Cinnia must have read her thoughts in her expression. “There’s nothing we can do, Lou, except wait and give him comfort when it’s over.”
Louvaen had stepped into some twisted fairytale, complete with magic born of the left hand path, a sorcerer who deemed her intelligent as a turnip and a lord tortured in his own home by an unseen tormentor without a drop of mercy. She leveled a long stare on her sister. “Are you sure you want to stay?”
“Yes.”
She was bone-tired and the only reason she conceded to that one request. “I’ll stay for one night and do as you ask—listen to what you have to say regarding saving Papa from Jimenin.” Cinnia clapped her hands. Louvaen raised a finger, and she paused. “I’m not agreeing to anything beyond that, including leaving you here. I’ll knock you unconscious and tie you to the saddle if I have to.”
Cinnia threw her arms around her. “Thank you, Lou.”
Louvaen hugged her back, guilt making her flinch. There was something infinitely wrong when such small a thing as her acquiescence made her sister so jubilant. She gazed at Ambrose over Cinnia’s shoulder. He watched her, dislike narrowing his eyes and tightening his mouth. The same curiosity glinting in Magda’s gaze earlier tempered his disapproving expression. No doubt her countenance mirrored his, except for the interest. She planned to stay out of his way while she was here.
“Magda will serve you supper and show you the room where you’ll sleep tonight.” Ambrose inclined his head and left them in the hall. Good as his words, Magda and two younger women entered the hall carry platters filled with bread, cheese and cold chicken and placed them on the long table set near the hearth. The housekeeper introduced her helpers as Clarimond and Joan. Both curtsied, their puzzled gazes going back and forth between Cinnia and Louvaen before they fled to the kitchen. Magda chuckled as she laid out the repast and gestured for the sisters to sit. “They’re looking for some resemblance.”
Louvaen smiled. “Everyone does when they first see us together.” They’d dealt with it all their lives. Cinnia, dainty and blonde, was the perfect counterpoint to the statuesque, dark-haired Louvaen.
“You have the same chin.” Magda tipped the pitcher she carried and refilled their mugs with the spiced ale.
“That’s our father’s contribution.” Cinnia picked at a chicken leg with her fingers. “Otherwise, we look most like our mothers. Papa says Lou’s mother Gull was even taller than Lou.” She popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.
“Thank you, town crier.” Louvaen gave Magda a dry look. “I’m guessing she’s told you every family secret back six generations?”
Magda laughed outright this time. “Only a few things. I hear you’re deadly with a pitchfork.”
Louvaen glared at Cinnia who blushed. Farmer Toddle had never forgiven her for nearly skewering him in the town stables a decade earlier. Not that Louvaen ever offered an apology. The man should have kept his hands to himself.
The housekeeper retreated to the kitchen with the promise to deliver Louvaen’s cloak and boots to her room once they were dry. The two sisters enjoyed their meal together, Cinnia nibbling from Louvaen’s trencher and chatting about her stay at Ketach Tor and how wonderful—no, miraculous!—Gavin was. Louvaen listened with half an ear while she ate the food and drank two more cups of ale. By the time she’d finished her supper, her belly lay silent and content, and her head sat heavy on her shoulders. She still fretted over her father’s predicament, was suspicious of the strange de Sauveterres, and wondered if the family patriarch would survive the night. Still, the edge of terror that had shoved her heart into her throat as she rode to meet Cinnia had abated. Her sister was safe—utterly wrong-headed in her plan to extract her father from the disaster he’d caused—and apparently happy.
“You’re about to fall asleep in your trencher.” Cinnia tugged on her hand. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Louvaen followed her up a narrow stairwell until they reached a mezzanine drowning in shadow and another set of stairs. A single lit torch cast feeble light along a short corridor with doors on either side. Cinnia led her to one, her steps loud across creaking floorboards. “You’re here, and I’m in the next one.” She opened the door and stepped aside.
Fine candles lit a chamber swept spotless. Louvaen’s nostrils twitched at the scent of beeswax. Gavin’s garb had indicated he came from a family possessing a good measure of coin. She’d not fallen for that trap. Many a fop, barely able to feed himself, spent his last copper on fancy clothes to make a good if fraudulent impression in order to lure a wealthy bride to him. This was different. Only the wealthy could afford the extravagance of burning pure beeswax candles. Families of both poor and moderate means used tallow candles or wax mixed with tallow to light their homes. Louvaen wasn’t quite convinced Gavin hadn’t been filling Cinnia’s ears with all manner of tall tales, but this at least offered a hint that he’d been somewhat honest about his family’s means.
Candlelight revealed a box bed enclosed by ornately carved screens and a low step built against the lower rail that acted as storage. A mattress piled high with an assortment of pillows and blankets promised a warm and comfortable night’s sleep. Her pack sat next to the bed, and someone had laid out one of her two frocks across a chair near the small corner hearth. Her stockings fluttered on a drying horse next to her sodden boots. Shutters made of shaved bone blocked the window from the snow and ice whirling outside. The frigid chamber slowly warmed from the recently lit hearth, and the tapestries hanging on the walls worked to keep the growing heat from escaping through the stone.
Cinnia pointed to a low table set by the chair. “A pitcher and basin for you, and there’s a chamber pot tucked under the bed. I’ll show you where the privies are tomorrow.”
“You said your room is next to mine?”
“Yes. They gave me the bower. It’s lovely, and I have real glass in the windows.”
Louvaen eyed her sister. “And you’re sleeping alone?”
Cinnia crossed her arms. “Of course I am. That’s insulting, Lou.”
Louvaen shrugged. “It isn’t meant to be unless Gavin has seduced you, and you’re lying to me. Then it isn’t an insult, only an insightful question.” Her scowl was fierce. “It best never be an insightful question while you remain unmarried.”
“Gods, you are such a dragon.” Cinnia glided to the door. “It’s late. You’re sleepy and grumpy, and I’m tired of defending myself to you over every little thing. Go to bed. Sleep as long as you like. I’ll see you in the morning.” She kissed her on the cheek and slipped into the hall, leaving a bemused Louvaen staring after her.
“Who are you,” she said softly. “And what have you done with my sister?”
She stripped down to her knickers, chemise and Cinnia’s stockings. The night rail she pulled from her satchel had more wrinkles than crumpled parchment but would keep her warm in the still chilly room. She dressed and blew out the candles. Firelight from the hearth lit her path to the bed. To her delight, she sank onto a feather mattress laid over an under mattress of straw. The blankets were a mix of fleece and fur, with a costly one of green velvet sandwiched between them. A feather bolster ran the width of the headboard, and Louvaen nestled her head into it with a satisfied sigh.
She hadn’t lain in a real bed in five days. The inns along the route she’d taken to Ketach Tor held more vermin than just rats. She’d paid a small amount to sleep in the relative safety of haylofts, her pallet of straw warmed by the horses and cattle sheltered within the stable or barn. She’d slept with the flintlock by her side and a dagger tucked under the makeshift pillow she’d made of Plowfoot’s saddle blanket. Tonight, she’d leave both in their respective places of pouch and sheath. So far, she’d found the denizens of Ketach Tor to be mysterious and downright odd in some cases, but polite and solicitous. And if her supper had been poisoned, well it was too late to cry about it now. Louvaen snuggled deeper under the covers and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
It seemed as if she’d just closed her eyes when bestial cries reverberating through the very walls jerked her out of a deep slumber. Were the bed not partially enclosed, she would have tumbled onto the floor. Her shoulder struck one of the box bed’s sides, snapping her fully awake. Those anguished, tormented sounds made her shudder. De Sauveterre. The tenor of his screams had changed—rage mixed with agony as if he fought against his tormentor and was punished in the most barbarous fashion.
