The Queen's Poisoner
Page 90
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The sound of boots came again, sturdier and heavier, and Owen recognized the set as her grandfather’s and Ratcliffe’s. Both men entered the kitchen together, one looking somber and grave, the other looking betrayed and aggrieved when he caught sight of Mancini.
“No!” the girl shrieked when she saw her grandfather. She looked betrayed and miserable, yet she still had her spark of defiance and iron will. “I’m going too!”
Ratcliffe sighed at the spectacle of emotion. He snorted to himself and folded his arms over his big chest, giving Horwath a pitying look. “You deal with the water sprite. That’s your concern.”
Horwath’s brow furrowed. “She’s my granddaughter. Mind that.” Horwath approached slowly, as if she were a skittish horse ready to bolt.
“It’s not fair, Grandpapa!” she wailed. She tugged on Owen’s arm, as if he were the anchor that would prevent her from being swept away.
“Come, Lady Mortimer,” Liona said. “Don’t shame your grandfather. Obey him.”
She rounded on Liona as if she were an enemy. “My mother is Lady Mortimer,” she said passionately, with a hint of malice. “I am Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer!”
“Come,” Duke Horwath said tenderly, kneeling down by the bench. He held out his hand to her, palm up, entreatingly.
“Is Owen going to die?” she squeaked, her voice full of sorrow. She looked up at her grandfather, tears spilling from her eyes.
The duke had a brave face, stern and calm, but his eyes were full of pain. He glanced at Owen and then back at his granddaughter. “I know not,” he whispered.
That made it even worse. A black hole seemed to have opened up below Owen, threatening to swallow him. He remembered when he had first come to Kingfountain, riding behind the duke on his horse. The sense of abandonment, the loneliness, the fear of speaking to anyone.
“Come, lass,” Duke Horwath prodded gently, his hand poised to accept hers.
She stared at her grandfather, unable to resist his gentleness. He wouldn’t force her. But if she did not obey him, a man born to rule, there would be consequences. There would be freedoms revoked. Perhaps even estrangement. Owen saw the battle in her eyes, the guilt and anguish in her quivering pout.
She finally stood and took her grandfather’s hand. Ratcliffe snorted to himself and strode from the kitchen first. Owen thought his heart was going to break as he watched Evie start away from him. She glanced back once, her lips trembling. Liona, who was wiping her own eyes, patted Owen’s shoulder comfortingly as another tear rolled down to the tip of his nose.
Then suddenly Evie did something that startled them all. She grabbed her grandfather’s dagger from his belt and yanked it loose. Then she pulled her hand free and marched back to Owen. Using her empty hand, she took the braid she had woven on the side of her head, the one with the white feather stuck in it, and sawed through the hair before anyone could stop her.
She dropped the dagger and then gave Owen a final hug, pressing her moist lips to his cheek, thrusting the severed braid into his hands.
“Be brave!” she hissed defiantly into his ear. Gone was the misery and despair. When she pulled back, her eyes burned into his with urgency, a will strong enough to crash into his own and topple his pieces. She squeezed the braid into his hands, her fingers digging deep into his flesh. Her lips were taut and fierce. She was wild with emotion.
Then she kissed him one more time, turned, and marched back to her grandfather, kicking the dagger with her boot to send it clattering across the kitchen. Even Mancini stared at her in awe and respect as she left.
Ratcliffe hates me, it’s clear enough to see. His power is ending and another will rise to take his place. Myself, if all goes well. When a man is tottering on a ledge, sometimes a little push is all that’s needed. He said the Espion will be gathering at Holywell Inn when we reach Beestone. He told me because he did not believe I would be able to keep up with the others. I have no intention of keeping up with the others. He also implied there is news about the Kiskaddons—both of the brat’s parents—in Tunmore’s book. If only I could get my hands on it to learn what it was. I have no doubt that Ankarette will expect me to steal it. If she hasn’t already done so herself.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Weakness
After dark, it was only Owen and Mancini in the kitchen. The dim light in the room came from the flickering coals in the bread ovens and a single lantern hanging from a hook. Owen had finished building his masterpiece, but he did not want to knock it over. He felt that if the tiles did not fall, perhaps he would not have to leave in the morning for the West. Perhaps he would not face his fate—and his family’s. He stroked the braid of hair, feeling its softness and warmth. The little white feather reminded him of the time Ratcliffe had stormed into the sea of swirling goose down they’d unleashed in Evie’s room. The memory of the feathers stuck to Ratcliffe’s head almost made him laugh. But not even that could make him smile more than fleetingly, given the gloom of his predicament.
“No!” the girl shrieked when she saw her grandfather. She looked betrayed and miserable, yet she still had her spark of defiance and iron will. “I’m going too!”
Ratcliffe sighed at the spectacle of emotion. He snorted to himself and folded his arms over his big chest, giving Horwath a pitying look. “You deal with the water sprite. That’s your concern.”
Horwath’s brow furrowed. “She’s my granddaughter. Mind that.” Horwath approached slowly, as if she were a skittish horse ready to bolt.
“It’s not fair, Grandpapa!” she wailed. She tugged on Owen’s arm, as if he were the anchor that would prevent her from being swept away.
“Come, Lady Mortimer,” Liona said. “Don’t shame your grandfather. Obey him.”
She rounded on Liona as if she were an enemy. “My mother is Lady Mortimer,” she said passionately, with a hint of malice. “I am Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer!”
“Come,” Duke Horwath said tenderly, kneeling down by the bench. He held out his hand to her, palm up, entreatingly.
“Is Owen going to die?” she squeaked, her voice full of sorrow. She looked up at her grandfather, tears spilling from her eyes.
The duke had a brave face, stern and calm, but his eyes were full of pain. He glanced at Owen and then back at his granddaughter. “I know not,” he whispered.
That made it even worse. A black hole seemed to have opened up below Owen, threatening to swallow him. He remembered when he had first come to Kingfountain, riding behind the duke on his horse. The sense of abandonment, the loneliness, the fear of speaking to anyone.
“Come, lass,” Duke Horwath prodded gently, his hand poised to accept hers.
She stared at her grandfather, unable to resist his gentleness. He wouldn’t force her. But if she did not obey him, a man born to rule, there would be consequences. There would be freedoms revoked. Perhaps even estrangement. Owen saw the battle in her eyes, the guilt and anguish in her quivering pout.
She finally stood and took her grandfather’s hand. Ratcliffe snorted to himself and strode from the kitchen first. Owen thought his heart was going to break as he watched Evie start away from him. She glanced back once, her lips trembling. Liona, who was wiping her own eyes, patted Owen’s shoulder comfortingly as another tear rolled down to the tip of his nose.
Then suddenly Evie did something that startled them all. She grabbed her grandfather’s dagger from his belt and yanked it loose. Then she pulled her hand free and marched back to Owen. Using her empty hand, she took the braid she had woven on the side of her head, the one with the white feather stuck in it, and sawed through the hair before anyone could stop her.
She dropped the dagger and then gave Owen a final hug, pressing her moist lips to his cheek, thrusting the severed braid into his hands.
“Be brave!” she hissed defiantly into his ear. Gone was the misery and despair. When she pulled back, her eyes burned into his with urgency, a will strong enough to crash into his own and topple his pieces. She squeezed the braid into his hands, her fingers digging deep into his flesh. Her lips were taut and fierce. She was wild with emotion.
Then she kissed him one more time, turned, and marched back to her grandfather, kicking the dagger with her boot to send it clattering across the kitchen. Even Mancini stared at her in awe and respect as she left.
Ratcliffe hates me, it’s clear enough to see. His power is ending and another will rise to take his place. Myself, if all goes well. When a man is tottering on a ledge, sometimes a little push is all that’s needed. He said the Espion will be gathering at Holywell Inn when we reach Beestone. He told me because he did not believe I would be able to keep up with the others. I have no intention of keeping up with the others. He also implied there is news about the Kiskaddons—both of the brat’s parents—in Tunmore’s book. If only I could get my hands on it to learn what it was. I have no doubt that Ankarette will expect me to steal it. If she hasn’t already done so herself.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Weakness
After dark, it was only Owen and Mancini in the kitchen. The dim light in the room came from the flickering coals in the bread ovens and a single lantern hanging from a hook. Owen had finished building his masterpiece, but he did not want to knock it over. He felt that if the tiles did not fall, perhaps he would not have to leave in the morning for the West. Perhaps he would not face his fate—and his family’s. He stroked the braid of hair, feeling its softness and warmth. The little white feather reminded him of the time Ratcliffe had stormed into the sea of swirling goose down they’d unleashed in Evie’s room. The memory of the feathers stuck to Ratcliffe’s head almost made him laugh. But not even that could make him smile more than fleetingly, given the gloom of his predicament.
