And there were drakon everywhere.
In Zaharen Yce dragon blood flowed through the veins of nearly every person who walked the halls, freeman or noble or serf. There were a few like her, with the Gifts readily apparent, but time had diminished the population of the keep. Most of those left were more human than not. They lived there and they served there, and the echo of a shared, glorious past kept them all bound to the land and the principality. Yet every single being Maricara sensed here—in the corridors; in the elaborate, elegant rooms; above and even below, far below, in what felt like the basements—every one of them gave off the distinct, sparkling sensation of drakon.
They were not serfs. When she glanced at them they stared boldly back at her, men and women both. They wore their hair powdered into curls, or wigs of human hair, not horse. They twinkled with stickpins and necklaces and earbobs that chimed with melodies, louder and softer as she came closer and then moved away.
There were no diamonds hidden in the walls here. She supposed there didn't need to be; Mari had never been around so many people who dripped with gemstones. Even the earl's tailored coat had bands of seed pearls stitched along the lapels and cuffs. She'd kept her fingers cupped to touch them, to feel their small, pleasant humming as she walked the halls.
Her night had been oblivion. She'd returned to the woods without being followed—it appeared the earl hadn't even bothered to try, actually—and found again her secret tree, her valise. Mari had slept in all manner of accommodations en route to this place, from dank caves to empty attics, and once an amazing bedchamber of silver looking glasses and ormolu wood, with a feather mattress that sank beneath her weight like a cloud. The sunset that evening had struck the glasses and suffused the room with blinding, amber-pink radiance, picking out the pattern of crossed lavender stems painted up and down the wallpaper.
That had been in Beaumont-sur-Vesle. France had been littered with deserted estates.
Last night she'd slept on leaves, burrowed up against the ancient gnarled roots of the yew. She'd awoken hours later right where she was supposed to be, even still wrapped in the blanket she'd packed. No one seemed to have discovered her. Nothing seemed to have happened, except she'd gained a bruise on her hip from an inconvenient shard of granite embedded in the ground.
But she'd flown. The earl had said it and Maricara believed it. Even here, even so wrenched with exhaustion she hadn't minded the grit of dirt beneath her cheek, as long as she could lie down and close her eyes.she had flown.
Little wonder she had roused so late, and still felt so drained.
She'd only discovered the bruise when left alone in someone's private quarters, changing into the same someone's day gown stored in a cedar chest. Lord Chasen had suggested it, and this time Mari had accepted. It seemed prudent to continue her day in something more than just a layer of brocade over her uncovered skin.
She chose the simplest gown; she'd already refused an offer to send for maids. With panniers instead of a polonaise it was slightly demode, but it fit her very well, ivory muslin embroidered with sprigs of lavender, a scalloped petticoat of translucent plum gauze. It reminded her greatly of that sad, empty chateau in France.
Still, it was better than Lord Chasen's coat. If the men of this place still stared at her now, at least she knew it wasn't at her legs.
Silk stockings, satin slippers. Hoops. A corset that squeezed her breath. A white ribbon for her hair. It felt odd to garb herself as a real woman again. She'd spent so much time in scales, or beneath her blanket. Mari lifted a wrist and took note of the lace that fell from her forearm to almost the overskirt; the English did naught by halves.
There were no listening holes in the walls here. She'd tapped her knuckles against the rose-colored plaster and heard nothing hollow. The windows were tall and offered a panorama of china-blue sky and sloping green hills. The door had a brass polished key lodged in its socket.
There were people speaking; there were footsteps, and wood creaking in the joints of the floors. She heard her name whispered over and over, like ripples on the surface of the ocean, surging and fading, doomed to repeat.
Mari stood a long while before the window and gazed out at the hot, empty sky. Slowly her arms rose to press her palms over her ears.
That was how the earl found her.
This time she felt his approach. He was near, the door opened. When she didn't turn around he walked closer, the minute vibrations of his stride traveling up her legs, settling in her center. He came to stand beside her, avoiding her elbow, his hands clasped behind his back. His coral-and-pearl coat lay where she'd tossed it on the bed. He wore a waistcoat of matching brocade, a shirt with lace much shorter than her own.
Kimber sent her a sidelong look. His eyes were very green.
"Does that work?" he inquired.
She lowered her arms. "No."
"Pity. One might imagine the joy of absolute silence."
"I don't believe there's such a thing."
"Perhaps not. Not for us."
Then he was quiet, apparently examining the view. He smelled now of coriander and freshly baked bread; she willed her stomach not to growl. She wasn't going to ask again for food.
"You have a bird out there," she said, "due east. It's singing."
He frowned slightly at the woods. Now that she was more attuned to him she could sense his concentration shifting, beyond the forest of heavy trees, to space and distance and those pure, perfect notes that broke the air. Between this moment and the last time she'd seen him he'd removed his wig, tied back his hair; the light from the window revealed layers of tawny brown beneath the burnished gold.
"It's a thrush."
She repeated the English word, liking the feel of it on her tongue. "A thrush. It's very far away." "Yes." His tone grew drier. "They don't come near." "It's the same at my home."
Mountain or woods, valley or windswept canyon: Every animal that could stayed away from Zaharen Yce and all its surroundings. Until she'd reached her fourteenth year, she'd never even glimpsed a living deer. How much worse it would be here, with all these shining, human-faced dragons milling about.
"She sings a beautiful song," Mari said.
"Yes," the earl said again. And then: "This chamber was—is my sister's. Amalia."
"Oh."
"Clearly she's not using it. It's yours if you like. I don't think she'd mind." "Thank you, but no."
"There's room for your men, as well. It's a deuced big place."
"I see that. But we'll do better apart."
"Maricara—"
"No," she said, firmer than before. "I will not lodge here with you, Lord Chasen."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked away from her with an air of complete tranquility. She didn't imagine he was accustomed to refusal; he didn't seem a man who would take resistance lightly under any circumstance, Alpha or no. But he only subsided back into himself, as if he had nothing more pressing to do than appreciate the perfectly framed vista before them.
She felt the contradiction in him, though. She felt the raw power boiling beneath his elegant restraint.
"Dinner," announced a voice behind them, "is well served."
They turned together. The man leaning his shoulder casually against the doorjamb was not a footman or servant but clearly another nobleman. His cravat was bleached and fine; there was a large rounded emerald strung from a wire hoop in one ear, just a few hues darker than the color of his eyes.