Chapter 3 – The Flower of the Andelin #6
“Please excuse me,” he said, dipping his head again and snatching up the hamper.
He had been looking forward to this meeting.
The inspiration had burst upon him a few days before, a solution to the problem he had been turning over in his mind ever since Remin had come to him about Ophele’s education.
There was no such thing as a useless person.
Juste’s delight had always been in finding their best use, like slotting a perfect piece into the machine of the world.
And all it had taken was a few words from Sousten Didion to make this solution strike him like a bolt of lightning.
“My lord, my lady,” Juste said as he entered the solar. “Wen sends his compliments and hopes you will enjoy your meal. My lady, there is a pudding for you in particular.”
“Thank you for fetching it.” Remin rose, digging into the hamper to distribute its contents. It was not the place of a lord to serve food to his guests, but Juste was beginning to despair of ever making Remin a lord in the mode of the empire.
He would be content with shaping the lady instead.
“I have been considering Her Grace for much of the last week,” he said when the meal was over and Ophele was serving tea.
Her eyes lifted, instantly anxious, and Juste could imagine exactly what was going through her head: she would assume this was a test and she had failed it, and her greatest fear was failing Remin.
Justenin had learned the most potent lever that moved this lady.
“On all subjects,” he clarified. “And I believe it is prudent that we accept now that absent many years of training, she is unlikely to ever become a Rose of Segoile.”
The lamplight glowed on Ophele’s face, illuminating the swift hurt in her eyes, though he only had an instant to glimpse it.
The lady was very, very good at concealing herself.
Juste observed it as it happened, a…shrinking, a withdrawal, a subtle alteration in her posture that made him feel as if she might disappear altogether the moment he took his eyes from her.
And especially when she was seated beside the Duke of Andelin, who couldn’t hide the enormous force of his presence if he tried.
Perfect.
“Explain,” said His Grace, his mouth tightening in a hard line of displeasure.
“It is not merely a question of learning manners and conventions,” said Juste.
“A Rose of Segoile has presence. Some women naturally have that vitality, that commanding air, while others must learn it. In four months, Her Grace may learn graceful speech, and may even learn to offer it at an audible volume. But the confident bearing of a Rose of Segoile, much less the ready wit and sharp tongue of a lioness like Lady Verr—no. Not if we had ten years.”
“Ready wit?” Remin echoed, his face darkening. “There are none that could match—”
“There is a difference between quick wit and intelligence, my lord,” Justenin interrupted. It was time to put Ophele out of her misery. “My lady,” he said, shifting his attention to her. “Has anyone assisted you with your lessons?”
She shook her head, mute and unhappy.
“And you had no instruction at Aldeburke at all?”
“No.”
“Your Grace, you are very…very intelligent,” Justenin informed her.
“You may even be a genius. I don’t think there is anything you could not learn, and more quickly than anyone else I have ever met or heard of.
In a few months, in mathematics in particular, you will exceed my own abilities.
You might have been wanting teachers all your life, but the masters of the Tower would tear out their beards if they knew there was such a student. ”
And in the silence that followed, it was obvious that she had no idea what that meant.
Remin did. The anger faded from his face and left only a mingling of pride and sorrow as he met Juste’s eyes, because this was exactly the problem.
Some opportunities, once lost, could never come again.
If Ophele had been raised properly, she might have been a terror of society, perhaps capable of overturning it altogether if she wanted.
But she was never going to be what she could have been.
“That’s…good,” she said, looking uncertainly between the two men. “But if I can learn anything, why can’t I learn—”
“Something altogether different,” Juste said firmly.
“It would be convenient if you could be molded into a fashionable lady of society, but we would be foolish to waste time pursuing it at the expense of other talents. None of us have ever aspired to be creatures of the capital; why should we expect it of you? No. We will embrace it.”
It was rare for Juste to speak with such fervor, but this prospect filled him with excitement.
“Let the Roses flaunt their thorns.” He leaned forward, his pale eyes glinting. “You will conceal yours. What is it that Master Didion keeps calling you? The Flower of the Andelin.”
He lingered over the words. Maybe this was how his own urge to create expressed itself, in the shaping of human beings into useful tools, and the duchess was exactly the sort of subtle weapon that appealed to his nature.
“But—I haven’t any thorns,” Ophele said, though the sudden blaze of color in her cheeks betrayed her excitement.
“You do,” Juste said firmly. “You watch, you listen, you remember, and you think thoroughly about what you see. It will be more difficult for you in Segoile. There will be many distractions. But we are not going to teach you merely to engage in frivolous conversation. You will learn to direct conversation, gather useful information, and deflect attention away from yourself.”
“You can do that,” Remin said, looking down at her with approval. “Stars, wife, you do that to me all the time.”
“Not so much anymore,” she said apologetically.
“No,” he agreed, his hand covering hers.
“It means you will need to learn to think more strategically, my lady,” Juste continued. “Much of the work of the Roses of Segoile is in building alliances. Has Lady Verr begun to explain this art to you?”
“I don’t…think so,” she said slowly.
“She will begin tomorrow. That will be difficult for you,” he acknowledged.
“It takes a certain shamelessness, and many of the skills of society you lack. But we can use that, too. It is known that you are the Exile Princess. A secret princess. Segoile has no mercy for those that transgress its codes, but we will make it part of your mystique. They will come to you because of it.”
“You mean you want to make a show of me,” she replied, a little sadly. “And lower their expectations.”
“Yes. We will see who comes, and you will listen to everything they have to say. You will encourage them to speak,” he said pointedly. “Ask questions. Let them talk all they like.”
“I can do that.” She looked up at Remin. “That would help, wouldn’t it?”
“I hope you will not be disappointed if you never have the chance,” he told her. “I don’t mean to linger in the city, if we can avoid it. But if we must, I like this course better. It would please me to cultivate our own breed of women in the valley.”
“We are only telling the truth,” Juste said, appreciating every nuance of this plan.
It was also a slap in the face to the folk of the capital, but few would have the wit to see it.
“You are the unworldly princess who has never seen a city. A lady who grew up a prisoner, and has never spoken to more than a dozen people in her life. That is what they really want to see. The lady with no thorns at all.”
It was perfect. It matched every story they would be telling about her, the songs they would soon be singing, the narrative he was painstakingly building. The debut of the Duchess of Andelin would be a beautiful and subtle trap.
Justenin was eager to begin this work.
“Please, my lady,” he concluded, with a small smile. “I beg you: look harmless.”
* * *
There were a number of unsettling people in Tresingale. Until this morning, Mionet had never counted Sir Justenin among them.
He looked unassuming, seated at the rough table in the solar and quietly discussing some problem of geometry with Duchess Andelin. Blond, lean, and bespectacled, the only evidence of his violent trade was the scar that bisected his right eyebrow, seemingly contradicted by his soft, gentle voice.
But when he cast his pale eyes in Mionet’s direction, it sent a shiver up her spine.
“Today I will be your pupil as well, my lady,” he said, once the duchess had set her books aside. “We are adjusting Her Grace’s education somewhat. I believe a more strategic approach will be beneficial.”
“Is that so?” Mionet asked politely, though she did not expect any useful reply. Nothing beyond the barest essentials had been provided to her, though she had managed to deduce a great deal, between Duchess Andelin’s shamefaced confession and her many nervous habits.
It was an incident with the maids that had really told Mionet everything she needed to know. A single moment months before when Peri had dropped a hairpin, reached quickly to catch it, and Duchess Andelin had…well, frankly, she had cowered. Fortunately, Peri had not noticed.
But Mionet had.
That was a weakness. That was a potent weapon, for a subtle woman.
But it was best to minimize such incidents, at present; it was bad for the servants to know such a thing about their mistress, and Duchess Andelin would never be amenable to Mionet’s overtures if she was constantly anxious and fearful.
All it had taken was Mionet instructing the maids to look less like maids, and the duchess had relaxed as if by magic.
There was a great deal of information to be gleaned from that.