‘Is this your dress?’ Samsel asked suddenly, bending over the peach gown.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s pretty. Will it fit you?’ He looked up and bared his teeth in a grin. ‘You’re getting older and older – and bigger and bigger.’
Cressyda drew herself up tall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of rankling her. ‘What do you want, Samsel?’ she asked.
‘No need to be like that, Little Pet. I just came to speak to you.’ He took a step closer. She could smell the harsh, noxious scent of his cologne. ‘I wanted to tell you that …’ His voice dipped lower. ‘I know your secret.’
Cressyda’s heart thudded. ‘My secret?’ she replied, fighting to keep her tone light, while her panicked thoughts began latching on to every possibility at once. ‘What … what do you mean?’
‘Last moon at the Summer Carnevale, you took one of your funny turns on the balcony,’ said Samsel. ‘I happened to be standing off to your side and I noticed you staring at something just before you caused all that commotion.’
Icy fear gripped Cressyda’s chest. She told herself to stay calm. To breathe. To not let him see the fear that threatened to surface.
‘You were staring at something that wasn’t there,’ added Samsel.
‘I … I don’t understand,’ she managed.
‘Neither did I at first. But I spoke to our old Master – poor, ancient man is also not long for this realm – and he told me a few interesting things that he’d also noticed about you over the winters.’
Cressyda hugged her arms tighter around herself. ‘I don’t know what you mean …’
But even she did not think that she sounded very convincing.
‘You’ve got the Sight,’ said Samsel.
There was a beat of silence.
Cressyda blinked, bewilderment fighting with her panic. Sheswallowed, trying to process the unfamiliar meaning of his words, implications curling through her mind. ‘The Sight?’ she whispered. She had never heard that phrase before.
‘Yes, that’s what our dear old Master suspects.’
‘What’s the Sight?’
Samsel peered at her and his grin grew wider. ‘You didn’t realize? I thought you were cleverer than that, Little Pet. All those books you’ve read.’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘It means you have Mountain blood,’ he added. ‘You’re one ofthem.’
Before she could stop it, a gasp escaped Cressyda’s lips.
‘Of course we can’t be certain until we find out exactly where you came from. But I’m making enquiries.’
Cressyda stared at him, swaying sightly on her feet in a daze. Her thoughts spun back to the maid that morning who had spoken in the low, husky cadence of the Mountain folk. She was one ofthem. The revelation left a fluttering heat deep in her chest, equal parts fear and awe.
‘But—’
Samsel raised a finger. ‘It’s a secret. It’s our secret.’ He moved closer. ‘It makes sense. Master Jakespurcia said that you must have some magical propensity because the beauty enhancements stick to you too well. They make you quite lovely.’
But Cressyda was not listening. She grasped hold of the edge of her bed to steady herself. So many winters of searching, so much anxiety and fear, and now here was her answer. The Sight. The words blazed through her mind. She did not understand what it meant, but she was going to find out.
A knock sounded and the door swung open.
‘Oh, Your Highness!’ squeaked a maid, hurriedly ducking into a deep curtsey.
Still reeling from it all, Cressyda had not noticed that Samsel had inched closer to her, his faced hovering above her own. She stepped back.
‘My maid is here. Please excuse me,’ she said.
For a moment, Samsel looked as though he might refuse to leave. Then he smiled. ‘Of course.’ He turned and strode across the room, casting the quivering maid a disdainful look. At the door he paused. ‘Remember our secret,Princess,’ he called, his dark, wet eyes glistening. Then he disappeared.
