The Queen's Poisoner
Page 63
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The feeling of discomfort wriggling in his stomach was growing worse. He wanted to tell her very badly. It was eating away inside of him.
“It’s almost as rare as surviving a waterfall,” she continued. She was always prattling, even when he didn’t feel like speaking. “About one in a hundred survive. There are always soldiers down at the bottom of the falls to see if anyone makes it. Lord Asilomar and his wife didn’t. They drowned.”
“That’s awful,” Owen said softly, working on the tower again.
“It’s the punishment for being a traitor, Owen. The king didn’t kill their boy. They had one son, who is four. The king sent him to be ward to Lord Lovel in Southport. I wouldn’t want to marry someone younger than me. That would be disagreeable. I’m glad we’re the same age.”
Owen was amazed at how many people continued to come through the kitchen that day. The old gray-haired butler, Berwick, entered several times and complained loudly about the ruckus and how meals were not going to be served on time because of all the talk and nonsense.
“Yud think the lad sprootid wings and tuck a turn in the sky,” he said brusquely. “A heap of bother. A lucky guess. Every’un knew Asilomar was a traitor. He’s from East Stowe!”
“None of us here knew it,” Liona said challengingly. “Being from the East doesn’t make someone a traitor, Berwick. Hold your tongue.”
“Hoold my tongue? You should hoold your tongue! Yuv been blabbing all day to visitors and such. Not an honest piece of work done all day long. It’ll quiet doown. You’ll see.”
“I don’t like Berwick,” Owen said softly.
“I enjoy hearing him talk,” Evie replied. “I love our quaint accent from the North. My father liked to hear me speak it.”
Owen looked up at her. “You can talk like that?”
She grinned. “Forsooth, young lad, ’tis but the only prooper way amongst countrymen.” She winked at him and returned to her normal way of speaking. “It’s for the lesser born, really. My grandpapa is quiet because he was raised in the North and his accent comes out more often. He trained me to speak like the court. I like hearing it, though. It’s musical.”
“Berwick’s always complaining,” Owen mumbled.
“Everyone complains,” she said, waving her hand. “Have you had any other dreams, Owen? About . . . us?”
The hopeful look in her eye made the guilt twist more deeply. He blushed and stared down at the tiles he was arranging. “I don’t control it,” he said limply.
“If you had a dream about me going into the river, you must tell me!” she said eagerly. “You know, some people have to be bound up because they’re so frightened. I wouldn’t want that. If I were condemned to die over the falls, I would want a paddle! Think of how it would feel! We’d go down together, you and I. Maybe we could hold hands from across our canoes? Papa said the people who survive point their toes down and keep as straight as a stick. Most of them die, though. I thought it would be fun to go over the falls with a big rope and have someone pull me up again from the bridge. But Papa said the falls would be too hard to pull against and I’d be dashed to pieces.” She had a dreamy look in her eye as she contemplated her death over the falls.
He dropped his voice lower. “Don’t you think it’s awful, though? That the king tries to trick people into being loyal to him?”
She gave him a curious look. “That’s just gossip, Owen. The king wouldn’t do that.”
“I think he does,” Owen said, growing more uncomfortable. He wanted so much to tell her about Ankarette.
She shook her head. “I’ll ask Grandpapa.”
Owen frowned. “What if it’s true?”
She shrugged, unconcerned. “Then I’ll tell the king he must stop it.”
And Owen did not doubt for a moment that she would.
When the castle was finally dark and fast asleep, Owen slipped out of his room to visit Ankarette. He was eager to see her again, and he hoped to get her permission to share at least part of his secret with Evie. He walked on cat’s feet down the dark corridor and tripped the latch to enter one of the secret doors of the palace. He started down the corridor without a candle, for he knew the way even in the dark. When he reached the tower steps, he halted in his tracks and his heart started to hammer with fear.
There were men’s voices coming from Ankarette’s room.
Slowly, he crept up the stairwell, his body tense and low to the ground. He was ready to flee at a moment’s warning. Had Ratcliffe discovered her hiding place at last? No, it wasn’t his voice.
“It’s almost as rare as surviving a waterfall,” she continued. She was always prattling, even when he didn’t feel like speaking. “About one in a hundred survive. There are always soldiers down at the bottom of the falls to see if anyone makes it. Lord Asilomar and his wife didn’t. They drowned.”
“That’s awful,” Owen said softly, working on the tower again.
“It’s the punishment for being a traitor, Owen. The king didn’t kill their boy. They had one son, who is four. The king sent him to be ward to Lord Lovel in Southport. I wouldn’t want to marry someone younger than me. That would be disagreeable. I’m glad we’re the same age.”
Owen was amazed at how many people continued to come through the kitchen that day. The old gray-haired butler, Berwick, entered several times and complained loudly about the ruckus and how meals were not going to be served on time because of all the talk and nonsense.
“Yud think the lad sprootid wings and tuck a turn in the sky,” he said brusquely. “A heap of bother. A lucky guess. Every’un knew Asilomar was a traitor. He’s from East Stowe!”
“None of us here knew it,” Liona said challengingly. “Being from the East doesn’t make someone a traitor, Berwick. Hold your tongue.”
“Hoold my tongue? You should hoold your tongue! Yuv been blabbing all day to visitors and such. Not an honest piece of work done all day long. It’ll quiet doown. You’ll see.”
“I don’t like Berwick,” Owen said softly.
“I enjoy hearing him talk,” Evie replied. “I love our quaint accent from the North. My father liked to hear me speak it.”
Owen looked up at her. “You can talk like that?”
She grinned. “Forsooth, young lad, ’tis but the only prooper way amongst countrymen.” She winked at him and returned to her normal way of speaking. “It’s for the lesser born, really. My grandpapa is quiet because he was raised in the North and his accent comes out more often. He trained me to speak like the court. I like hearing it, though. It’s musical.”
“Berwick’s always complaining,” Owen mumbled.
“Everyone complains,” she said, waving her hand. “Have you had any other dreams, Owen? About . . . us?”
The hopeful look in her eye made the guilt twist more deeply. He blushed and stared down at the tiles he was arranging. “I don’t control it,” he said limply.
“If you had a dream about me going into the river, you must tell me!” she said eagerly. “You know, some people have to be bound up because they’re so frightened. I wouldn’t want that. If I were condemned to die over the falls, I would want a paddle! Think of how it would feel! We’d go down together, you and I. Maybe we could hold hands from across our canoes? Papa said the people who survive point their toes down and keep as straight as a stick. Most of them die, though. I thought it would be fun to go over the falls with a big rope and have someone pull me up again from the bridge. But Papa said the falls would be too hard to pull against and I’d be dashed to pieces.” She had a dreamy look in her eye as she contemplated her death over the falls.
He dropped his voice lower. “Don’t you think it’s awful, though? That the king tries to trick people into being loyal to him?”
She gave him a curious look. “That’s just gossip, Owen. The king wouldn’t do that.”
“I think he does,” Owen said, growing more uncomfortable. He wanted so much to tell her about Ankarette.
She shook her head. “I’ll ask Grandpapa.”
Owen frowned. “What if it’s true?”
She shrugged, unconcerned. “Then I’ll tell the king he must stop it.”
And Owen did not doubt for a moment that she would.
When the castle was finally dark and fast asleep, Owen slipped out of his room to visit Ankarette. He was eager to see her again, and he hoped to get her permission to share at least part of his secret with Evie. He walked on cat’s feet down the dark corridor and tripped the latch to enter one of the secret doors of the palace. He started down the corridor without a candle, for he knew the way even in the dark. When he reached the tower steps, he halted in his tracks and his heart started to hammer with fear.
There were men’s voices coming from Ankarette’s room.
Slowly, he crept up the stairwell, his body tense and low to the ground. He was ready to flee at a moment’s warning. Had Ratcliffe discovered her hiding place at last? No, it wasn’t his voice.
