Page 35 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Ead sensed her warding as she approached the Great Bedchamber. They were laid like traps across the palace. For the first year at court, she had been a tattered nerve, unable to sleep as they rang with movement, but little by little, she had learned to recognize the sensations they sparked in her, and to shift them as if on a counting frame. She had taught herself to notice only when someone was out of place. Or when a stranger came to court.

Inside, Margret was stripping the bed, and Roslain Crest was shaking out plain-woven cloths. Sabran must be near her blood—the monthly reminder that she was not yet swollen with an heir.

Ead joined Margret in her work. She had to tell her about Loth, but it would have to wait until they were alone.

“Mistress Duryan,” Roslain said, breaking the silence.

Ead straightened. “My lady.”

“Lady Katryen has taken ill this morning.” The Chief Gentlewoman hooked one of the cloths on to a silk girdle. “You will taste Her Majesty’s food in her stead.”

Margret frowned.

“Of course,” Ead said calmly.

This was punishment for her deviation during the storytelling. The Ladies of the Bedchamber were rewarded in kind for the risks they took as food-tasters, but for a chamberer, it was a thankless and dangerous chore.

For Ead, it was also an opportunity.

On her way to the Royal Solarium, another opportunity presented itself. Truyde utt Zeedeur was walking behind two other maids of honor. When Ead passed, she took her by the shoulder and drew her aside, breathing into her ear, “Meet me after orisons tomorrow evening, or I will see to it that Her Majesty receives your letters.”

When the other maids of honor looked back, Truyde smiled, as if Ead had told her a joke. Sharp little fox.

“Where?” she said, still smiling.

“The Privy Stair.”

They parted ways.

The Royal Solarium was a quiet haven. Three of its walls jutted out from the Queen Tower, providing a peerless view of the Inysh capital, Ascalon, and the river that wound through it. Columns of stone and woodsmoke rose from its streets. Some two hundred thousand souls called the city their home.

Ead seldom went out there. It was not proper for ladies-in-waiting to be seen quibbling with merchants and toeing through filth.

The sun cast shadows on the floor. The queen was silhouetted at her table, alone but for the Knights of the Body in the doorway. Their partizans crossed in front of Ead.

“Mistress,” one of them said, “you are not due to serve Her Majesty’s meal today.”

Before she could explain, Sabran called, “Who is that?”

“Mistress Ead Duryan, Your Majesty. Your chamberer.”

Silence. Then: “Let her pass.”

The knights stood aside at once. Ead approached the queen, the heels of her shoes making no sound.

“Good morrow, Your Majesty.” She curtsied.

Sabran had already looked back at her gold-enameled prayer book. “Kate should be here.”

“Lady Katryen has taken ill.”

“She was my bedfellow last night. I would know if she was ill.”

“Lady Roslain says it is so,” Ead said. “If it please you, I will taste your food today.”

When she received no reply, Ead sat. This close to Sabran, she could smell her pomander, stuffed with orris root and clove. The Inysh believed such perfumes could ward off illness.

They sat in silence for some time. Sabran’s breast rose and fell steadily, but the set of her jaw betrayed her anger.

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