This explains the tales she has heard of Elbenese raids upon the Feorwan Isles. She rarely pays attention to matters of international politics, which are too broad and impersonal to hold her interest, but that she did find curious. The Feorwan Isles have been under Elbenese rule for a century or more, and it is unlike her brother to exact punishment needlessly. Now it makes sense – Henry is ensuring their loyalty.
Lorena edges closer to Cecilia. “Would you like me to rub your shoulders? You have been long at your work; your back must be aching.”
“Do not fuss over me,” Cecilia says, striding past Lorena and sitting back in front of the tapestry, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She throws Lorena her most scornful look. “You are being a mother. You know what I did to my mother.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Lorena says.
“What did I do to my mother?”
Cecilia wants to hear her say it.
“You killed her, Your Highness.”
“I did. I killed her.”
Lorena bites her lip. If she says what Cecilia knows she wants to say – you were a baby, she would not resent you her life – Cecilia will drive the needle into Lorena’s arm. There is a litany of pinprick scars across Lorena’s skin from many years of displeasing her queen. Cecilia would rather like to see whether there is a point at which Lorena will break. She has not found it yet. One day. One day, when she no longer desires her company, she will find that point.
Cecilia picks up her needle once more. Her shouldersareaching.
“You may rub me, I suppose,” she says.
Lorena stands behind her, studiously not looking at the tapestry. She begins to rub Cecilia’s shoulders, just the way Cecilia enjoys. Cecilia sighs, then she groans, knowing the sound will make Lorena uncomfortable.
“Would you like me to engage the doctrini?” Lorena says.
“Six.”
“So many for one woman?”
“Are you ignorant? Do you not recall what More said about the panther?”
Lorena increases the pressure on Cecilia’s shoulders.
“I am a little afraid for her,” she says.
“You know as well as I that people are far better weapons than swords. In my hands, at least.”
“And now I am very much afraid for her.”
Cecilia holds up a hand. Lorena stops and moves to one side so that she can be seen.
“You have not commented on your present,” Cecilia says, angling her head towards the tapestry. Lorena looks reluctantly, and Cecilia takes the opportunity to reach out and flick the embroidered nipple, watching Lorena’s reaction all the while. Nothing. Even worse – a flash of boredom.
“It is beautiful work as always, Your Highness. I am fortunate indeed to be the recipient of such generosity,” Lorena says.
Heat rises in Cecilia. “You are in my space,” she says. Lorena steps backwards and sinks to the floor. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”
Anyone else and Cecilia would have cut off their hands, or hobbled them. But then Lorena has always known how to appeal to Cecilia’s softer instincts; has done ever since Cecilia met her on her first night on foreign soil, days before her wedding to the strange, ailing king of Capetia. He had gifted Cecilia seven ladies-in-waiting, and Lorena with her purring accent, not quite Capetian, not quite Perfugian, had understood immediately how to wrestle with Cecilia’s wit. Lorena, the widowed Duchess of Giralve, with her voice like steel and her posture like the ancient oak trees that line High Hall’s pathways.
Cecilia flicks her wrist, dismissing the woman. Lorena backs out, her eyes lowered. By the time she reaches the door, Cecilia has thought of another way to needle her.
“Send your brother to me,” she says.
The ploy works, no matter how hard Lorena tries to conceal it. In the little flash of her eyes, Cecilia reads hatred, disappointment, fear and resignation. But Lorena only says, “Of course, Your Highness,” before excusing herself.
Cecilia examines the tapestry. Days of work, and now when she looks at it, all she can see is Lorena’s boredom. She selects the one knife in her collection of needles. She punctures the tapestry in silence, first the face, then the nipple and the hint of bare leg. It isn’t enough. Her stabs turn to slashes, until the whole piece is fluttering ribbons.
By the time the boy Florin slides into her room and bows, she has worked up an appetite.
