Apparently not—the butler led her down its length, then through a single door at the end of the side wall. She followed, stepping through into a much smaller room, only twelve feet square, with a table that could seat only four. Broad windows to her right looked out onto a manicured garden, golden in the sunset. Large landscapes in gilded frames echoed the garden’s peace on the other three walls. It felt cozy after the cavernous dining room, but still spacious.
Magistrate Kerren was sitting at the table facing the window, caressing a wineglass with his fingers. He looked up as he heard them enter, and was already beginning to stand as the butler said, “Maiden Elizabeth of Milorga, Your Honor.”
CHAPTER 18
Thank you, Willem.” The magistrate smiled, then asked Bess, “Will you join me in drinking wine, maiden?”
“I will, and gladly, Your Honor.” Bess had to hide a smile at the memory of her mother’s warning not to drink wine with strange men. It had proved true, of course, but surely Mama hadn’t thought of her bibing with a magistrate!
“The burgundy, if you would, William.” The magistrate gestured to the seat opposite his own. “Sit, if you will, maiden.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” She sat, reflecting that the master was far more polite than the servant. Maybe Willem felt the hint of rebuke, because he set the wineglass beside her even as she sat. “Thank you,” she said, eyes downcast, and knew from the warmth of the magistrate’s tone that she had guessed rightly.
“Thank you, Willem. You may leave us now,” the magistrate said.
The butler bowed and left. Bess sat straight in her chair, raising the glass to inhale the wine’s fragrance. She let her breath out in a happy sigh; there had been little enough wine in her life in the last two years. The aroma blended perfectly with the beauty of the garden before her, and in spite of the tension of her situation, she felt herself beginning to relax. She sipped the wine, let it roll across her tongue, and swallowed, savoring the flavor of a sun-drenched summer past, then looked up to see the magistrate gazing intently at her. She blanched, then lowered her gaze in confusion, angry with herself for dropping her guard so easily.
But it seemed to have been the wisest course of action after all; the magistrate noted, “You have tasted wine before, maiden, and know how to make that taste last.”
“Oh, yes, Your Honor,” Bess said, improvising quickly. “My father was a wine-maker, and taught us all that gulping wine was nearly a crime.”
He looked her up and down in a quick glance, though, and said, “That may be so, but the straightness of your posture, the way you hold yourself, the tilt of your head, speak of breeding and culture. How have you come to behave so much like a lady of refinement?”
I watched visual recordings of real ladies. But Bess couldn’t say that, of course. She improvised again. “When I came of age to marry, Your Honor, no man offered—so I went with several other young folk to the city, and found service with the family of a wealthy merchant. I mimicked his wife and daughters, and the housekeeper schooled me in proper carriage and behavior so that I could serve at dinners when the master entertained other people of consequence. I had learned fairly well when the reeve and his wife came to dinner, and the next day, they commanded me to come serve them.”
The magistrate had been listening with growing concern. Now he leaned forward intently and asked, “Did they treat you well?”
“Why … yes, Your Honor.” Bess stumbled over the words, for halfway through the sentence she realized he was worried that she might have been molested, forced to go to bed with the merchant or the reeve. “Both merchant’s wife and reeve’s lady were courteous and thoughtful mistresses. I scarcely saw their husbands, and their children were … well, as children are.”
“Imps and angels by turns.” The magistrate sat back, nodding. “I’m glad to hear life went so well for you. But you didn’t find a husband, so you went back to your home village?”
“Yes, Your Honor, when my mother’s health weakened and she needed someone by her. I’m her only child, so it came to me to go tend her. But she became quite well with me there.”
“No doubt simple loneliness was the cause of it.” Magistrate Kerren frowned. “How will she fare, now that you have left her again?”
“Well enough, I hope, for I don’t mean to be gone very long. If we can find Uncle Raymond, I can go home to tell Mama so that she can write to him. Have you found any trace of him, Your Honor?”
“Yes, Eben Clark found the entry in the book.” Magistrate Kerren picked up a scrap of paper and handed it to her. “He was called back to the Protector’s Town, and I have no doubt he was scarcely there before he was reassigned.” Before she could even ask, he said, “Eben Clark has already drafted a letter asking the provost where your uncle has been sent. It will go out with tomorrow morning’s post—but you’ll have to be patient, maiden. It could easily be three weeks before we have an answer, perhaps two months.”
“I could expect no sooner.” Bess leaned forward, reaching out to Kerren but not too far. “Oh, thank you, Your Honor! Thank you again and again for going to such trouble for me, a poor stranger!”
“I am more than pleased to have been able to help.” Kerren’s smile was warm, then turned bleak. “You’d be surprised how rarely we are able to really help any one citizen with such a problem.”
Bess’s heart went out to him; the man really cared about people, not just power. “Please tell me if there’s any way in which I can show my gratitude!”
“Why, there is.” Kerren’s smile came back as his gaze met hers. “Dine with me and tell me of your joys and sorrows, so that I may be a little less lonely for a while.”
“Why … gladly, Your Honor.” Bess dropped her gaze to her wineglass. “But everything I’ve done is very ordinary. I can’t think any of it would be very interesting.”
“I’ve found that most people’s lives have moments that would interest anyone.” Kerren lifted a small silver bell and rang it.
The butler came in. “Your Honor?”
“We’ll begin the meal now,” Kerren replied.
“Very good, Your Honor.” The butler signaled, and a maid came in with a tray. She placed bowls of soup before them, and Kerren picked up his spoon as he said, “Begin with your family. You have mentioned your mother. Was childhood happy?”
“Oh, very happy, Your Honor!” Silently, Bess blessed the research department—in this case, Lord Corel, or Corin, as he really was. Corin had written out a full description of everyone he could remember in his hometown of Milorga, including the Raymond who had joined the Protector’s Army, and his widowed sister with her poor, sickly daughter. Gar had sent someone back to Milorga to see what had changed in the years Corin had lived in the Lost City—who, Bess didn’t know, but it couldn’t have been Corin, for whoever it was had asked questions that every villager would have known: Did the widow still live in her cottage? Had Raymond come home? He or she had brought back the answers: The widow still lived, but her daughter had gone away shortly before—no one knew where—and there were dark mutterings about walking into the woods late at night.
Raymond’s fate was unknown—but another agent had somehow discovered that he had been sent to put down an uprising that had cropped up overnight around a deranged shepherd who claimed people’s lives were controlled by supernatural beings. An astounding number of people had pledged loyalty to him, finding that his delusions explained the bleakness of their own lives and held some hint of making them better. When the magistrate had tried to arrest the shepherd, his people had fought back fiercely, repelling his watchmen. The magistrate had sent to the reeve for help, but the people had fought the reeve’s troops to a stalemate, and he had called for more help. The Protector had sent every man who could be spared within a hundred miles of the uprising. Raymond of Milorga had been one of them, and had died on the battlefield. Since the commanders hadn’t known much about their hastily gathered soldiers, no one had thought to write a letter of sympathy to his sister back home in Milorga.