Not one of convenience. Plenty of women who’d evacuated to Solvantis had gone this route, even arranging marriages in advance of their arrival. But Idabel had been blessed or cursed with parents who were in love. Their vows to love and cherish one another for life had been fulfilled every day. It would dishonor their memory to make those vows to a person she did not care for or even know.
Betje shook her head. “Someone who would pay you well for your access to the Tower. You would lose your position as a result, there is no doubt. But the rewards would be great enough that you could apprentice with any apothecary in the city.”
“I would apprentice with you,” Idabel said reflexively. She’d done her research. Betje might have a small shop in a less fashionable quarter, but she was the best at what she did. Plus, she would take female apprentices when few others would.
“Even with what you know now?” Betje asked cautiously.
She meant being fae-born. It wasn’t something people admitted to, having fae blood. Many would not do business with those associated with the fae, given their reputation for underhandedness. But Betje was scrupulously honest, chasing after people who accidentally overpaid by scant amounts. She made extra visits to her elderly customers so they didn’t have to venture to the shop on frail legs. And her cures were both affordable and effective, without impossible promises and heavy perfume dressing them up for show.
Of course, she’d apprentice with Betje, fae-born or not. Her dream was so close, she could almost taste it. “What would I have to do?”
Face scrubbed and clothes freshened, Idabel followed Betje down an unfamiliar street, one of the many that circled the human king’s palace in layers of importance. She’d never been to the palace quarter where the diplomats and courtiers lived. The women in Maiden Hall who worked there reported that it felt like visiting the moon, the people were so cold and high-minded.She’d had a hard time picturing anyone higher-minded than the keepers, but now that she was there herself, she understood.
Even her best skirts looked shabby here, every spot and worn edge obvious. And though it was just past dawn, a time when the streets around the apothecary were bustling with news-callers and bootblacks and milk delivery, the wide avenues here were quiet. An occasional uniformed footman or housemaid scurried by without greeting, but otherwise it seemed the whole quarter was still abed.
“Must be nice,” Idabel muttered, fighting the weights that dragged down her lids. She’d get no rest before she had to report to the Tower for another long day of climbing ladders and hauling buckets.
Even Betje, who was usually a clockwork, had bags under her eyes as they stopped in front of a white marble townhouse and rang at its silver gate.
“A nobleman?” Idabel guessed, craning her neck to admire the carved stonework on the building’s face.
“Yes, but he’s just a man at the end of the day. Don’t be intimidated.”
They were admitted and shown into an extravagant receiving parlor. Everything in it was marble and cream. Even the cleanest finger would leave a smudge. Idabel didn’t dare sit on the delicate brocade settee where Betje plopped down like it was an old cushion on the kitchen hearth.
She patted the seat beside her. “Don’t be shy.”
Before Idabel could argue, they were interrupted by the appearance of a butler. “Wilkin, Lord of Lamont, and Lady Hannalinde,” he announced to the room in general before stepping smartly aside so the pair could enter.
The lord, a distinguished-looking man with graying temples and a glittering array of gems pinned to his lapel, raised his brows when he saw them. His companion, a much youngerwoman with moon-colored hair and skin so fair that it must never see the sun, appeared as fragile and pointless as the settee, just another decoration in the room.
Idabel dropped into a unpracticed curtsy, unsure of the etiquette. But she must have gotten it wrong, because Betje didn’t move a muscle, just smiled like a barn cat who’d recently dispatched a rat.
“What have we here, Betonyne?” Lord Wilkin drawled, looking Idabel up and down. Apparently, he and Betje were well acquainted, given his familiar tone and use of her full name. “Don’t tell me you interrupted my daughter’s breakfast to introduce me to your country cousin.”
The daughter’s cheeks stained crimson, and she gave Idabel a tiny, apologetic grimace. Perhaps she had her own thoughts and was not just decorative after all.
Betje snorted. “Do we look like cousins? Idabel is my apprentice.”
Warm shock jolted through her at Betje’s impulsive promotion. Or maybe it was a sideways reminder that her apprenticeship hinged on agreeing to whatever this Lord Wilkin wanted. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her good skirts, bracing herself for whatever he had in store.
“Go on,” he said impatiently.
“She also works in the Tower.”
Understanding dawned on Lord Wilkin’s face, and his expression instantly warmed. “My dear girl, do sit down,” he urged Idabel. Reluctantly, she perched on the edge of the settee next to Betje, who patted her shoulder reassuringly as the two nobles took seats across from them.
A tray arrived, courtesy of a footman, and Lady Hannalinde sprung into action, solicitously pouring each of them some tea and arranging the accompanying pastries so they could reach a full selection.
Idabel sipped the hot, fortifying liquid gratefully.
“Do you find your work enjoyable?” Lady Hannalinde asked politely. Her father smiled into his cup at the question but held his tongue.
“I like working at the apothecary very much.”
“And the Tower?” The lady’s tone was light, but from the crafty look Betje wore, the question was anything but.
“I’m grateful for the position,” Idabel stuttered, unsure of the right answer. She crammed a lacy cherry-and-almond pastry in her mouth so she had more time to think.
