But the first face I see isn’t that of a man in search of comfort. It’s the face of a child, one I know well.
“Timothy, what are you doing here?”
Timothy, a small boy of about eight, stares back at me with frightened eyes. He jumps slightly at the sound of a man loudly cursing. “Cordon said he’d try to find some leftovers for us.”
Last month Timothy’s father, a soldier, was recalled to Allegria, Galandria’s capital, amid fears that war with Kyrenica was imminent. Most days his family doesn’t have near enough to eat.
“All right. Stick near the wall and stay quiet.” I raise my voice in case anyone’s listening. “And if someone gives you any trouble, I want you to yell for me or Cordon.”
Sylvia waves me over. She is taking orders from a table of men who look as though they’ve had more than their fair share of ale. One of them smacks her on the rump. Sylvia’s eyes narrow and her lips thin, but she says nothing. Like everyone else in Tulan, she barely makes ends meet and can’t afford to lose customers, no matter how ill-mannered they are.
“Back again, sweetheart?” says a scruffy, unshaven man with oily blond hair, a Draughts regular. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” His arm slithers around my waist. “Care for a friend tonight?”
I pull out my dagger and point it at him. “I’ve got enough friends, thanks.”
That shuts him up and he turns away cursing. Sylvia bites back a smile and points to a table where Mister Ogden sits. “He happened upon a winning streak for once. Good luck bringing him home.”
Mister Ogden is short and squat with a nose the size of a pimply squash, which is flushed beet red. Even from here I can see the shiny gold worthings stacked near his elbows as he examines his cards.
“Are you all right?” Sylvia continues. “You look a bit pale.”
I hesitate before answering, mindful others are within earshot. I’m almost certain someone was following me, but I don’t want anyone in this tavern thinking I’m a scared little girl.
I turn and stare at the tavern entrance, as though I’m expecting a ghastly villain to appear. Instead, the door opens and Mister Travers, Tulan’s schoolteacher, steps inside.
I exhale.
“I’m fine,” I tell Sylvia. “I’m just hungry. We’ve run out of most of the supplies we stored for the winter, so we’ve been saving our food for Mister Blackwell’s visit tonight.” What I don’t say is that Mistress’s idea of “saving food” means forcing me to go hungry while she, Serena, and Mister Ogden eat smaller meals.
Sylvia nods and tells me that Cordon is in the kitchen if I want to see him, then leaves to deliver more ale. I decide I’ll wait to approach Mister Ogden until he’s lost most of his worthings, which shouldn’t take long, and head for the kitchen. On the way I pass two men slumped over mugs of ale, whispering.
“But do you suppose the rumors of the Masked Princess are true?” The man’s eyes dart around, as though he expects the king’s men to appear and pounce on him for the very thought.
“Which ones?” asks his companion. He hiccups and adds, “Took the wife to see the Masked Princess wave from her balcony last year. You ask me, she looked like nothing more than a rich brat.”
Inside the kitchen, Cordon is filling a basket with stale bread and mushy apples. He smiles when he sees me. His eyes are as gray as the sky outside, and his unruly blond hair hangs in his face.
“Figured I’d see you in here sooner or later,” he says as he finishes up with the basket and moves on to stir a pot of bubbling stew. “I already tried to tell Mister Ogden to go home, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Thank you,” I say, stepping closer. The warmth of the hearth is a relief after walking in the rain, and the smell of the stew makes me lightheaded.
“Serena asked me to talk to him. Convince him to cut back on the ale.”
“How nice of her,” I say curtly, although I can’t remember when Serena and Cordon could have had that conversation. Serena is never required to bring her father home, as Mistress Ogden feels that the Draughts is too rough a place for her.
Cordon shoots me a wary look and changes the subject, “How did the cake turn out?”
“Crispy,” I answer. “Mistress tossed it out.”
“I told you I should have helped. I’m a much better cook than you are.” He gives me a sly grin and I smile in return, cheered for the first time all day.
“All right,” I say, laughing. “Next time you’re in charge of convincing Mistress not to toss me out.”
Cordon stops smiling. He looks down and begins stirring the stew with fast, efficient strokes. An awkward silence falls between us and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Ever since he came of age things have been strained between us, and I wonder if he remembers our childhood promise.
“Maybe you should talk to Serena,” he says finally.
“Serena?” I repeat, surprised. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Maybe you can work out a different arrangement with the Ogdens,” he says. “Serena would help you; I’m sure of it.”
“I doubt Her Royal Highness could be bothered to lift one lazy finger on my behalf.”
“She’s not lazy,” Cordon says, frowning. “She’s just used to being waited on. And she’s good with her mother. You should talk to her.”
“Right. And since when do you make it your business to know what Serena’s good at?”
“Don’t be unkind. She’s changed. Serena’s not the girl she once was. She’s grown softer, kinder.”
I stifle a snort. The thought of Serena being a kindhearted girl is laughable. Serena is the kind of girl who once threatened to tell Mistress I hit her if I didn’t stand under a beehive. She wanted to see how long it would take for one to sting me. (Two hours, as it turned out.)
Of course, that was before I toughened up. Before I started studying Mistress and the way she persuaded others to do her bidding. Once I learned the delicate art of manipulation, I found I could convince Serena to do whatever I wanted.
Do you know, Serena, I heard a woman talking in town, and she said that standing in a swamp will give you fairer skin? It must be true because she was beautiful. . . .
“Serena cares for you in her own, complicated way,” Cordon continues.
“There’s nothing complicated about being a spoiled brat,” I say.
His features darken and he picks up the basket. “I need to give this to Timothy,” he says stiffly. “Can you look after the stew?”
He brushes past me, and I’m left wondering why my words angered him.
Just then the door opens behind me, and a shadow casts across the wall. Hot breath brushes my neck and gooseflesh pimples my arms. It must be the oily-haired man, coming to see if I’ve reconsidered his offer of “friendship.” As I reach for my dagger, a hand grabs my shoulder. I give a shout and whirl around and my dagger nearly slices Mister Travers’s arm.
“I’m so sorry, Mister Travers,” I say, sighing with relief as I slide the dagger back into my pocket.
Mister Travers moved to Tulan a month ago and is the best teacher I’ve ever had. I’ve always enjoyed school be-cause it is the one place I can escape Mistress. Yet she always seemed to find reasons for me to stay home to cook and clean, saying it was useless to waste an education on me. In the past my schoolteachers, charmed by Mistress, always overlooked my absences. But Mister Travers makes it a point to visit Ogden Manor every time I miss, which irritates her to no end. Thanks to him, now I hardly ever miss school.