Her brow furrowed. “Even when I’m awake, I can hear the footsteps sometimes: boom, boom, boom. I can even feel them coming up through the floor.”
The countess was troubled. Sophia had told her about the dream before. The dream was always the same, with little variation, as if the girl were describing something real, something that had actually happened to her. Cecile was wondering whether or not to mention this to the king, thinking it might be a new symptom, when her thoughts were interrupted by her servant, Maria, coming to whisper that Benoit was waiting in the wardrobe and that he appeared agitated.
The countess rose languidly with a rustle of silk, her skirts falling in graceful folds around her.
“I must leave you for a moment, Your Highness. While I am gone, I want you to locate Travia and Estara and the island of Braffa on your map.”
“I already know where they are, my lady,” said Sophia, shyly proud. She pointed out the two small continents on the map.
“Then be ready to discuss the deteriorating political situation between these two nations and how it relates to Braffa and to Rosia when I return,” said the countess.
“Yes, my lady,” said Sophia.
She picked up the spaniel and held him poised over the map.
“Now, Bandit, you must find Braffa…”
The countess, not expecting formal visitations, was dressed for comfort in a voluminous and exquisite white cambric chemise. Maria fetched a green moire dressing gown, which the countess put on over the chemise, then entered her wardrobe.
Benoit rose respectfully and made an attempt to bow, staggered, and nearly fell. The countess ordered Maria to fetch brandywine. Benoit drank it, and some color returned to his wrinkled cheeks.
“Please, sit down,” said the countess.
She herself remained standing, an indication that Benoit should not expect to linger.
“You’ve come about Stephano.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Benoit, seating himself.
“The last I heard my son and his ‘Cadre’ were planning to travel to Westfirth.”
“They are on their way there now, my lady,” said Benoit. “They were somewhat delayed.”
He went on to tell her about the challenge in the park, how Stephano and Rodrigo had gone to the duel, how both had been certain Rodrigo would be killed, but that Stephano had hoped to be able to find a way out of it and had ordered the Cloud Hopper to be ready to sail, how Benoit, fearing the worst, had gone to the houseboat to await the dire news.
“I do not know what happened at the duel, my lady,” said Benoit. “Master Stephano was not at leisure to tell me, what with the men shooting at us. Did I mention to your ladyship that I shot one of the assassins?”
“Twice,” said the countess coolly.
She listened with her usual calm languor, evincing no emotion. “My son was wounded, you said.”
“Yes, my lady. Shot in the shoulder,” said Benoit, adding with a certain pride, “He was shot up worse than that during the war. He’ll survive this one. The Trundler woman, Miri, is an herbalist like most of her kind. She will see to it that he pulls through.”
The countess did not evince much interest and shifted to another topic. “Tell me more about this man with the gun with the rifled bore.”
“Monsieur Rodrigo called him ‘Sir Richard Piefer.’ According to the master, he laid claim to be a Freyan nobleman. He spoke with a Freyan accent.”
“Can you describe this Piefer?”
“The master would be able to do so. I regret to say that I only saw him from a distance, my lady, and he was trying to kill me at the time.”
The countess’ lips twitched slightly. “Is that all you have to report, Benoit?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Do you know if Monsieur Rodrigo has been apprised of the death of his father?”
“Is his lordship dead, my lady?” Benoit asked, astonished.
“I fear so, Benoit. The ambassador was gunned down as he was leaving the office of the Estaran Minister of the Exchequer. The Estarans have arrested a Travian revolutionary, who happened-most conveniently-to be in the vicinity. His Majesty King Alaric has sent a strongly worded letter expressing his outrage at the death of his ambassador and demanding a full investigation.”
“I see,” said Benoit. The old man’s eyes moistened. “Monsieur Rodrigo will be most affected by this tragic news. I will write to him immediately.”
“You may also write to Monsieur Rodrigo that he should avoid returning home. He is wanted for the murder of young Valazquez. I was wondering what this ridiculous charge was all about. Now I know. The matter will be resolved, but the negotiations may take some time. I will send you word when it is safe for Monsieur Rodrigo to return.”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No, my lady.”
Benoit finished off the brandywine, set the snifter on the table, and rose to his feet. The countess summoned Maria, who came to escort Benoit back through the servants’ passage. As the two were about to leave, the countess stopped them.
“Benoit, you said you have some means of communicating with my son? You know where he is lodging while in Westfirth?”
Benoit looked wary. “I might, my lady.”
“Relax, Benoit. I will not demand that you tell me. But I would appreciate knowing when you hear from him.”
“I will, my lady,” said Benoit, bowing once again, then exiting the closet in company with Maria.
Left alone, the countess blew out the lamp and stood in the darkness for long moments, twisting the ring on her finger, before leaving the wardrobe and going to her sitting room. Summoning her valet-de-chambre, Dargent, the countess told him to dispatch one of her agents to find out information regarding the mysterious Sir Richard Piefer.
Dargent left swiftly upon his errand, and the countess returned to the library. Sophia tried to rise as the countess entered, but the princess was hampered in this effort by the spaniel, which had once more planted himself on the hem of her skirt and refused to budge.
“Bandit, you are a bad dog,” said Sophia, scolding him by kissing him on the top of his head.
The countess languidly resumed her seat. “I am sorry I was absent so long, Your Highness. Now, tell me about the situation in Braffa.”
Sophia shooed away the spaniel, rose to her feet, and came over to stand before the countess to recite her lesson.
“Estara and Travia both claim the island nation of Braffa because of its valuable resource known as the Blood of God, which is a form of the Breath that has been transformed into a liquid and can be used to power airships. The grand bishop favors the claim of Estara over Braffa because the Church has more influence in that country. The king, my father, says that we have stronger ties to Travia and he favors their claim.”
“What about the city-state of Braffa?”
“The Braffan council wants to refuse both claims and remain independent.”
Sophia went on to describe how a city-state differed from a monarchy. As she was talking, the countess happened to glance down at the letter she had been about to read when she had been obliged to leave to speak to Benoit. The letter was from her principal agent in Freya. A name in the letter caught her attention. A chill came over the countess. She longed to read the letter, but she did not want to hurt Sophia’s feelings by dismissing her. Too often the girl had been told to “run along and play.”
“And what about our longtime enemy, Freya?” the countess asked. “Which side do they support and what role does the Blood of God and the Freyan Navy play in this dispute?”
Sophia’s eyes widened in dismay at the question. She bit her lip. Her cheeks flushed.
“The Freyan Navy? I’m not certain, my lady…”
“We talked about the Freyan Navy during our last lesson,” said the countess, and she added with a slight smile, “Perhaps some cakes and hot chocolate would help your thought process.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure they would!” Sophia cried, laughing and clapping her hands.