ANA DI MEO
22 November 1587 Lutetia
Aulun is such a little distance away.
Ana di Meo fingers a letter sent to her only three days earlier, from Alunear across the channel, and imagines the journey it would continue on for days or even weeks yet, if it had to reach her in Aria Magli. There are mountain ranges in the way, a difficult enough journey in summer; in the winter it's easier to take a ship beyond Essandia's most westerly points and bring it back again into the Primorismare. There are storms to risk, of course, but there are always storms.
And one is brewing now, between Aulun and Gallin.
Ana climbs to her feet, letter held in her fingertips, and collects a warm fur to wrap around her shoulders as she crosses to a window that overlooks Lutetia. It's a grey city in the failing winter light, with the Sacrauna cutting a broad dark slash through it. She's not as close to the water as she'd like to be: after a lifetime of Aria Magli's canals, it surprises her how uncomfortable she is with cobbled streets and so little sound of running water. But she can see the river from her tower, and see the city besides. A cathedral rises up as the landscape's dominant feature, overwhelming even Sandalia de Costa's palace. God reigns here more surely than Man, and Ana supposes the church would have it so. For herself, she'd rather be back in decadant Aria Magli, where God and Man wrestle in the sheets every night and come morning bob and greet each other on the canals like distantly polite strangers. Lutetia thinks itself quite the centre of culture, but Ana finds it stifling.
Rue carves lines in her face and she taps the letter against the windowsill. If it's stifling, it's in part her own fault: she's chosen life in a tower, like a princess or worse, God forbid, a nun. Lovers and servants come to her full of gossip, and she rarely leaves her protected place. Not for her own sake, but because Belinda Primrose has made herself a fixture in the palace, and Ana di Meo, much as she would prefer to stand and watch the young woman weave her way through Lutetian politicians, can't risk Belinda seeing her. Ana knows herself to be striking; men remember her after only a glance, and she shared far more than that with Belinda.
And might have shared more yet, had the girl not drawn back, fever and distress blanching her features. Even now that expression stings Ana, though when Robert Drake had arrived to take Belinda away, much was explained. Ana had thought it revulsion; now she knows it for guilt, and that she can sympathize with. Women of their nature are rarely allowed moments of freedom, and to be caught up when they're stolen...
Well. Ana paid the price for the path they'd looked at travelling, too, as damned by unfettered desire as Belinda had been. Robert had snatched away a chance for a few hours of joy without price, though to hold him accountable is both petty and pointless. She knows that as well as she knows her own name, and also knows her own character well enough to place blame comfortably, whether it was warranted or not. There is little in the way of bitterness in doing so, but everyone, queen or courtesan, counts coup.
Ana unfolds the letter onto the sill, reading over words she has no need to be reminded of. Robert's strong hand is undisguised in the pages, words of loyalty and love scrawled out as though passion had captured him in a fit and forced him to the pen.
He warms her with his promises, even when she reads the requests hidden by careful phrasing. It isn't her love he seeks, but news of Belinda's feelings for Gallin's crown prince. Not Ana's loyalty he wants, nor his own pledged to her, but details of Belinda's to her duty. It's a pity the world is not other than it is, for Ana can imagine one in which Robert's missives to her are nothing of coded questions, and all of the desire and fondness written on the surface.
But that is not this world, and so she calls for a servant to bring warm clothes not at all in the flowing new fashion set by the prince's cheapside friend, and not at all in the startling strong colours Ana prefers. She has her hair disguised beneath a hat, and dismisses the servant to do her own cosmetics, aging herself, and it is a different woman entirely who leaves the courtesan's tower. Gossip carried by lovers is all and well, but if she's to judge Belinda's emotions for Javier, she must see them together.
She joins a host of petitioners to see the queen, confident she won't be called upon: there are dozens of applicants, and she only one drab old woman among them. What matters is slipping through the palace doors and coming into the royal hall. She hasn't been this bold before; when she's taken it upon herself to watch Belinda with her own eyes, she's done it in church, or parks, or city streets, but that has been to watch the girl at play with the other men she's used to reach the prince. To tell Robert what he wants to know, Ana must stand among the privileged and observe without being observed.
And what she realises in moments is that something new has come over Belinda Primrose, a confidence that rivals her lover's. They do not stand together, prince and consort: he sits at his mother's side, a step or two below her while Sandalia listens patiently to a merchant complaining of ruined wares. Belinda stands well away, across the hall from Javier, but their connection is such that it takes Ana's breath. They have a sense of the forbidden about them, strange for a pair whose engagement has been announced. But Ana has no other way to describe the intensity that flows between them. If she didn't know better, she would think them thwarted lovers, ready to die for each other if they could not live together. Nor is she the only one who sees it: murmurs and smiles surround her, courtiers and commoners there to watch young lovers as much as pay attendance to the queen.
Of the two, Belinda is the more reserved: her gaze is cast downward, a picture of modesty in one of the new-fashioned gowns. It makes her look sweet and delectable, like a creature who should be thrown on the floor and tasted of, taking her innocence with tongue and fingers and shaming her modesty when gasps of unlooked-for delight come to her lips. And yet an undercurrent of strain seems to vibrate through her, telling Ana that despite her outward demeanor, Belinda listens, judges, plans. That's good; that's what Robert will want to hear.
But the other, the prince: he watches Belinda more often than he watches the queen or the people who will someday be his. It's his place, Ana supposes, to be the one who looks on her, being a man with no need for decorum. He looks like the one who would would take Belinda on the floor, so much need burning in him that he would hardly bother sending courtiers away first. It's glorious to see, how passion warms his pale skin and how people glance toward Belinda with admiration, as though Javier's lust for her influences their own opinions. Javier is a natural leader, if he can pursuade men so easily that his passions are the ones they should follow. take Belinda on the floor, so much need burning in him that he would hardly bother sending courtiers away first. It's glorious to see, how passion warms his pale skin and how people glance toward Belinda with admiration, as though Javier's lust for her influences their own opinions. Javier is a natural leader, if he can pursuade men so easily that his passions are the ones they should follow.
Robert, Lord Drake, will be very pleased indeed if the prince of Gallin will follow Belinda Primrose to the ends of the earth and beyond.
Satisfied, Ana gathers her skirts and slips out of the palace hall to write a letter of reassurance. Oh, yes, she will write, there is love and lust and loyalty between them, but it runs deeper on Gallin's part than Aulun's, an opinion Robert ought to trust, for there's not a much better judge of character than a whore. And then she'll seal the letter and let a rider take it to a ship and the sea, for Aulun is such a little distance away, and Robert so very close.
BELINDA PRIMROSE / BEATRICE IRVINE
24 November 1587 Lutetia
"Viktor." It had become too easy to use names in the weeks-months, now-that she'd been Beatrice Irvine. It would take retraining to fall out of the habit again, though at least a servant wasn't expected to be on personal terms with her mistress and master. Belinda whispered the guard's name again, almost singing it, and extended witchpower through the word, drifting magic through Sandalia's palace.
She felt him stiffen in more ways than one when her will touched his. Even from the distance his emotions surged, desire mixing with fear to make a potent cocktail. He stepped away from his posting, gaze lingering on Akilina for an instant, a moment in which Belinda thought she could see see the raven-haired woman through his eyes. She was barely dressed for breakfast, wearing a shift of linen and an open robe thrown over it, and her gaze went briefly to her guard, then away again, dismissive as she turned her attention back to her meal. A thrill danced through Belinda at the possibility that another's eyes might be used to spy in such a way, but the images faded so quickly as to have been imagination, as Viktor walked blindly through the halls, drawing closer without seeming to know where his feet took him. Lust all but rolled ahead of him, strong enough that Belinda thought she could smell it, musky and warm in the cool stone hallways. It pricked her own interest, and for a fleeting instant the idea of risking taking her onetime lover anew appealed to her. the raven-haired woman through his eyes. She was barely dressed for breakfast, wearing a shift of linen and an open robe thrown over it, and her gaze went briefly to her guard, then away again, dismissive as she turned her attention back to her meal. A thrill danced through Belinda at the possibility that another's eyes might be used to spy in such a way, but the images faded so quickly as to have been imagination, as Viktor walked blindly through the halls, drawing closer without seeming to know where his feet took him. Lust all but rolled ahead of him, strong enough that Belinda thought she could smell it, musky and warm in the cool stone hallways. It pricked her own interest, and for a fleeting instant the idea of risking taking her onetime lover anew appealed to her.
She cut off a sharp laugh at the back of her throat, making a fist at her side. That impulse was the witchpower, not her own intellect; she'd come to recognize its base desires quickly enough to route them. Anything else would be tantamount to suicide: the prince's soon-to-be wife could not, under any circumstances, be thought unfaithful. Even Sacha had ceased playing at that game, his obsession turned to searching for Eliza, though Belinda still waited for him to betray her to Javier. That she'd set up a defusal for his accusations was a start, but perhaps not enough, and the uncertainty rankled.
Witchpower whispered around the edges of her mind, golden and sultry, offering itself as a method of dealing with the stocky lord. Belinda set her jaw and put the temptation away: power was best used discreetly, and Asselin could be controlled through other means. She would not have wished Eliza to disappear, but it drew Asselin's attention elsewhere, and that was a gift not to be overlooked.
She had yet to confirm a meeting betwixt Asselin and the Khazarian countess, even with Viktor's help, nor had guarded inquiries into the young lord's finances turned up any hint of proof to back her theory of conspiracy between the two. That, too, rankled, though with more of a challenging itch than genuine irritation. Asselin was a surprisingly worthy adversary, his skill at dissembling nearly equal to her own-equal, perhaps, had she not borne the witchpower within her as an unseen weapon. Belinda liked him for his skill and loathed him for what knowledge about her he owned; that she fully intended to bring his life to an unexpected and violent ending seemed a reasonable recourse to the dichotomy of emotion.
A new spill of laughter, less sharp, washed through her at the silent admission. She was unaccustomed to finding herself wishing personal revenge, and wondered if that, too, was the witchpower, or if it was the noblewoman's trappings she'd worn the last few months. A serving girl manhandled by a lord had no path to reprisal, and in a decade of playing those roles Belinda could not, even with her haunting memory, recall a time when resentment had risen up against a man's greedy hands. It was the manner of the world, and nothing was to be done about it. Sacha Asselin had come into her life at the strangest time she could remember, and it would be to his own health's detriment.
Belinda shook herself, turning her gaze out a palace window to watch flakes of snow idle toward the earth. Asselin, half at Javier's request and mostly at his own demand, searched for Eliza, and kept himself out of Belinda's way. For the moment, that was enough. Until Viktor could confirm her suspicions with reports of a meeting, she would focus on tasks closer at hand.
Her thoughts conjured the guard, whose wave of lust rode her again just before he pushed aside heavy velvet curtains that protected Belinda's alcove from the hall, and the hall from winter's chill creeping in around the edges of lead-lined glass. Viktor let the curtain fall behind him, a questionable prudence that Belinda didn't comment on. She could neither afford to be seen with him nor be seen pretending not not to be seen with him, but this floor of the palace was poorly travelled, and the wing she'd chosen even less so. All the better to flip her skirts up and have the man on his knees before her. to be seen with him, but this floor of the palace was poorly travelled, and the wing she'd chosen even less so. All the better to flip her skirts up and have the man on his knees before her.
Viktor's gaze snapped up to hers as if the pulse of heady, dangerous desire she felt had leapt to him in turn. Belinda inhaled, deliberate and sharp through her nostrils, and cursed the very magic that gave her sway over the Khazarian guard. "Well?" She spoke Khazarian, keeping her voice low; the curtains would muffle anything they had to say, but Beatrice Irvine didn't speak Khazarian.
All the more reason to go unseen. A rough guard and a noblewoman from different countries have only one obvious language in common, and Belinda doubted anyone would believe her protestations of innocence, should it come to that. Viktor takes another step toward her as she speaks his tongue, and the question comes into his voice again: "Rosa?"
"I'll be your Rosa." She smiled to hide irritation and walked her fingertips up his chest, feeling witchpower flex and reach for him. Marius and Nina were absurdly easy to manipulate, compared to the stubborn Khazarian guard. Whether it was his familiarity with her old self or something hewn out of dark nights and long winters, Belinda neither knew nor cared. "I'll be your Rosa," she promised again, "if you'll tell me what Sandalia and Akilina discuss. They seem to never see one another. Why is that?"
Consternation creased Viktor's brow. He folded his hand over hers, enveloping it: his hands, like the rest of him, were large. "Sandalia won't see her," he said heavily, then gave her a sly look so open it might have been a child's. "Not during court, at least."
Belinda's heart caught and beat again more painfully, her breath hanging empty in her chest. "When do they meet?"
"While you're spreading your legs for the count," Viktor said nastily. "No, the prince. It's hard to remember, Ros-ah!" His voice cracked as Belinda caught a hand between his legs, barely stopping herself from making it a blow. It required trembling concentration to turn it into a caress, anger and power sparking through her. Viktor's eyes glazed as she stroked him, her own pulse rising and heat pooling between her thighs.
"Does it take the actual act? Is that why Marius and Nina were so easy, and you stand against me?" She whispered the questions in Aulunian as she rucked her dress up a palmful at a time. "Do you want to fuck me, Viktor?" That, she spoke in his own language, as if words were needed. He shuddered and dropped his breeches all in a single action, Belinda gasping with unexpected pleasure as he took her an instant later. Witchpower washed over her vision until she saw only gold, and with her mouth against his skin she whispered, "You do not know me, Viktor. I'm Beatrice Irvine, not your Rosa, and you must forget me and her when you walk away from this." She sent a trickle of stillness through the power, holding him away from climax. "But first tell me when Akilina and Sandalia meet, and why."
He groaned in protest, thrusting harder into her in search of his own pleasure. Belinda laughed, quiet liquid sound, and let her head fall back, riding his strength inside her for her own benefit. "Tell me, and I'll let you finish," she promised, and out of selfishness, murmured, "but keep doing that." A woman could separate out words from pleasure; surely a man could as well. Viktor's desperate grunts and fierce rutting seemed to belie that logic, and impatience took her. The witchpower stillness resided in him; she withdrew it and filled him instead with her own building desire. He cried out more loudly than he ought to have, strangled sound of release, and she forewent the urge for satisfaction to snap, "Now, Viktor, tell me of Sandalia and Akilina." Viktor, tell me of Sandalia and Akilina."
And finally, in gasping words, he did.
AKILINA PANKEJEFF, DVORYANIN
24 November 1587 Lutetia
Akilina watches Viktor slip out of the alcove, and taps a toe against the chilly floor. Her feet ache from the hard stone and her toenails are edged with blue from cold, but bare feet and the soft shift she wears made no sound as she followed her guardsman through the palace, unbeknownst to him and very clearly unbeknownst to Beatrice Irvine. Explaining her outfit will be unnecessary, should she come upon a courtier as she returns to her rooms: she is, after all, Khazarian, and can use that as an excuse for any oddities in behavior the palace hangers-on might observe.
She heard very little of the conversation from her hideaway; she heard much more clearly the sounds of passion. That alone would be enough to condemn Irvine on; Akilina is a countess and a noblewoman of repute, and Irvine is almost nothing. Even backed by her lover-by Javier, Akilina corrects her own thought, as it appears the term lover lover can be used generously when speaking of Beatrice Irvine-even backed by a prince's belief, Irvine's reputation would be shattered with Akilina's accusations of infidelity. Javier would have to put her aside. can be used generously when speaking of Beatrice Irvine-even backed by a prince's belief, Irvine's reputation would be shattered with Akilina's accusations of infidelity. Javier would have to put her aside.
But better still is the fact that what words Akilina did catch spoken between the lovers were spoken in Khazarian. That lends strength to Viktor's feverish insistence that he knew this woman on Gregori's estates in Khazar: at the very least, she has the tongue for it.
Ruining Javier's marriage is a delightful end in and of itself, but discovering the truth of who Beatrice Irvine is is the far more entertaining game. Akilina tucks her shift beneath her feet and stands watch, waiting for Beatrice to leave the alcove down the hall so that she might say she saw the assignation with her own eyes, both lovers identified.
In time, the curtains shift, but no one emerges. Akilina frowns and watches more closely, keeping her place until afternoon sun has crept around the palace to pour into her nook. Aching from sitting on stone and weary with the wait, Akilina rises and stalks down the hall to push back the velvet curtains.
No one at all is within the alcove.
It's only then that she remembers Viktor's flushed cheeks, the sickness that seems to ride him, and his mumbled accusation of witchcraft.
BELINDA PRIMROSE / BEATRICE IRVINE
25 November 1587 Lutetia
Belinda curtsied deeply enough to border on the absurd, keeping her eyes lowered and the deferential pose until Sandalia flickered her fingers, a gesture Javier had surely learned from her. And Eliza had learned it in turn, Belinda thought as she rose. The bruise on her jaw had faded-avoiding Javier's mother for the days it took to heal had been a challenge-and Belinda had taken care in dressing that morning, knowing Sandalia would insist on seeing her. Her gown was flattering, though not one of Eliza's new fashions; whether she chose to dress as Eliza had set fashion or not, it would remind the queen of her son's missing friend, and Belinda found she preferred the more familiar armour of an older style.
Sandalia, in contrast, wore one of Eliza's high-waisted gowns, and looked ravishing-or ravishable. She wore her nearly forty years well, but with the costume's soft lines and attention drawn to her bosom, she seemed some sort of Madonna, full of beauty and grace. Belinda curled the tiniest of smiles as she straightened, pleased beyond expectation that she'd been correct in the style suiting the Gallic regent. "Do we amuse you, Lady Irvine?" Sandalia's voice was cool; she knew as well as Belinda did that Belinda had been avoiding her, and a queen did not like to be treated thus.
"Not at all," Belinda said, then gambled on Beatrice's impetuosity and added, "It's just that Your Majesty is lovelier than I'd even imagined. Forgive me for being so bold, but the fashion suits you wonderfully."
Sandalia's mouth thinned momentarily, dry humour infusing her voice. "As you suggested it might. Will you now go to the Aulunian queen and mock her for the same dress?"
Belinda bobbed another curtsey and dared a brief, brilliant smile. "As Your Majesty commands. I would beg leave to bring a court artist with me, that he might sketch her expression when I do so."
Sandalia's mouth twitched again and she rose in a swirl of gossamer skirts. "We cannot decide if our son likes you for your tongue, Lady Beatrice, or if he likes you despite it. Walk with us." She stepped down from the throne dais to Belinda's side, startling the younger woman with her diminutive size. Even crowned-not heavily; the crowns of state were left for formal affairs, and Sandalia's daily tiara was a delicate thing of gold and jewels-even crowned, Belinda could easily see over the top of the regent's head, and heard herself ask, impertinently, "Was my lord's father a tall man, Your Majesty?"
Astonishing silence fled out around them, the courtiers who caught the question falling quiet so quickly it made others do the same, craning to see what they'd missed. Sandalia turned her head to look up the few inches at Belinda so slowly that for long seconds it barely seemed the queen moved. Her expression, when their eyes met, went beyond outrage into incredulity, and Belinda wished desperately for the ability to call a blush on command. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I have no idea what came into me."
"You have no sense at all, girl," Sandalia said. "If Javier doesn't teach you to control that tongue he'd best cut it out. You cannot say such things."
"Your Majesty." Belinda put mortification into her voice, though that same impertinent part of her wanted to insist that she certainly could, though she clearly should not. God in Heaven, if this was what the witchpower brought out in her, Robert had been righter than he knew. A lifetime would be too soon to unleash the foolishness she found herself playing at.
And yet the question pricked her curiosity. Louis had not, from description, been an especially tall man, and paintings showed him as pale and aesthete, with none of Javier's height or colour. Belinda had no way to determine whether witchpower burned inside someone from a portrait, but looking on Louis's image, she would far more imagine his tiny, once-widowed bride to carry magic within her blood, and knew that Sandalia did not. It was far from proof, but it whet her appetite for the truth, and so she laid the question out and hoped, despite her appalling rudeness, that Sandalia might say something indiscreet in response.
"Louis was taller than I" was Sandalia's reply, after a frosty silence that brought them both out of the courtroom and toward Sandalia's more private meeting chambers. Surprise curdled in Belinda's stomach as she realised the queen had dropped formality; whether it was a sign of liking Belinda despite her unfortunate tendency to speak her mind, or whether she intended to appear soft until bitter hardness was necessary, Belinda was unsure. "As you so rudely implied, however, most people are. Perhaps Javier's length is from his uncle; Rodrigo, whom you have not met, is quite tall."
"And dark," Belinda said. "I've seen a portrait. He's extremely handsome."
Sandalia smiled unexpectedly. "He is. I would that he had wed and had children of his own. But there's always Lorraine," she added, dryness returning to her tone again. "Do you understand the political situation there, Beatrice? You give lip service to Lanyarch's freedom, but do you understand?"
For a moment Belinda imagined herself flanked by Sandalia on one side and her father on the other. It took effort to not glance to the side, looking for Robert, and she schooled her voice to show no amusement as she replied. "Henry of Aulun's first wife was sister to your father. There is no surviving Walter heir from that union; Constance, their one daughter, is dead these thirty-some years. Lorraine's a bastard child begotten through desperation that severed Aulun from Cordula and birthed the Reformation Church, and she, too, is without an heir." Belinda drew a breath. "She's run Lanyarch's royal blood into the earth, leaving you the wedded queen to the throne, but without a child of Lanyarchan blood. Rodrigo woos Lorraine still, more in Cordula's name than his own, though if he should succeed, such a marriage might legitimize Javier's claim to any throne on the islands. In her eyes you and Javier, who are not of Aulunian blood, but who can trace line of descent to her throne, are pretenders to her crown, and dangerous."
"And it is your opinion...?" Sandalia's voice was so steady she might have respected the opinion Belinda offered, though in contrast to her vocal quality, humour sparked around her to Belinda's witchpower senses.
"That with no legitimate Walter heirs, Aulun should be ruled by the royal family closest to it. There are those in Aulun who would make themselves kings," Belinda admitted with a shrug, "but the de Costas already bear God's seal of approval, and through Catherine you and Rodrigo are..." Too late, far, far too late, she recognized the injudiciousness of being so free with her opinions. She had, for a terrible moment, shared Beatrice's naive beliefs, that faith and rightness and God's will would protect her. That as a woman engaged to a prince, she might speak frankly to that prince's mother and have her opinions respected and considered. That Javier would protect her, even when she spoke sedition to a queen.
Her stomach knotted, knocking upward so hard as to make her teeth set with the impact; it took sudden and frantic control to not let that reaction complete itself. She spoke without swallowing down sickness, forcing herself to remain untouched visibly by raging alarm, and finished, "possibilities." If it was a trap, it was neatly set, and she was all the more a fool for stepping into it. If it was a trap, she richly deserved its jaws closing around her.
"You are a fool," Sandalia said. "Either a fool or so trusting as to be one, and I can afford neither. You're a political tool, Beatrice." The tiny queen turned to face Belinda, eyes large and dark and utterly without mercy in her heart-shaped face. "You'll help us to see if Lorraine can be shaken loose from her throne, but you will not marry my son, even if he should insist on it."
"Your Majesty-" It took appallingly little effort to put the quaver in her voice, Belinda's hands cold with dismay. She knew better, had been trained better, and had still let herself be led. Witchpower danced golden and warm through her mind, uncaring of the danger she danced with. "Yes, Your Majesty, of course, but how-"
Sandalia offered a smile that laid her open to the bone. "You'll find a way to make him hate you, my dear."
"Oh...oh, no, I couldn't, I...I lo-" The words stuck in her throat, bringing warmth to her cheeks. Belinda clenched her hands in her skirts, allowing Beatrice's distress to override the coldness pounding within her. Denying the desperation with which she wished to wrap herself in stillness and forbid anything to touch her. The words that finished her protest were the emotions of a silly noblewoman, not of Belinda Primrose. Her heart fluttered and beat against her ribs, a wild thing trying to escape the sickness inside her. She was Belinda Primrose, the queen's bastard, an assassin and a spy, and she could not love a prince.
Sandalia's smile turned positively radiant, bringing a beautiful glow of youth and good health to the pretty queen. "You will," she said implacably. "You will, Lady Irvine, because our solution would be far less pleasant than that. We are finished with this discussion." She flickered her fingers, shared language of the body from queen to gutter rat, and said, pleasantly, "You're dismissed."
Belinda, uncaring of her dignity, of her lifetime of trained untouchability, uncaring of anything but the bewildering, consuming ache that rattled her bones and took her breath, gathered her skirts, dipped a clumsy curtsey, and fled.
SANDALIA, QUEEN AND REGENT
5 December 1587 Lutetia
"That's her. That's the witch who did Lord Gregori to death." The girl standing in Sandalia's private chambers might be pretty, did hate not so contort her features. She is young, perhaps nineteen, with blond hair so thick and heavy she could be dangled from it. Her hands are clenched in her skirts, making wrinkles of plain working fabric, and she's terribly afraid of her surroundings. "I don't care that she's all tarted up and dressed as a lady. That's Rosa."
She speaks Khazarian, a tongue that Sandalia has only in smatterings. Sandalia looks to her translator, who repeats the girl's words back in Gallic. Sandalia nods slowly, and doesn't laugh: the wretched creature is using hate to push away fear, and Sandalia is not one inclined to believe accusations of witchcraft from the frightened. "Why do you think she's a witch?" She lets the translator do her work and keeps her focus on the girl whose face tightens with rage and, unless Sandalia is greatly mistaken, envy.
"Lord Gregori was strong and fit, my lady. A fever came on him too fast to be natural, not in the summer. Winter's the time for sicknesses like that. It came on him when she she came-" came-"
Sandalia lifts a hand as the translator speaks, and the girl breaks off. "When-Rosa-arrived in Gregori's household? That was when he became ill?"
The servant curls her lip reluctantly. "No, not till she went to his bed."
Sandalia once more refuses a smile, and nods for the girl to continue. "She went at him without stopping for three days, and on the fourth he was dead. Then she ran, like the craven devil's creature that she is. Why would she run, if she hadn't done him to death?"
Sandalia knows enough not to argue that question with the girl, either. Instead, she murmurs, "Why, indeed," which is translated to the serving girl's obvious delight. "You're certain it's the same woman," Sandalia says one final time, and the girl tosses her head with a sniff.
"Sure as the sky is blue." There's such a sparkle of laughter in the translator's voice that Sandalia suspects the servant said something far more crude, and that diplomacy has won out over accuracy.