The Queen's Poisoner
Page 40
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“And what do you think, Master Owen?” the king suddenly said at his ear. “Do you want the hall full of fish?”
Owen’s muscles locked up and he felt a coldness shoot through him at being caught off guard. A pit of fear opened up inside him, swallowing everything before it. He could not even stammer a reply. He was powerless to say anything.
The king snorted and then walked away, unsheathing and jamming his dagger as he went.
Owen felt his knees start to buckle and the urge to cry was almost overpowering. Feeling humiliated, he cast his eyes down. Someone approached and he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Duke Horwath looking at him sympathetically. He did not say anything, but his touch was comforting. Then he walked after the king and began speaking to him in a low voice. Owen could not hear their discussion, but he could have sworn he heard the duke say “Tatton Hall” before they were both out of earshot.
Later in the afternoon, Owen was building with his tiles, constructing a tower that was taller than those he usually made. It had tumbled a few times, annoying him, but he continued to work on it. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer lay on her stomach, playing with several pieces of tile and talking about something to which Owen did not pay much mind as he concentrated on the tower. The kitchen bustled pleasantly, and he could smell the delightful fragrance of a pie cooking in the ovens, making his mouth water. Liona made the best crusts he had ever tasted, and he had been tempted more than once to eat the ring of crispy dough without touching the middle part.
“Well?” the Mortimer girl asked again, and Owen glanced over at where she lay looking up at him. He had started calling her the Mortimer girl in his mind because her name was so long.
He was a little annoyed that she now expected a partner in the conversation. She had been doing so well at it by herself. “What?” he asked.
“When we get married, do you want to live in the North or in the West?”
He stared at her in shock. “We’re getting married?”
“Of course we are. I think we should live in the North. I love the snow. There are mountains, Owen, mountains so huge they block out the sun until midday. There is always snow up there. There are canyons and rivers and waterfalls.” She sighed dreamily. “The North is the best place in the world. I would live in the West, if you insisted. But I would be sad.”
“Why are we getting married?”
She set down the tiles. “You have to get married someday, Owen. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I know that, but . . .”
“Everyone has to get married. Even the king got married, all bent as he is. His wife was from the North, you know, and she was lovely. I’m so sad she died. She used to braid my hair. The prince was ten when he died of a fever. That’s only two years older than us. I thought I might marry him someday.” She shook her head. “I like you better.”
“But . . .”
“Really, Owen Kiskaddon, it’s not difficult to answer! The North or the West? You must learn to make decisions. I think we’ll live in the North first, and then the West. That way, you can choose which you like better. I think I’ll always like the North better. But I haven’t lived in the West before.” There was a dreamy look in her strange-colored eyes as she gazed at the tiles spread out on the floor in front of her. In the light, they were looking greener. It’s like they had started off deciding to be blue, then changed their mind and turned gray, and then switched to green just at the very end, around the fringe of her inky black pupils. That was so like her!
“I’m not getting married,” Owen said forcefully.
She set down the tiles and looked at him. “Everyone gets married.”
“The prince didn’t. He died.”
“You’re not going to die, Owen. The prince was always coughing. I’ve never heard you cough. You’re not sickly at all.”
Ankarette’s potions had been helping him breathe better. But he knew something the Mortimer girl didn’t. Owen looked down at his lap. “The king wants to kill me.”
She sat up quickly, her face growing pale with concern. “No, he doesn’t. That’s the silliest thought I ever heard.”
Owen was feeling hot again, his ears burning. She was looking at him with concern and sympathy. She edged closer. “Why would you think something like that?” she whispered.
“I’m his hostage,” Owen replied darkly. “That’s why I’m here. If my parents do anything to spite him, he’s going to kill me. He killed my brother already. It’s true.”
Owen’s muscles locked up and he felt a coldness shoot through him at being caught off guard. A pit of fear opened up inside him, swallowing everything before it. He could not even stammer a reply. He was powerless to say anything.
The king snorted and then walked away, unsheathing and jamming his dagger as he went.
Owen felt his knees start to buckle and the urge to cry was almost overpowering. Feeling humiliated, he cast his eyes down. Someone approached and he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Duke Horwath looking at him sympathetically. He did not say anything, but his touch was comforting. Then he walked after the king and began speaking to him in a low voice. Owen could not hear their discussion, but he could have sworn he heard the duke say “Tatton Hall” before they were both out of earshot.
Later in the afternoon, Owen was building with his tiles, constructing a tower that was taller than those he usually made. It had tumbled a few times, annoying him, but he continued to work on it. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer lay on her stomach, playing with several pieces of tile and talking about something to which Owen did not pay much mind as he concentrated on the tower. The kitchen bustled pleasantly, and he could smell the delightful fragrance of a pie cooking in the ovens, making his mouth water. Liona made the best crusts he had ever tasted, and he had been tempted more than once to eat the ring of crispy dough without touching the middle part.
“Well?” the Mortimer girl asked again, and Owen glanced over at where she lay looking up at him. He had started calling her the Mortimer girl in his mind because her name was so long.
He was a little annoyed that she now expected a partner in the conversation. She had been doing so well at it by herself. “What?” he asked.
“When we get married, do you want to live in the North or in the West?”
He stared at her in shock. “We’re getting married?”
“Of course we are. I think we should live in the North. I love the snow. There are mountains, Owen, mountains so huge they block out the sun until midday. There is always snow up there. There are canyons and rivers and waterfalls.” She sighed dreamily. “The North is the best place in the world. I would live in the West, if you insisted. But I would be sad.”
“Why are we getting married?”
She set down the tiles. “You have to get married someday, Owen. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I know that, but . . .”
“Everyone has to get married. Even the king got married, all bent as he is. His wife was from the North, you know, and she was lovely. I’m so sad she died. She used to braid my hair. The prince was ten when he died of a fever. That’s only two years older than us. I thought I might marry him someday.” She shook her head. “I like you better.”
“But . . .”
“Really, Owen Kiskaddon, it’s not difficult to answer! The North or the West? You must learn to make decisions. I think we’ll live in the North first, and then the West. That way, you can choose which you like better. I think I’ll always like the North better. But I haven’t lived in the West before.” There was a dreamy look in her strange-colored eyes as she gazed at the tiles spread out on the floor in front of her. In the light, they were looking greener. It’s like they had started off deciding to be blue, then changed their mind and turned gray, and then switched to green just at the very end, around the fringe of her inky black pupils. That was so like her!
“I’m not getting married,” Owen said forcefully.
She set down the tiles and looked at him. “Everyone gets married.”
“The prince didn’t. He died.”
“You’re not going to die, Owen. The prince was always coughing. I’ve never heard you cough. You’re not sickly at all.”
Ankarette’s potions had been helping him breathe better. But he knew something the Mortimer girl didn’t. Owen looked down at his lap. “The king wants to kill me.”
She sat up quickly, her face growing pale with concern. “No, he doesn’t. That’s the silliest thought I ever heard.”
Owen was feeling hot again, his ears burning. She was looking at him with concern and sympathy. She edged closer. “Why would you think something like that?” she whispered.
“I’m his hostage,” Owen replied darkly. “That’s why I’m here. If my parents do anything to spite him, he’s going to kill me. He killed my brother already. It’s true.”
