For the rest of the morning, Emriana remained somber and quiet, conversing little with Jaleene. She dutifully got ready for her visit, bathing and dressing without any fuss at all. Once she was finished in her rooms, she gave her handmaiden one quick hug and a meaningful look, then went downstairs to meet with her grandmother.
Hetta Matrell was seated at the head of the same large table where the heated debate had raged the night before. When she saw her granddaughter enter, she dabbed at her napkin and gave Emriana a warm smile, then patted at the place setting next to her. Emriana came to her grandmother and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then sat down. Instantly, one of the serving women came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of eggs, scrambled and mixed with cheese and a sauce made of lemon and wine. The serving woman scooped a spoonful of the eggs onto Emriana's plate while another platter arrived with a baked fish stuffed with sausages and potatoes. Then came a fresh loaf of crusty bread already torn into chunks, and jars of apple butter, fruit compote, and even fresh cream so chilled and thick it literally mounded onto the hunk of bread that Emriana grabbed. A goblet of freshly chilled fruit juice mixed with just a hint of wine was set beside her, and another pair of hands slipped her napkin into her lap.
Once her plate was piled high with food and Emriana began to eat, her grandmother cleared her throat.
"Sweetheart, I want to discuss last night."
The girl stifled a groan around a hearty swig of the spiced juice and avoided rolling her eyes. She knew it was coming, and in many ways, it was worse hearing about it from her grandmother, whom she loved dearly, than from Uncle Dregaul, whom she didn't mind annoying in the least.
"All right," Emriana said at last, trying to put on a happy smile for her grandmother's sake.
"Oh, don't pretend you want to do this," Hetta said, chuckling. "I know you better than that, my dear."
It was true. Hetta had a way about her, an ability to read people and know exactly what they were thinking or planning, and precisely how they were likely to react in any given situation. It was how she and her husband, the first Obiron, had been so successful in business. Even though he had been the spokesperson during their business negotiations, it had been Hetta who had the shrewd business acumen and always advised the right course of action.
"I'm sorry, Grandma, but I'm not a little girl anymore. It's time to let me out of my cage, and Uncle Dregaul just doesn't seem to see that."
"You're absolutely right, Em. You're not a little girl anymore, and it is time you were able to make more of your own decisions. But child, getting caught sneaking out at night is not the way to prove that." It was funny to Emriana how her grandmother could tell her she was all grown up and still call her "child" in the same sentence. Somehow, it didn't sound wrong, either. "If you want Dregaul to respect your opinions and your adulthood, then you must first show him that you are capable of being smart, of making good decisions."
Emriana sighed.
"I know," she said quietly, "but I'm not so sure he has any better an idea of what's best for me than I do. He's always thinking about what's best for the family, and not the family members. I can't be someone I'm not, Grandma."
"Em, do you remember your Aunt Xaphira?"
The girl nodded and said, "A little bit."
"Your Aunt Xaphira was my youngest daughter. She was also the scamp in the family, and she drove everyone, your grandfather most of all, absolutely crazy."
"Why?"
"Because she was just like you. She wouldn't be tied down, wouldn't be sensible, like Obiron or even her older brothers wanted her to be. She had initiative, and ambition, and she went off and joined the Order of the Sapphire Crescent rather than allow the family to dictate what she did with her life."
"I understand," Emriana said. "I'll try to behave better."
"You're not listening to me, child," Hetta said, leaning in close. "Xaphira was, in some ways, the child I was closest to. I saw a lot of myself in her, just as I see a lot of her in you. You share that same spirit. Your future is not a game. I expect larger things from you, you know that."
Emriana actually blushed.
"Thank you, Grandma," she said. "What happened to Aunt Xaphira? No one ever talks about her."
"There was an accident," Hetta said softly, leaning in close to Emriana. "A man was killed, a very powerful man."
"Killed? What happened?"
Hetta sighed, obviously pained by recalling the memories of her revelation.
Her voice even lower, she said, "It's not really my tale to tell, child. Until the person involved is ready, I think it best that you keep this to yourself. But my point is, the blame on our family would have been a terrible tragedy that would have affected the whole household. Your aunt sacrificed herself to make sure that didn't come to pass. She did something selfless so that House Matrell would remain unscathed.
"Do not ever mention this again, though. It's a tale that must never come to light in front of the wrong people, for it could still cause problems, even today. Keep it to yourself, and eventually, you'll hear the whole of it."
Emriana nodded, the sense of conspiracy genuinely frightening her. She was beginning to think that growing up wasn't just about getting to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Turning sixteen suddenly didn't seem quite as perfect and carefree as she'd once thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
Grozier Talricci did not look pleased when Bartimus arrived in his employer's study. Two others were there, each of them looking equally grim. Junce Roundface was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, a goblet of something chilled in his hand, his feet sprawled out in front of him, the heel of one boot resting atop the toe of the other. The Grozier's spy was staring down into the goblet in front of him, tracing his fingers through the beads of condensation forming on its outer surface.
The other man, Bartimus did not know so well. The wizard had only seen him once before, a priest of Waukeen. He stood in one corner of the study, staring out through the latticework of a vine-covered trellis that shaded the arched window from the mid-morning sun beyond. He had his arms folded across his chest, resting on his ample stomach, and he was drumming his fingers, each of which was adorned with a gaudy ring replete with gems of every hue.
Bartimus waited by the door, unwilling to break the silence that hung so thickly in the air. Grozier had sent for him, though the wizard did not know why. He began to worry that the anger in the room was going to be directed at him, and the longer he could stave that unpleasantness off, the better. So he leaned against the side of the arched doorway and waited.
"I would have thought that eliminating the evidence would have dissuaded him from pursuing this any further," Grozier said, moving to sit on the corner of his desk. "I would think that a mercenary officer, or better yet, a young merchant scion, would have better things to do with his time. You're certain you picked up on his intentions correctly?"
"My divination functioned as it should have," the priest said, turning away from the window and looking directly at Grozier. "He was angry and determined to keep digging when he left the station house. But you underestimate his priorities. He has no duties, no responsibilities, in his house. He receives a monthly stipend to live on and spends his time wenching and fighting, like all men his age and in his circumstances do."
"Then why doesn't he go wench and fight," Grozier demanded, "instead of chasing ghosts that are better off left to drift away to nothingness?"
"In a way, this is his fight," the other merchant said. "He's made it his."
"Huh," Grozier grunted, seemingly unsatisfied with that answer.
"What he needs," Junce said, not moving nor looking up at either of the other two participants in the conversation, "Is a distraction. Something else to keep him busy."