If Daja hadn’t been so overwhelmed herself, the sight of Tris mincing her way through such elegance like an offended cat might have given her a bad case of the giggles. Tris had never liked a display of wealth, Daja remembered now. She approved of spending money only on books and the tools with which to work magic.
That first evening at supper, watching Tris handle her gilded cutlery as if it were red-hot, Briar said abruptly, “Why’d you ask for a room all the way at the top of the house? Some poor girl has to go climbing up all those stairs to get you to come down and eat. If you were on the same floor as Sandry and Daja, or on the ground floor with me—”
Tris glared at him. “I like it higher up, if it’s all the same,” she said flatly. Then she charged the subject. “Sandry, I thought your cousin, Lord—Saghad—Ambros was going to be here to meet you. To start showing you around your holdings and so forth.”
Sandry looked up from the note she was reading. “He was, but this says there was a minor emergency on the estate that he had to attend to. He says he’ll be back soon, and apologizes that things aren’t in better order. I have a reprieve from the account books.”
Briar snorted. “What’s his notion of ‘better order’—perfection? This place is spotless.” He eyed his sorrel and spinach soup. “Now, here’s an odd combination of plants.”
“I warned you about Namornese cooking,” Daja said. “It takes getting used to, but I love it.”
“Anyway, didn’t you tell the Traders you actually drank tea with yak butter in Gyongxe?” asked Tris, trying the soup. “I wouldn’t talk about odd food, if I were you.”
“It was really cold, and the fat helped,” Briar said. He tried the soup, frowned, and tried another spoonful. When the maid was finally able to take his bowl, it was empty. She leaned over a little farther than necessary to remove the spoon he had used, earning herself a grin and a wink from Briar.
“Don’t you start,” Sandry told him when the maid had left the room. “I don’t want you bothering the servants here.”
“I already talked to the housekeeper,” murmured Tris.
“I don’t bother them,” Briar said lazily, his eyes glinting through his lashes. “But if they appreciate my attention, I’m hardly going to hurt their feelings.”
“Did you used to be this way?” demanded Sandry, glaring at him. “I don’t remember you being this way.”
“They say you travel to gain experience,” Briar said, and yawned. “That’s what I did.”
Daja was relieved when a footman brought in a plate of trout cooked in wine and began to serve it. It feels so strange to be talking about experience—sex—with them, she realized. I don’t see why Briar keeps plunging in. I tried the kissing, and the petting, that time in Gansar, and that other time in Anderran. It just felt ... awkward. That one boy smelled of sweat, and the other one had chapped lips. But Briar likes it. Lark and Rosethorn like it. Frostpine likes it. I wonder if Tris ...
She sneaked a look at Tris. The redhead had a book in her lap and was reading it between bites.
Perhaps not, with Tris, Daja thought. You’d have to get her attention first, and she’d probably hit you with a book. She looked up and met Sandry’s dancing blue eyes. Sandry had noticed that Tris was reading at the table, too.
Daja grinned. At least some things are still familiar, she thought. And at least Sandry is still Sandry, whether she lives in a marble pile or no.
They spent the next day apart, indulging in their own interests and business. While they had been able to get away from each other within the confines of the caravan, they had still been kept to the company of their fellow travelers. For Tris and Briar, accustomed to long hours of solitude, it had been something of a trial. Daja, used to working with those who shared her forge, and Sandry, surrounded by her uncle’s staff and household, still welcomed the chance to brace themselves for their presentation at court.
All of them explored the open parts of the rambling house, its gardens, and some of the High Street shops that lay beyond its gates. Briar went as far up the hill as the beginning of the palace walls before he ambled back to Landreg House in time for lunch. In the breezes that flicked over the Landreg walls Tris caught a glimpse of him as he inspected both the vines adorning the walls of some of the other noble town houses and the faces and figures of the women he passed.
Tris frowned and closed her eyes until that puff of air had blown past her. She had requested an upper room of the house to get glimpses of the city, maybe even of activity on the Syth, not of Briar doing the things that Briar normally did these days.
“And that goes double for him smuggling a girl into his room last night,” she told Chime, who sat on the balcony rail beside Tris, grooming a rear paw with her tongue. “Do you know what the housekeeper told me? She said her girls are careful about baby-making, and none of them are fool enough to fall in love with a mage. I hope she’s still so even-minded about it by the time we leave!”
Chime looked up at Tris, making an anxious clink. Tris sighed. “Oh, I know he plays fair and doesn’t promise anything he doesn’t mean. Rosethorn would have made sure of that. I just wish it was more to him than, just, just play. It ought to mean more, don’t you think?”
When Chime did not answer, Tris looked at her and smiled reluctantly. “You haven’t the least idea of what I mean, have you? And silly me, for asking you such questions!” She picked up Chime and turned to stare into the wind from the Syth again. The empress and her court were out riding on a beach to the northwest—the wind carried her images of Berenene’s unforgettable, laughing face and those of her courtiers: Quenaill the mage, the angry huntsman of a day ago, a buxom young woman with glossy brown ringlets, a blond man with eyes like turquoises, and other men and women in their twenties and early thirties, attractive and vivacious. They rode well, managing their horses in hard sand and soft, laughing silently and chattering. Any shreds of talk came too far behind the images for Tris to bother with.
They’re as pretty as a flower bed, she thought, running her fingers over Chime’s wings. I don’t belong with people like that. I don’t belong in a house like this. How can I do any good for His Grace here? I’m just a merchant’s daughter in clothes my rich friend made for me. I doubt it will come to lightning and cyclones with this crowd—more like powder puffs at fifty paces. What possible danger can they offer that I could protect her from?
She turned abruptly and took Chime inside.
Sometime after midnight Briar roused to the sound of horses arriving in the courtyard behind the stable. Curious, and hungry, he pulled breeches on over his nightshirt and went to the kitchen. Sure enough the cook Wenoura was there, a robe over her own nightdress, setting a teapot to boil. She was on good terms with Briar already: He always made an effort to get to know the cook. Without hesitation she ordered him to put out glasses and saucers, since he knew where they were, and take down three plates from a cupboard. Briar obeyed as she bustled around the huge kitchen, producing a slab of cheese, a pot of preserves, a loaf of dark bread, and a ham.