It had to be an act. Didn’t it? He glared at her until she flinched away from him, her eyes falling back to the floor, and he looked away, feeling oddly guilty. If shewasa fool, he ought not to scare her or think less of her for it. And if she was trying to keep from answering questions… well, he couldn’t blame her. He’d stolenher husband’s castle. He was, in her own words, a traitor. The word felt false in his mind.
He wasn’t going to learn anything more from her. And tomorrow, she’d go back to being Lord Blackfell’s problem.
“That is all,” Niel grumbled. “Go.”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a woman capable of standing, curtsying, and leaving a room so fast as Lady Blackfell.
A Change of Plans
She wasn’t accustomed to waking before dawn. But Sarella stood over her, tapping Ayla’s shoulder.
Ayla sat upright in a blaze of sudden, wakeful panic, certain the castle was burning to the ground or that Ditmar had won his way back inside already.
“Sorry, lady,” Sarella whispered, perching familiarly on the edge of the bed as Ayla gulped air to calm herself. “I wasn’t trying to startle you.”
“No. It’s fine,” Ayla croaked. She lay back down and tugged the warm blankets up to her chin, heart still pounding. The room was lit from a fire burning merrily in the hearth, but the window still looked black. Or, nearly black. Just graying. “What are you doing here? Is Megh hurt? Has something happened?”
“The knight sent me,” Sarella said. Her tone sobered. “He came to the kitchens and asked me to get you.”
“What could that manpossiblywant at this hour?” Ayla groaned.
“The next hour, actually,” Sarella said apologetically. “He says you’re to leave at dawn, lady. And that you can take any of your things with you, so long as they fit in the bag.” Sarella lay the cloth sack on top of the blankets covering Ayla. Ayla blinked blearily up at the ceiling and sighed.
So much for last night, when the knight had told her that Ditmar had yet to write back. She somehow doubted they were exchanging letters at the midnight hour. But was it any surprise a man like him had been lying?
“Alright,” Ayla whispered. She’d known it was only a matter of time before she was back with Ditmar. It had been a nice few days.
Perhaps it was for the best. If she left now, she didn’t have to poison the knight. He undoubtedly deserved it. But she wasn’t sure she had it in her to do that to someone, especially when he hadn’t hurt anybody but his own man. She’d just have to throw herself at Ditmar’s feet and pretend she was relieved to be with him, and hope that was enough to keep her safe.
“Ask him for sanctuary,” Sarella blurted, leaning forward.
“Who? The knight?” Ayla blinked, pulled away from thoughts of Lord Niel choking to death and back to the present, where Sarella’s earnest eyes locked with hers.
“You saw what he did to the man who hurt Cataerin.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ayla said quietly. “I’m not going to ask a man likethatto keep me safe.” He’d broken his oaths for his own selfish dreams of power. And she’d learned long ago, with Ditmar, that just because a man seemed decent enough when you first met him didn’t mean he actually was.
“I see more than you think I do, you know. I bet he’d be sympathetic, if he knew how Lord Blackfell…”
“Enough,” Ayla said. She struggled back upright, clutching the blanket to her chest as cold air instantly stung her spine throughher thick winter sleeping gown. “I’d better get ready. You’re coming too, aren’t you?”
“He said only you.” Sarella’s expression was tight. “If you see Demiela, just tell her that I’m alright, and that I love her. Yes?”
“Iwillsee her,” Ayla promised. How unaccountably cruel that the servants, who’d stayed for Ayla’s sake, were to remain separated from their loved ones whileshewas returned to the man she hated. “I’ll find her. I promise.”
“Good.” Sarella’s voice was clipped tight. “Best pack then, lady.”
“See you downstairs, then,” Ayla said. The kitchen maid nodded. She rested a hand comfortingly for a moment on Ayla’s thigh through the heavy blankets, then stood and left the room.
She wanted to burrow into her blankets and hide from the cold. But she was being handed off to Ditmar again, just like the wretched business that had landed her in his hands in the first place. Dreading it wasn’t going to change anything. With a groan—her body still ached all over from Ditmar’s last round of punishment—she forced herself out of bed into the pre-dawn freeze. Ayla shivered as she changed, so close to the fire she nearly scorched one side of herself while the other turned to ice, her naked body a map of bruises for a moment before she covered it again. She combed her hair out, braided it neatly back, and looked out the window.
The sky bled orange at the bottom, the snow-covered landscape deep blue. She didn’t have long. Ayla grabbed the bag and shoved a change of clothes into it. Her hair comb went in after. She took a moment to hold her hands back up to the fire. If only there were time for a burning hot bath. Her blood was running as cold as the ice-choked Maurchet river. But even without her final hour burning down, there weren’t enough servants for her to ask for a luxury like that; the last few days shehadn’t dared do anything but wash with a rag and bucket in front of the fire.
What else to pack? She couldn’t exactly take the books with her. Ditmar would be furious to see them, and if Lord Niel searched her bags, he’d have questions, since she wasn’t supposed to be able to read. She couldn’t take the castle keys, either, for the same reason: if the traitor found them, he’d no doubt make her pay for hiding them.
The bag was only half full, though. She didn’t dare pack herself a second set of clothes without taking something for Ditmar. For a moment, she wondered if she ought to dump her things out entirely and only pack his, but if he didn’t kill her just for being taken captive, surely he wouldn’t begrudge her a change of clothing. He liked her to look her best when other people could see her.
It was cold enough that she wished she could wear furs, but the fur cloak at the back of her wardrobe had been a gift from Ditmar, a wordless apology after a particularly brutal beating. Just looking at it made her right arm ache from the memory of breaking.
