She closed her eyes, opening them again when a sudden dip in the mattress indicated Chiara had perched next to her. She smelled of sweet pastry and flour and warmth, and Ariana had to fight down a new surge of sorrow at such homely comforts.
“I’d say it’s not clear to anyone what Sir Leon wishes right now,” she said in a confidential tone. “Not even to Sir Leon himself. All his plans have come to naught.”
Ariana shook her head, conscious of the wild tangle of her unbrushed hair on the hard pillows. How could she explain that she wasn’t interested in her father’s plans? When she first arrived back in Kenmar, she had brimmed with defiance, determined to find a way back to Otto. But after just one failed attempt to escape, her energies had dissipated. For three daysnow, she had not even risen from her bed; a prisoner of twisting nausea and bleak regret.
Chiara cleared her throat, obviously intent on saying her piece, despite Ariana’s silence. “It was a bold move, storming Darkmoor Castle.”
“Bold or stupid,” Ariana interjected, unable to help herself.
“That’s exactly it. Sir Leon was expecting more in the way of assistance, which could have made all the difference.” Chiara shifted on the bed and Ariana wriggled in protest. “Will you let me brush your hair, my lady? Seeing as I’m here.”
“You’re a cook, not a lady’s maid,” Ariana stated. “Chiara, I’m grateful for your concern, but I’d like to be left alone.”
Chiara continued as if she hadn’t spoken, forcibly rearranging Ariana’s pillows with surprisingly strong arms.
“That’s better,” she observed, helping her to a more comfortable position. “Well now, where was I?”
“I don’t know.” The sudden movement had made Ariana dizzy, and she lurched forward, fearful she might vomit. Thankfully she had nothing in her stomach, but she retched anyway, the dim walls of her bedchamber circling around as she gripped onto her thin blanket and waited for the pain to stop.
She heard rather than saw Chiara cross the floor and pour some water from her pitcher. Moments later, a cold compress was applied to her forehead, bringing slight relief.
“Sit back,” the cook urged, steadying Ariana’s shoulders with her small, calloused hands.
“I feel terrible,” Ariana murmured. Her body was hot one minute and cold the next. It had been that way since the marshal thwarted her attempts to steal out of the keep by hiding amongst the weekly wash. A fine plan, she had thought, until she found herself being bodily lifted from the stained linens to meet her father’s unflinching gaze. Since then, Sir Leon had ordered her to be locked in her room.
Chiara pressed her lips together and made a noncommittal noise. “You don’t look none too clever either, if I may say so.”
Her honesty made Ariana smile. That failed bid for freedom had been the last time she had left her chamber, even though Sir Leon had grudgingly given word that she should be allowed outside once a day. Racked with nausea, she had taken little interest in anything. But part of her now railed against this inertia. She had learned long ago that there was nothing to be gained by moping.
“You may brush out my hair, as long as you take it slowly.”
“Very good. It’s about time someone saw to you.” Chiara took up the hairbrush and carefully began to draw out the tangles. “Sir Leon’s at a loss, you see?” She abruptly returned to her earlier conversation.
Ariana closed her eyes, half enjoying the soothing rhythm of the hairbrush. “Honestly, Chiara, my father kidnapped me and locked me up, for reasons I don’t yet understand. It’s hard for me to care if he’s at a loss.”
“I’m not saying you should care. I’m saying you shouldn’t give up hope.” She paused, gazing down at Ariana with meaning stamped across her blue eyes. “Especially now.”
Ariana fumbled for the tankard of small ale kept on her nightstand and drank deeply, partially to avoid the question she sensed would come next.
“How long have you known?” Chiara asked.
Ariana straightened her blanket, desperate for distraction, but the two women were at the top of the keep and unlikely to be disturbed. “I don’t know anything, not for sure. Not really.” She closed her eyes against another swell of nausea. “It’s too early.”
“Well, I’ve seen this before.” The cook smoothed a hand across her forehead. “I’d wager you’re with child, my lady. That’s why you can’t bring yourself to eat even a morsel. The early dayscan be the worst for sickness. But you must keep your strength up. You’ll need it in the months ahead.”
“I don’t want it to be true.” She leaned back against the wooden headrest, uncaring of the hard ridges which dug into her scalp.
Chiara looked shocked. “Why ever not? A babe is a blessing.”
“I know. I’ve always wanted children of my own. But not like this. Not far from my husband. A good man who thinks I betrayed him.” At this, the tears came again, and Ariana hung her head. Her eyes were sore from constant crying.
Chiara knitted her brows. “Does anyone else know?”
“No.” Ariana shook her head violently. “I’ve barely even admitted it to myself.”
The cook folded her arms nervously, her foot tapping against the bare floor. “But time is passing. The maids will find out soon enough. And they’ll report it to Sir Leon. You must keep it from them for as long as possible.”
Ariana sniffed and dried her eyes with the back of her hand. She hadn’t had such a long conversation in weeks and the constant flow of information was tiring her out. “Why?” she asked, shrugging expansively. “Why should my father care if I am pregnant with Otto’s child?” But even as she said the words, the answer loomed large in her mind. “God’s Bones.” She reached out to grasp Chiara’s hand. “If my father plans to take over Darkmoor and I, his prisoner, am carrying the rightful heir to Darkmoor…”
