The countess rang a small silver bell and Maria appeared. The countess gave her order. Maria returned bearing a tray on which gold-rimmed plates of the finest porcelain bore small cakes decorated with sugared violets, bonbons, and spiced nuts. The tantalizing smell of coffee mingled with the aroma of hot chocolate.
“May I be hostess, my lady?” Sophia asked eagerly. “Mama never lets me pour. She fears I will spill on my gown.”
The countess said she would be honored if the princess would serve her. Sophia was delighted. She took her duties as hostess quite seriously, her first task being to remove Bandit from the chair on which he had jumped with the intent of helping himself to cake. Sophia laughingly asked him which he wanted and made him choose by holding his small nose over each cake. Once Bandit had made his decision, which he did by licking a cake before Sophia could stop him, the princess hovered over the cake tray, selecting the very best delicacies for the countess and arranging them attractively on the plate. After that, Sophia had to make a decision on which cakes she wanted. All this took a considerable amount of time.
While Sophia was thus happily engaged, the countess was at liberty to read her letter, which was written in code, made to appear as nothing more than two ladies exchanging the latest gossip in case the missive should be intercepted.
Our dear friend, Honoria, has not been in attendance at the royal Freyan court recently.
“Honoria” was her code name for Sir Henry Wallace.
Honoria’s unexpected absence is of great concern to her friends and has become the cause of much speculation. I have asked around, but no one knows where she is or what has become of her. I confess that I am quite worried and I know that you will be concerned, as well.
I will tell you what I know. Rumor has it that a short while ago Honoria received a mysterious package delivered to her by a merchant sailor. No one knows what was in the package, but after she received it, she departed at once for her estate. I have heard nothing of her since.
Now you know, my dear, that my curiosity is enough to kill any number of cats, and I decided to find out more about this mysterious package. I have a friend who is in the custom office and he was obliging enough to provide me with a manifest for the two merchant vessels that were in port at the time. A package recorded on the manifest was addressed to Honoria. The contents were described as: one pewter tankard! An odd gift for our elegant friend!
But here is a most strange coincidence that will amuse you. As I was reading the manifest, I came across the name of one of your friends. You happened to mention the name to me in your last correspondence: Manuel Alcazar, that merchant sailor from the city of Westfirth. Or was your friend Pietro Alcazar? I can’t recall. Perhaps they are relatives. Isn’t it funny that I should happen to run across his name on this manifest? A small world, as they say!
The following was added in a postscript, obviously written in haste.
I have just received news that is most shocking. It seems a small boat bound for Rosia has disappeared into the Breath in a dead calm. All hands are feared lost. This happened about the same time our dear Honoria vanished. You don’t suppose she was aboard? Ah, it is too dreadful to contemplate! Still, she has as many lives as the aforesaid cat. I will let you know the instant I hear more about our missing friend.
The countess allowed the letter to slip from her hands. She sat staring at a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess on the desk. She did not see the shepherdess, she did not see the room around her, she did not hear Sophia’s gentle voice.
“My lady, are you ill?”
The countess blinked and hurriedly left the dark streets and cul-de-sacs in which her mind was wandering. She had the impression this was the third time Sophia had spoken. The countess put her hand to her temple and gave a wan smile.
“I am sorry, Your Highness, but I fear that I am not feeling quite well.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” asked Sophia in alarm, setting down the cup of chocolate she had been holding. “Can I fetch your smelling salts? Some wine?”
“If you could ring for Maria, Your Highness,” said the countess faintly. “I fear we will have to postpone our lesson for the day. Besides, Her Majesty the Queen will be wondering where you are. I would not have her angry at me.”
Sophia rang the silver bell. “I hope you feel better, my lady,” she said anxiously. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
“I will be fine, Your Highness,” said the countess. “It is but a sudden indisposition.”
Sophia nodded, her eyes soft with concern. She gathered up Bandit and, with a fond look, left the countess’ chambers. When the countess could no longer hear the sound of the girl’s rustling petticoats, she turned to Maria.
“Find Dargent,” the countess said. “The matter is urgent.”
Maria obeyed with alacrity. When she was gone, the countess picked up the letter and, lighting a candle on her desk, held the paper to the flame. Once the letter had caught fire, the countess dropped the burning paper onto a plate and waited until it was consumed, then ground up the ashes with a coffee spoon and dumped them into the silver coffeepot.
Dargent entered her room. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”
“I must speak with Stephano’s retainer, Benoit. He was here a short while ago. He may still be in the servants’ hall. If not, go to my son’s home and bring Benoit back here immediately. It is of the greatest importance that I communicate with him.”
Dargent bowed and departed.
The countess rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth, clasping and unclasping her hands and twisting the little ring.
Dargent traveled swiftly to Stephano’s house in the wyvern-drawn carriage kept by the countess for his exclusive use. Dargent was out the carriage door almost before the wyvern’s claws had scraped the pavement. He knew the countess. He had heard the quaver of fear in her voice.
He ran to the door and raised his hand to knock, then he froze on the door stoop. He had no need to knock. The door was open, ajar. Dargent had been to Stephano’s house many times, and he knew Benoit would not be so careless as to leave the entrance unlocked. Dargent drew his pistol. Cocking the hammer, he gave the door a shove.
He entered slowly and cautiously. He looked behind the door, saw no one there.
“Benoit?” he called.
No answer.
Dargent went to the kitchen, where he knew Benoit liked to reside, and found a scene of destruction. Cabinet doors gaped wide, their contents strewn all over the floor. A marble bust of King Alaric lay smashed on the floor. Sacks of flour had been slit open and dumped out. Barrels were split apart and chairs upended.
Dargent hastened through the kitchen to look out the rear door, but found no one there. He returned through the kitchen and went across the hall to Benoit’s room. The bed had been overturned, clothes pulled out of the wardrobe. Still holding the pistol, Dargent made his way stealthily up the stairs. He was fairly certain the searchers had completed their work and were gone, but he was not taking any chances.
The searchers had been thorough; he had to give them credit for that. They had taken the paintings from the wall to look behind them. They had broken into locked chests, removed papers and letters from the bureau. They had even gone through all the books, taking them down from the shelves, flipping through the leaves, and throwing them down on the floor when they were finished.
Now certain that he was alone, Dargent lowered his pistol and released the hammer. He wondered what the searchers had been looking for, wondered if they had found it.
Shaking his head, he called out again, “Benoit! Are you here? It’s Dargent! The countess sent me!”
There was always a chance the old man might be hiding in a closet, but, again, no answer. Dargent had not truly expected one. He went back into the kitchen and knelt down to examine the splatters he’d seen on the floor. He dipped his fingers in them.