CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ART OF GOSSIP
I don’t have to fake my shivers as I knock on the front door of the Vale manor. I’m dressed plainly in a gray dress and overdress made of thin, scratchy wool; patchy cloak with a frayed hem; tattered scarf; and a pair of worn leather gloves.
It’s too cold for so few layers, but I convincingly look the part of a servant girl who can’t afford anything warmer.
Kaidren is currently at Widow’s Hall, entertaining Petruvian guests with Luc. No idea how long it’ll take, but I don’t plan on staying for more than an hour.
A woman opens the door. Her face is pinched in irritation, but it softens when she sees my trembling figure. “Stars in hell, girl. Come in, come in.” She shuffles me inside without a second thought.
I stumble over the threshold with a nervous smile. “I’m so sorry to intrude, ma’am.”
“You’re not intruding, dear. The lord of the house won’t know, and his son is out. Give me your cloak. It’s drenched.”
Now that I’m inside, the snow that gathered on my cloak is melting, soaking through to my skin.
It’s a relief to peel it off. I take care to twist my wrist as I remove my gloves, so there’s no way to miss my golden sun tattoo.
Most days, it causes me less trouble to hide it.
Today, I want her to know: I’m not just a poor servant.
I’m Opheran. Infinitely more pitiable, and infinitely more trustworthy.
I’m in need of gossip. No one in Widow’s Hall seems to know anything about Kaidren, so I’m seeking it from the source. Who better for the Vale servants to gossip with than one of their own?
The woman sucks her teeth when she sees my tattoo but doesn’t comment. “My name’s Frida, dear. I’m the head housekeeper. What brings you here in this weather?”
I take a heavy breath and with my exhale release the story I’ve formulated.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m a new cook for Honorate Ruick.
He made a request for dinner, but we don’t have all the ingredients and he hasn’t given me money to buy anything, so I’ve been asking around and everyone’s turning me away, and I fear he’s going to fire me—”
“Slow down, and calm down.” Frida puts her hands on my shoulders in a soothing gesture. “No one’s getting fired. Tell me what you need, and I’ll see if we have any to spare.”
“Leek leaves.”
“Is that all?” Frida smiles kindly. “I’m sure we’ve got some. Let me ask the cook. In the meantime, why don’t you rest up in the sitting room, dear? We’ve got a fireplace. You walked all the way here from the Ruicks’?”
Honorate homes are all above the Collar. They’re near enough to each other and Widow’s Hall by sledge, but on foot, a trek from the Ruick manor to here would be torture. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You must be freezing.” She leads me into the Vales’ sitting room. “Take a seat. I’ll fetch some tea to warm you up.” She motions for me to sit before the fireplace and scurries off.
The sitting room is curved into a half circle, with the fireplace on the rounded side. Oddly shaped rooms are common in Virdeian manors. They’re built into the mountain, so they’re often constructed to accommodate the mountain’s whims rather than their owners’.
A mint-green and silver patterned rug covers the dark wooden floor. The fireplace is wider than my arms can stretch, and as tall as my hips. A few paintings of landscapes hang over the mantle, but not a single portrait of a person or family.
Frida returns, balancing a tray of tea. I fake a shiver and take a cup. I’ve mostly warmed up by now—I wasn’t outside in my thin clothes for as long as I’ve led her to believe—but I need an excuse to stay and keep her talking. “You’re sure your employer won’t mind?”
“I swear. He’s practically dead to the world. Barely left his room in years.”
I blink rapidly, as though coming to a startling revelation. “This is Honorate Vale’s home?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. I’ve heard whispers about him.”
Frida chuckles. “I can imagine. The Vales are the talk of the mountain. Especially now.”
She means because of Kaidren. I try not to appear too eager as I take a sip of tea. Scalding hot, just the way I like it. “You said Mister Vale is bedridden, but are you certain his new son won’t find me here?”
“You don’t have to worry about him. He just left.”
“What’s he like?” I lean toward her, keeping my eyes round, curious, and clueless as a newborn calf.
“He’s kind. Which is rare here. Do you read the Shadow Queen?”
“Her column doesn’t usually make it to Ophera.”
“I thought as much.” Frida nods to my wrist. “He’s like you.”
“He’s Opheran?” I touch a finger to the golden sun. “I hadn’t heard.”
“The Shadow Queen just wrote about it. It caused quite a stir. He doesn’t even have a tattoo.”
“Really?” I shake my head as though awed. “I’ve never met an Opheran over five years old without one. When did Honorate Vale learn he had an Opheran son?”
“Just a few weeks ago,” Frida says.
My stomach ignites as she lies to me for the first time.
Casually, I drink my tea, musing over a way to coax out the truth without accusing her of lying.
I incline my head with a sly flick of my brow, alerting her I’m about to share something shocking. “Don’t tell anyone, but I overheard my employer saying he was surprised Honorate Vale doesn’t have more bastard children.”
Frida laughs. “That’s hardly a secret, dear. Honorate Vale has had many . . . indulgences.”
An understatement. Arliss Vale is one of the few Honorate over the age of forty to never marry. Before he fell ill, he was known for taking many, many women to bed.
I pretend I don’t already know this, pressing my hands to my face as though I’ve been scandalized. “I didn’t realize.” I hush my voice. “Does he have other children?”
“I doubt he would know, even if he did.”
I scrunch my brows together and purse my lips, as if I’m trying to solve a particularly challenging arithmetic problem. “But if his son’s mother is Opheran, how did they meet? I didn’t think the Honorate spent much time with Opherans.”
“She used to work here. She . . . left her employment shortly after Honorate Vale learned he had a son.”
The pause before “left” doesn’t escape my notice. Frida hasn’t said as much, but I’m willing to bet Arliss fired Kaidren’s mother once he learned she had his child.
Just as Mathson fired my mother when he learned about me.
I suppress a scowl and focus instead on the opening Frida has inadvertently given me. “I didn’t realize she worked here so recently.”
Frida looks confused. “What?”
I warm my hands around the teapot. “You mentioned earlier that Mr. Vale only learned he had a son a few weeks ago. I assume that means his mother left employment here only recently as well?”
Frida’s brows draw in as she realizes her mistake.
If my eyes were any wider, they’d roll right out of my head. Innocence. Hopefully, if I chant it in my mind enough times, I’ll make myself look it.
“I misspoke,” Frida says after a long pause. “Honorate Vale first learned he had a son years ago, when the boy was still a child. But Honorate Vale didn’t claim him until last year. After he fell ill.”
“Poor boy,” I say with as much false sympathy as I can manage. “Do you know why?” Kaidren came to Virdei earlier than I thought. I assumed he’d arrived shortly before I first saw him in Widow’s Hall, but apparently, he’s been living with his father in Virdei since last year.
“Honorate Vale is an honorable man,” says Frida. “I have no doubt he was merely doing what he thought best.”
The fever of her lie is so sudden, so unexpected, I accidentally heat the teacup in my hands. Clearly, Frida disapproves of her employer’s actions but doesn’t want to admit it, not even as gossip.
“If she used to work here, you must know her?” I say.
Frida smiles sadly. “I knew her. Zara was a seamstress. She passed away almost eleven years ago. The boy was raised by her sister, Julissa.”
Just a few years before I lost my own mother. Unbidden, I feel my expression soften. “Mr. Vale didn’t send for his son after his mother passed?”
Frida sucks her teeth. When she replies, her words are measured. “As I said, I’m sure Honorate Vale did what he thought best.”
Another lie. She doesn’t like the way her employer handled this but doesn’t want to speak ill of him. I need to tread carefully if I don’t want her to shut down completely. “Honorate Vale seems like such a gracious, benevolent employer.”
Frida’s brow clears with relief. “Yes. He’s a kind—”
Her words are slashed by a piercing shriek down the hall, followed by a crash.
My heart stutters as I leap to my feet. I hardly notice that the sudden motion knocks over the tea tray, spilling it onto the carpet. “What was that?”
Frida is frozen. Her head is swiveled toward the doorway, but she doesn’t reply. I’m not even sure she heard me.
Another shriek—same voice, but louder, more anguished.
Fear clogs my throat and chases my heart into a sprint. My feet carry me racing from the room, around the corner, searching for the source of the crash. I slow when an open door catches my eye in the hall ahead of me.
I pause, just outside, listening. All I hear are harsh, shallow breaths.
Slowly, I step through the open door—
And stop.
I’m in someone’s bedchambers. A maid stands alongside the bed, remnants of a dropped breakfast tray scattered around her feet.
Lying in the bed is a man I know, but hardly recognize.
I last saw Arliss Vale over two years ago, before he was too sick to leave his home. He looks like a completely different person now. Tall and skinny, with yellow-tinted, sagging skin. His once dark hair is faded to white and thinning.
He’s aged decades over the course of just two years. Despite how old and frail he looks, the most concerning aspect of his appearance are his eyes: brown, glassy, and wide open; and his chest: perfectly still.
He’s dead.