This epiphany was a simple and obvious one, childish almost, but it filled her with a frantic sort of joy. In this house, Adele-Blanche’s ghost did not dare tread. The artist would never paint such a gruesome event as death. And so Agnes’s good hand moved to the platter of roast boar in front of her. She speared a piece with her knife. A dark spurt of oily blood welled up around the blade.
She lifted the meat to her mouth and ate it. For the first time since Adele-Blanche had torn her infant brother’s limbs asunder, Agnes tasted the flesh of another creature. Rich, steaming, the half-burnt skin crackling on her tongue, her teeth tearing through the rubbery ring of fat. They felt soft and dull, her teeth, but as she worked the meat in her mouth, one tentative chew at a time, they seemed to sharpen within moments, as if whetted against a stone. This was their very purpose, and they had been deprived of it for so long, like a soldier starved of fight, a monk forbidden from prayer.
It tasted of gristle and salt, flavors foreign to her, so when Agnes swallowed she half expected the meat to come immediately back up and choke her. She would have been humiliated to spit up themasticated food onto her plate. But she need not have feared this; it was her throat’s purpose, too, to swallow. Her stomach welcomed the boar’s meat as a parched tongue welcomes water.
Water, she thought. And then—no. Wine. She reached for the carafe on the table.
She became suddenly aware that Liuprand was watching her closely. He spoke no words, but his gaze was steady, unblinking. She poured the wine, that gleaming, ruby-hued elixir so long forbidden to her, and then swirled it in her cup until the sediment was distributed evenly, until it was absorbed into the liquid. Then she raised the brimming cup to her lips and drank.
Her first swallow was sweet, her second bitter, then her third sweet again. With each sip, Adele-Blanche’s ghost screamed and rioted; it rattled the cold manacles of death. But the chains were adamant and could not be broken. And Agnes closed the dungeon door in her mind, and then she walked away down the long gray corridor, until her grandmother’s delirious, phantasmal protests were lost with distance.
The ball and chain broke from her own ankle. The corridor broadened, and the walls themselves fell away. Agnes walked farther, and then she was free.
And somehow Liuprand had seen it all, had seen the prison in her mind, the chains, the smothered screams of the ghost. She knew he had seen it because where there had been grief in his gaze, there was now a soft varnish of joy. She did not know how he saw these workings inside her, or how she could perceive this knowing from him, but Agnes was sure, as sure as a seasoned warrior’s blow, that the walls of her cell were shattered. And the felicity of her freedom was Liuprand’s felicity, too.
He nudged a platter of soft cheese drizzled with honey. “Here,” he said. “Try this.”
She did. The rest of the table was oblivious to the ecstasy of her feasting; they did not know this was an ascetic’s first indulgence, her first brush with the sumptuous pleasures of the world. She shared thiseuphoric moment only with Liuprand. His golden aura touched her, and her rapture touched him, even if their bodies were still separated by that unbreachable chasm.
This bliss was interrupted by the sound of a scraping chair. Fredegar’s leech, Pliny, stood, holding his cup of wine aloft.
“If you will permit a few words from a humble leech,” he said, “then I would offer my most redoubtable and sincere congratulations to my lord and his lady wife. May their marriage be joyous, and their union be fruitful.”
There were scattered murmurs of agreement from the table, and Fredegar nodded at his leech and smiled fondly. But there was one face among them that did not smile, one mouth that did not utter a glad word. It was Unruoching, sat beside his father, who twisted his lips into a scowl and did not speak.
This was exceptionally untoward, beyond what most men would tolerate, but Fredegar did not appear even to notice. He was looking at Pliny with a misty gaze, deeply moved by the leech’s words. The love between the two of them was clear. It was beyond the love of a servant for his master; it seemed to Agnes a true and equal affection, one of friend to friend. She had seen a similar fondness between Liuprand and Waltrude—a love so bold and lasting that it had stretched to encompass Agnes as well. She was happy to know that, even when Liuprand was gone from the House of Blood, this enduring love would keep Waltrude at her side.
Unruoching took a long sip from his wine and then set the glass down with much greater force than necessary, making the dinnerware on the table all clatter and tremble.
“Are you well, my son?” Fredegar asked. There was no ire or provocation in the question; he was sincere in his concern.
Unruoching lifted his eyes. They were lidded, their color endlessly shifting, and there was a slight sheen on his face that made Agnes wonder if he was too deep into his wine. After a long moment, he said, “I feel a bit fatigued. From all the excitement of the day. It is best if I retire early.”
“Yes, do not tire yourself needlessly,” Fredegar said. “Sleep well, and return hale tomorrow.”
“I will, Father,” Unruoching said, and the words came out of him strained, as if his tongue were too thick in his mouth. He was wine-weary, Agnes decided. She had not been paying too close attention over the course of the meal, but he had drained that last glass so quickly.
Unruoching rose from his seat. “Good night, all. My prince. Lady Agnes.” He nodded to each of them in turn, but his gaze lingered on Agnes for an uncomfortable beat. “What a joyous thing, to welcome such an esteemed lady to this house.”
Yet his tone held no joy at all. Agnes could well imagine why he would not be pleased with this union. If a child were to be produced, it might threaten his status as his father’s heir, though the obvious love Fredegar held for his son made Agnes doubt very much that this would come to pass. Still, he had reason to be wary of her, not least because she was Adele-Blanche’s blood.
Yet curiously, when he spoke to Liuprand, his voice filled with reverence.
“It has been an honor to host you, my good prince,” Unruoching said, eyes glittering beetle-bright. “I hope that with this union, you will look even more favorably upon the House of Blood, both now and in the future. As my father’s heir, I promise to serve you most loyally.”
So cloying were the words that Agnes felt compelled to look down the table for the reactions of the other guests. She did not understand Unruoching’s grasping plaudits. Surely he should resent Liuprand, the architect of this union, of his new, more precarious life.
Fredegar regarded his son, as he always did, with a father’s uncomplicated affection. Liuprand appeared unnerved, but it was so subtle that only Agnes, who knew him well, would notice that faint furrow in his brow, the slight narrowing of his eyes. Yet it was Pliny whose expression captured her attention. His displeasure was not subtle. He stared up at Unruoching with immense chagrin on his wizened, rather jowly face.
“Your loyalty is most welcome,” Liuprand said. “Good night, Lord Unruoching.”
“Good night, my prince.”
And then, with a deep bow, Unruoching was gone. His footsteps were hurried, and their sound was lost quickly to distance. There was only a short beat of silence before Fredegar clapped his hands together and said amiably, “Please, do not cease the festivities on my son’s account. A man of my age must make the most of every moment of gaiety.”
There was scattered laughter, genuine and jubilant. Dinnerware clinked; wine was imbibed once more. Conversations resumed. Agnes could not help but let her gaze linger on her husband, this broad, gentle creature beside her. His walls, the solid, still walls of the House of Blood, were flowering up around her as the bars of her prison flaked away with rust and crumbled.
It took her several moments to notice that Liuprand was watching her. She turned to him, the fond smile for Fredegar still on her face.
