“I fear it,” Erren said. Her tone held no uncertainty.
Muriele crossed the room. “Then take whatever precautions you deem necessary, especially with the children,” she said. “Is that all you can tell me now?”
“Yes.”
“Then light some of the candles and send for mulled wine. The passages are chilly today.”
“We could ascend to your sunroom. The sun is warm outside.”
“I prefer to remain here, for the moment.”
“As it pleases you.”
Erren went into the antechamber, whispered to the serving girl there, and returned with a burning taper. Its light was kind to her face, painting away the years better than blush. She looked almost like a girl, her features delicate beneath the dark, straight hair. Only a few streaks of silver gave it the lie.
She lit the taper near the writing desk, and as the light in the room doubled, crow’s feet appeared, spindling out from her eyes, and other lines of age reluctantly revealed themselves, beneath her chin, in the skin of her neck and forehead.
A corner of Muriele’s room appeared, as well. The portrait of her father, on the wall, his eyes stern yet kind, flecked with gilt by the painter, not nearly as warm as they were in person.
Erren lit a third candle, and a red couch appeared from shadow, a table, a sewing kit, the corner of Muriele’s bed— not the one she shared with the king, that was in their marriage room—but her bed, cut from the white cedar of the Lierish uplands and canopied with black cloth and silver stars, the bed of her childhood, where she had slipped each night into dream.
The fourth candle chased all of the shadows under things, where they belonged.
“How old are you, Erren?” Muriele asked. “Exactly?”
Erren cocked her head. “How nice of you to ask. Will you ask how many children I have, as well?”
“I’ve known you since you left the coven. I was eight. How old were you?”
“Twenty. Now do your sums.”
“I’m thirty-eight,” Muriele replied. “That makes you fifty.”
“Fifty it is,” Erren replied.
“You don’t look it.”
Erren shrugged. “Age has less to hold over one if one is never a great beauty to begin with.”
Muriele frowned. “I never considered you plain.”
“You are a poor authority in such matters. You often claim not to know you are beautiful, and yet your beauty has been famous since you were thirteen. How can one be surrounded by such admiration and not succumb?”
Muriele smiled wryly. “One cannot, as I’m sure you know, cousin. One can, however, cultivate the appearance of modesty. If the appearance is kept up long enough, who knows but that it might one day become true? And here age helps, for as you say, passing time steals beauty, and when one is sufficiently old, false modesty must become real modesty.”
“Excuse me, Majesty, Lady Erren,” a small voice said from the curtained doorway. It was Unna, her maid, a petite girl with honey-mud hair. “Your wine?”
“Bring it in, Unna.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
The girl placed the pitcher in the center of a small table, and a cup on either side. The scents of orange blossom and clove rose in steam.
“How old are you, Unna?” Muriele asked.
“Eleven, Your Majesty.”
“A sweet age. Even my Anne was sweet at that age, in her way.”
The maid bowed.
“You may go, Unna.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
Erren poured some wine and tasted it. After a moment she nodded and poured some for Muriele.
“What is all of this about age?” Erren asked. “Have you been watching your husband and his mistresses again? I should never have shown you the passages to his room.”
“I have never done such!”
“I have. Poor puffing, panting, pungent man. He cannot keep pace with the young Alis Berrye at all.”
Muriele covered her ears. “I do not hear this!”
“And to make matters worse, Lady Gramme has begun to complain about his attentions to Alis.”
Muriele dropped her hands. “What! The old whore complaining about the new one?”
“What do you expect?” Erren asked.
Muriele exhaled a shallow laugh. “My poor, philandering William. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Do you suppose I should start my own fuss again? About Gramme’s bastards?”
“It might make things more interesting. Alis wears his body thin, Lady Gramme chews his ears off, and you do away with what remains. It shouldn’t be difficult.”
Muriele shrugged. “I could task him. But he seems … For a moment, watching him in the Hall of Doves today, I thought he might collapse. He looked more than weary, he looked as if he had seen death’s shadow. And if a war really is coming with Hansa … No. Better I be the one that he can count on.”
“You’ve always been that,” Erren pointed out. “Ambria Gramme wants to be queen, and is spectacularly unsuited for it. Alis and the lesser young ones are hoping for a … shall we say, pensioned? … position such as Gramme enjoys. But you—you are queen. You aren’t maneuvering for anything.”
Muriele felt the humor rush from her face. She looked down at her wine, at the light of the nearest candle wriggling in it like a fish.
“Would it were true,” she murmured. “But I do want something of him, the bastard.”
“Love?” Erren scoffed. “At your age?”
“We had it once. Not when we married, no, but later. There was a time when we were madly in love, don’t you think?”
Erren nodded reluctantly. “He still loves you,” she admitted.
“More than he loves Gramme, you think?”
“More deeply.”
“But less carnally.”
“I think he feels guilty when he comes to you, and so does so less often.”
Muriele plucked a small smile from somewhere. “I mean for him to feel guilty.”
Erren arched her eyebrows. “Have you ever thought of taking a lover?”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
Erren rolled her eyes. “Please. Don’t insult me again. You have already made note of my advanced age. That’s quite enough for one night.”
“Oh, very well. Yes, I have considered it. I consider it still.”
“But will not do it.”
“Considering, I think, is more fun than doing, in such cases.”
Erren took a sip of wine and leaned forward. “Who have you considered? Tell me. The young baron from Breu-n’Avele?”
“No. Enough of that,” Muriele said, her cheeks warming. “You tell me. What mischief did my daughters find today?”
Erren sighed and squared her shoulders. “Fastia was a perfect princess. Elseny giggled a lot with her maids, and they made some rather improbable speculation as to what her wedding night will be like.”
“Oh, dear. It’s time to talk to her, I suppose.”
“Fastia can do that.”
“Fastia does too much of what I ought to do already. What
else? Anne?” “We … lost Anne again.”
“Of course. What do you think she’s up to? Is it a man?”
“A month ago, no. She was just sneaking off, as usual. Riding, getting drunk. Now, I’m not so sure. I think she may have met someone.”
“I must speak to her, too, then.” She sighed. “I should not have let things go this far. She will have a difficult time, when she is married.”
“She need not marry,” Erren said softly. “She is the youngest. You might send her to Sister Secula, at least for a few years. Soon, your house will need a new …” She trailed off.
“A new you? Do you plan to die?”
“No. But in a few years, my more … difficult tasks will be beyond me.”
“But Anne, an assassin?”
“She already has many of the talents. After all, she can elude me. Even if she never takes the vow, the skills are always useful. The discipline will do her good, and Sister Secula will keep her well away from young men, of that I can assure you.”