the damp ground. “Father claims to love me, but he knows nothing about Lieven. He’s sending me to the west, to share a bed with a man he’s never met. Is that love, Karina?”
“Yes,” Karina answered. “In this case it is. And I wish I was your age and you were mine. I’d take Father’s brand of love in a heartbeat.” She reached down. “Come on. You’ll need to change that dress before the caravan leaves.”
Bethany gripped her sister’s hand. “You’ll write to me? We’ll share everything that happens to us both?”
Karina nodded. “Oh, yes. I will follow everything that happens in your life.”
Bethany climbed to her feet, still holding Karina’s hand.
The scene of the orchard vanished, and Amelie was back in the glowing firelight of her room staring down into Bethany’s face. How had that just happened? How had touching the miniature pulled Amelie back through the mists?
But immediately, a more important revelation hit her. If the vision had been real…then Lady Karina had not aged a day in more than twenty-five years, since before Sub-Prince Damek was even born.