50. Kira
Chapter 50
Kira
PLACES NOT EVEN A KING CAN GO
T he worst part of Lady Lenore’s stupid plan is that it worked.
We reached the main road just as the sun was setting on our second day of traveling. The first two carriages we saw didn’t meet whatever invisible criteria Lenore used to judge such things, so we hid in the bushes, holding our breath as the horses snorted past.
The third carriage was the charm. It was black, with gilt trim all around and massive, scarlet wheels. Two riders on black horses escorted the thing, one in front and one behind, and the man on the box seat wore a ridiculous hat that probably meant something important to other people with absurd wealth.
Lenore grabbed my hand and yanked me onto the road. The guard in front of the carriage pulled up short, his horse snorting and pawing the ground, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
Lenore burst into tears. And the rest of the plan fell into place, just like magic.
She’d been kidnapped by bandits, Lenore said. She managed to run from the men who’d abducted her, but now she had no way to get back to her family in Silver City.
It was an absurd story. How would a woman in a full evening gown manage to outrun a bunch of bandits in the woods? And why in the names of the many gods would the bandits also abduct me? Are noble captives worth even more ransom money if they happen to have their own handmaiden?
Not one of the men voiced an exception. Instead, the carriage door opened, and an older couple with rosy cheeks practically ran to embrace her. Lenore was hustled into the plush crimson interior of the coach; the guard riding in the rear even brought out a bottle of wine to help soothe her nerves. I got shoved on the box seat, next to the man in the stupid hat, who spent the entire drive sniffing loudly every time he looked at me.
And now here we are, sitting in the largest estate in Deep’s Crossing, watching the rising sun stream through crystal windows in a room that’s about a million times nicer than the room in the hunting lodge where Reznyk showed me how to find Blackwater.
I shove the last slice of buttered bread into my mouth and try to find it in my heart to be annoyed with Lenore and her plan. But all I can manage is grudging respect. An expensive dress, a lovely smile, and a sad story will, apparently, take you pretty damn far in this world.
An older woman opens the door, gives Lenore a small bow, and brings in a steaming washbasin. She places it on the table beside the mirror and the velvet dress someone brought in with breakfast, then glances at the rumpled pile of blankets on the floor where I slept and frowns. Maybe handmaidens are supposed to fold their own blankets?
The woman clears her throat. “When you’re ready, the Lord and Lady are expecting you, my dear,” she says, with another nod to Lenore. “On your own time, of course. You’ve been through quite the ordeal.”
She gives Lenore a sympathetic smile, yet another little head bob, and then backs out of the door. I grit my teeth.
“What about me?” I mutter under my breath as soon as the door closes.
“Excuse me?” Lenore says.
“You’ve been through quite the ordeal,” I say, mimicking the older woman’s voice. “What about me? Haven’t we both just escaped from kidnappers?”
Lenore stares at me like I’m an idiot. I stare right back.
She’s taller than me, Lady Castinac, and thinner. Her skin is creamy where mine is spotted with freckles, and her features are sharper, like she’s carved out of something harder. Still, the resemblance is impossible to ignore. We have the same curve to our lips, the same arch to our eyebrows, and the same fiery gleam in our hair. It’s on the tip of my tongue, the truth of how we’re related. But Lenore speaks first.
“Servants are powerful,” she says, in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “That’s your strength. There are places not even an elven king can go. But maids? They go everywhere.”
I snort, then cross my arms over my chest.
“Thanks,” I reply, barely suppressing the desire to roll my eyes. “That’s so inspiring. Is that what you tell your own maid?”
Lenore sits down at the table, then turns her back toward me.
“No,” she says. “I tell my own maid to fix my hair.”
I stare at the mess of tangled red curls cascading down her back. There’s a stick caught in that chaos. No, make that two sticks.
I bite back my sigh, cross the room, and pick up the wooden brush on the table. I have a lifetime’s experience pulling sticks and leaves out of children’s hair to make them presentable for dinner with wealthy donors or, even rarer, potential adoptive parents.
I start at the bottom, pulling out debris, brushing out the tangles. As I do, Lenore uses a towel to wash her face with slow, careful deliberation. She’s even paler once the dirt is gone and, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a fading bruise on her upper right cheek. She’s been through a lot, I realize, with a pang in my chest. And she is my sister.
I pause, the hairbrush hovering between us.
“It was a good plan,” I force myself to say.
Lenore’s head bobs in a quick nod. “Thank you,” she replies.
I run the brush through her shimmering curls. Her hair is darker than mine, curlier, and thicker.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You need anything?”
She shakes her head. “No, thank you. That would be taking the handmaiden role a bit too far.”
I shrug. In the mirror, Lenore’s reflection raises a hand to trace the fading bruise on her right cheek.
“Do you have a family?” she asks, abruptly.
The brush freezes as I meet her eyes in the mirror. Blue on blue, both of us. Eyes the color of the winter sky.
“No,” I say, slowly. “I’m an orphan.”
She huffs something under her breath. It almost sounds like lucky .
“Excuse me?” I say.
I pull the brush out of her hair and set it down on the table. Lenore sighs as her fingers trace the fading bruise on her cheek.
“I apologize,” she says. “That was terribly rude.”
“Oh, no,” I snap. “I’m sure it’s awful, being so rich and powerful.”
And beautiful. And having Reznyk’s heart.
“I did apologize,” Lenore says, icily.
For a heartbeat, we both stare at her reflection in the mirror. She’s very beautiful, the woman Reznyk loves.
“I’m sorry too,” I finally say, with a sigh. “But why in the nine hells would you ever think an orphan is lucky?”
She frowns. Something in her expression shifts, like she’s carefully considering her next move.
“My father wanted daughters for one reason,” she says. “So we could marry rich.”
“Oh,” I reply, thinking of Reznyk. He’s many things, but he’s not rich.
Lenore lifts her gaze, until she’s staring at her own reflection like she’s meeting a rival on the battlefield.
“And my new husband knows it,” she says. “I thought life with my father was bad. Life with my husband is worse.”
“Oh,” I say, picking up the hairbrush once more. I swallow hard as I pull the brush through her silky hair.
“It’s quite all right,” Lenore says, turning her face to examine the ghost of the bruise on her cheek. “When I return to Silver City, I’ll make it known that he couldn’t protect his own wife. Not even in his own house.”
There’s a gleam in her eyes that makes me feel cold. I’ve never once felt grateful for my childhood in the orphanage. That would be insane. Still, as I watch Lenore’s reflection, I realize my childhood fantasies about being the long-lost daughter of someone rich and powerful left out a few details. Like arranged marriage and new husbands who leave bruises on your face.
And once she’s out of her horrible marriage and he’s broken free of the Towers, she’ll go back to Reznyk, of course. Who wouldn’t?
“Great,” I say. “Good for you.”
My hands are shaking. I set the brush down and step back. Lenore stands. Her beautiful hair tumbles over her shoulders. I help her into the velvet dress, then stand aside as the woman Reznyk loves walks through the door and into the role she was born to play.