“No, Graves, it’s alright. Seek your bed. ‘Tis unlikely we shall have any word this night, but I am not inclined to rest until we do.”
He gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his gray head, his own bow of acquiescence, and then his faded eyes flicked to Cecily’s fingertips at the side of her face.
“Are you unwell?”
Cecily dropped her hand immediately. “It’s nothing. A headache.”
“Madam or Lady Alys?”
Cecily and Graves stared at each other for several moments, one patiently waiting for an elaboration, the other loathe to give one.
“It’s only a headache, Graves,” she said at last. “I don’t … I’m not like Sybilla or Alys or Mother. I don’t pretend to see colors or cast spells because I can’t.” She shrugged, and hoped it was nonchalant. “It’s a headache and nothing more. Everyone suffers them from time to time.”
He gave another one of his fractional nods, but Cecily could tell he was not convinced.
“Perhaps we should pray, any matter?”
“Of course we should.” She gave him a brittle smile. “We should always pray. Fortunately, it’s what I’m best at. Fallstowe’s spiritual conscience. The Foxe family’s nod to religion.”
He stared at her and she stared back. Cecily rubbed her arms again, the cold seemed to seep from the stones beneath her feet and leach up her legs into her core. Her cheeks burned as if being slapped by a sharp wind.
“You’ll send for me right away should you have any need?”
Cecily turned back to the fire, so as to be able to escape those ancient, knowing eyes. She stepped closer to the hearth, holding her palms toward the flames. “I’ll come myself. Good night, Graves.”
There was a long moment of silence, and when next Graves spoke, his voice was low, neutral.
“Wouldn’t you agree that it is likely to be Lady Alys most affected by the cold tonight?”
She didn’t hear his footsteps retreat as he left the hall—the man was like a shadow himself when he moved—but Cecily knew he had gone all the same.
The admirable thing about Graves was that, as a trusted servant of Fallstowe, he never assumed to have the last word with a member of the family.
But he certainly always had the last question.
Sybilla stared at the darkened roof of her tent, her arms at her sides atop the thick pile of furs over her body so that she could feel the cold air on her upturned palms.
She, if not the men she traveled with, could have stayed in any of the dwellings at the village of Pilings. Several residents had offered—including the woman who had given Alys food. They likely looked not only for Sybilla’s coin, but also the privilege of having nobility under their roof. But Sybilla had declined. The cottages were little more than huts, most appearing to be only one room, and Sybilla could just imagine the smell. She disliked strangers, strange places. The thought of lying down to sleep in a foreign bed, next to someone she didn’t know, in their house and not hers, was enough to make her skin crawl.
In her tent, she had her things, Fallstowe’s things. A brazier was set in the middle of the tent, and if the shelter was not quite cozy, at least it was not frigid. She had thick, clean furs as well, and a guard standing watch just outside the lashed flap. Here she could be alone in the quiet of midnight, her hands exposed to the air—air which Alys had breathed and passed through not two days ago.
Although Sybilla believed that Alys had come into Pilings alone as the village woman had claimed, Sybillaknew that Alys had left the area with another person. A large person, carrying a pain greater than his own size.
Sybilla could only assume this person was Piers Mallory.
It was a stomach-clenching relief to know that Alys was alive, but Sybilla didn’t trust anyone related to Judith Angwedd, even if only through marriage, and she worried deeply that Alys was still with the renegade commoner. Why? What use was he to her, and vice versa? Sybilla was confident that her sister was not being held against her will—the man would have never let her go into the village and have contact with the natives were that the case. So why?
And why would Alys determine to carry on with him to London, if that was indeed Piers Mallory’s destination? Could it truly be because of Sybilla’s fear of the king? Of her tenuous grasp on Fallstowe? Perhaps that bitch, Judith Angwedd, was right—Alys was going to Edward, in retaliation for Sybilla binding her to Clement Cobb.
No, that couldn’t be. As angry as Sybilla knew Alys had been over the betrothal, and even though she and Alys seemed to constantly be at odds, Sybilla did not think her sister would betray not only her, but the people of Fallstowe, so grievously.
Alys was young. So young and missing their mother so, Sybilla knew. Alys had been the baby, and Amicia had admitted to encouraging her youngest child in her pursuit of freedom and adventure. Alys had simply never deigned to grow up and realize that life as an adult was not filled with leisure and adventure and whimsy. There was only responsibility, and pride, and duty. The pleasures you reaped were few and well appreciated when you could steal a bit of happiness.
Sybilla wished that she could have found a way tosomehow fill the void left by Amicia’s passing and perhaps help Alys realize and appreciate the duties of her station, but Sybilla was no mother figure. The very idea of it caused her brow to wrinkle in the cold air of the tent. No, she was only a leader, a ruler. Her duty in life was to protect her sisters and their home, so that when the end came—as surely it must—Cecily and Alys would be safe. Sybilla would not fare so well, but it was a promise she had made, and she accepted her fate. She may be brought down eventually, but she would not go meekly.
And she would never surrender.
First though, she must find Alys. Find her before London, preferably, so as to escape Edward’s dungeon for herself. If the king captured Sybilla, Fallstowe would fall in a blink under Cecily—the middle sister always wanted to think everyone had the best intentions at heart. Attackers could be undermining one of Fallstowe’s towers and Cecily would suggest they were only trying to reinforce it.
