Mercer blinked several times and returned the mirror to Louvaen. “Enough for now. It’s good she’s there, safe with her new husband. I wish you’d stayed with her, Lou.”
She waved her hand over the glass, scattering the image. “You keep saying that, Papa. What’s changed? I paid this new—and fraudulent—debt. Married and bedded, Cinnia is no longer of interest to Jimenin. And what kind of daughter would I be to leave you in a prison cell?”
“A wise one.” He pushed away his teacup. “This hasn’t been about Cinnia since you returned the first time and paid off my debt with de Sauveterre’s money. This is about you.”
Louvaen spat her tea back into her cup. “Me? You aren’t making sense. Rickety old longshanks Hildebrandt repeated Jimenin’s offer to forgive the debt if you gave him Cinnia in marriage. This was always about her.”
He shook his head. “No. Even if I lost my senses and agreed to such a union, Jimenin would still exact revenge. You out-maneuvered and humiliated him—twice now. He didn’t know when you’d return. By tossing me in the debtor’s tower, he hoped I’d die in there before you returned to Monteblanco. I’m not enfeebled but I’m old, and that’s no place for the healthiest man. He’d have his revenge. No amount of money or threats from you could resurrect me.” His mouth curved into a weak smile. “I expect you took him by surprise when you showed up after only a day.” The smile faded. “He’ll be a man burning with purpose now—eager to destroy you. To be honest, I kept waiting for one of his henchmen to shoot one or both of us on the way home.”
Louvaen buried her face in her hands. “I curse the day that slimy scurf was born.” Her mind whirled with a thousand different thoughts. Reason dictated she heed her father’s warning, especially now after her earlier confrontation with him. And she would, when the quiet came, and she lay in her bed wondering how she’d get out of this calamity. The plans to house Cinnia, Magda and the girls—not to mention Ambrose—might need to change. A new thought struck her. For the first time since she and Ballard had discussed where his household would go after they left Ketach Tor, she was happy at the idea of Ambrose living with them. Jimenin had a pack of minions to do his dirty work; Louvaen had a curmudgeonly old sorcerer. They were more than equally matched. She just had to make sure and avoid her adversary until Ambrose got here.
“Move to another town.” Niamh refilled Mercer’s cup with the last of the tea. “Find someplace else to live away from Jimenin and his influence. Sell your house to the Hildebrandts or the Kadinas. They’ll gladly buy it and rent it out to some merchant for an exorbitant amount and make their money back in less than a year.”
Louvaen’s hackles rose. “I’m staying. Jimenin has already made me run and jump like a trained pony. He won’t chase me out of my home.”
She smiled when Niamh placed an affectionate kiss on the top of Mercer’s head before bustling around the table to the larder. “You can discuss it more later. I know your kitchen as well as my own now, Louvaen. You and your father are knackered. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll have water heated and a little dinner ready when you wake.”
Louvaen didn’t protest. Melancholy had worn her down more than the journey. Now was not the time to wallow in sorrow or regrets. There were too many things to do, too many things to plan, but she couldn’t shake the weight settling deep in her chest that made it hard to breathe and oh so easy to cry. She thanked Niamh for the help, hugged her father and trekked up the stairs with her satchel.
Her room was neater than when she left—the bed made and her books in order on the shelf near the window. Because her father had never been one to wield a duster, she expected a fine layer of dust on everything, but even the mirror was clear and the floor swept. Niamh must have been here with her broom and dust rags.
She dropped the bag on the bed and emptied the contents. Her day frocks and chemise were wrinkled beyond hope. She’d add ironing to her list of tasks if she didn’t want to look like a frazzled drassock. A narrow bundle wrapped in familiar bronze silk fell among the clothes. The dagger Ballard gave her. She left it covered and placed the weapon on the small table by her bed.
His eyes, so dark before the last flux, had revealed a wary hope when he presented her with the knife, as if unsure she’d like the piece. That he offered so fine a gift and in the spirit in which it was given almost brought her to her knees. Thank the gods she had accepted. Other than her memories of him, this was the only thing of his she could call hers.
Or so she thought. A quick shake of the upended satchel gave up a wilted and crushed bit of bittersweet. A soft sob escaped her as she picked up the piece of tendril and twined it around her finger. The battered leaf drooped, curled at the edges but still green. The tears she’d held back since he’d tossed her on Sparrow and sent the horse galloping through the gate flooded her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.
“Remember me.”
She collapsed onto the bed, the bittersweet still clutched in her hand, and curled into a ball of misery. Her closed door and a strategically placed pillow muffled her crying, and she wept until she hiccupped and her eyes swelled nearly shut.
A tickling caress against her ear made her open her eyes. The bittersweet was no longer a lone tendril. During her crying jag, it had grown, watered by sorrow, until it spread across the bed in a verdant net and entwined with her hair. A purple blossom nuzzled her ear before sliding down her neck to wind around her throat.
Louvaen held her breath, waiting. Beautiful and poisonous, the bittersweet was far more fragile than the castle’s hissing roses, and they fluttered over her skin as lovingly as Ballard’s pale hands.
Her fingers slid along one of the tendrils, gently stroking.
“Remember me.”
A command handed down by a man accustomed to leading armies. She’d do as he ordered and remember him, not as the serpent-eyed forest king with his horns and claws, but as the somber, sloe-eyed lord who warmed the sheets and loved her through the long winter nights. His image was the last thing she saw before she fell into an exhausted slumber.
She woke to a dark bedroom. The bed squeaked as she sat up and scrubbed her face with her hands. Afternoon had given way to evening while she slept and the filigree of bittersweet had dwindled to the lone tendril she’d carried from Ketach Tor in her satchel. She cradled it gingerly in her hand and lifted the wilted flower to her mouth for a kiss before placing it on the table next to the queen’s dagger. Still groggy, she shuffled out of her room and down the stairs. She found Niamh in the kitchen, shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she prepared to leave.
Niamh gave Louvaen a quick smile. “I’m for home, Louvaen. There’s stew on the grate, along with tea. And bread on the table.” She set out a cup and fresh pot of tea. “Your father’s in the parlor reading. Do you want me to come by tomorrow?”
Though grateful for the offer of help, Louvaen shook her head. “You’ve your own affairs to attend to, Niamh. You’re always welcome of course, but if you stop by, do so to keep Papa company. I’ll be too busy to entertain him.” She suspected it wouldn’t take much to coax the Widow Cooper over when Mercer was the principal reason to visit.
Her suspicions proved correct when Niamh’s soft features lit up. She patted Louvaen on the shoulder. “Tomorrow then.” She waved as Louvaen called a thank you and disappeared into the parlor.
Louvaen ate her dinner and listened to her father’s and the widow’s murmurings. She couldn’t make out the words, but the affectionate tones were unmistakable. There was a short silence before the front door opened on a creak and closed on a click. Mercer entered the kitchen and settled into his customary seat at the table. She’d left the enchanted mirror with him earlier, and he held it in his hand, fingers tracing the delicate scrollwork on the back. “Feel better, Lou?”
“Much better.” The nap had restored some of her vigor and cooled her anger. She could think and plan without her blood boiling at the merest thought of Jimenin. The crying jag had eased the suffocating pressure in her chest, though she wanted nothing more than to leap on Sparrow’s back and spur him back to Ketach Tor. She poured her father a cup of tea instead and gestured to the mirror. “Want to see her again?”
He passed it to her. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. It’s one of the reasons Ambrose gave me the mirror. Puts my mind at ease to see her and know she’s well.” She called Cinnia’s name and waited for the mist to clear. A small part of her hoped her summons might somehow reveal Ballard in the scene. She hoped in vain. Ambrose had been careful with his magic, enchanting the mirror to limit the spell’s scope only to Cinnia. Ballard would make certain he stayed far enough away from her and out of view.
The glass surface filled with the image of Cinnia, and Louvaen recognized the battered table in the Ketach Tor kitchen. Her sister sat beside Gavin, her lips moving silently as she read from the book in front of her. Mercer stared into the mirror, entranced. “I don’t like the circumstances that will bring her home, but I’d be lying if I said I won’t be happy when she gets here.”
