Page 101 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Yes, Your Majesty. You looked magnificent.”

“Do I not still?”

She asked it lightly, but Ead heard the trace of doubt in her voice.

“You are always beautiful, madam.” Ead worked the hook free and slipped the jewels from about her throat. “But in my eyes . . . never more so than you are now.”

Sabran looked at her.

“Do you suppose,” she said, “that Prince Aubrecht will find me so?”

“His Royal Highness is mad or a fool if he does not.”

Their gazes pulled apart when Roslain returned to the chamber. She approached Sabran and set about unlacing her corset.

“Ead,” she said, “the nightgown.”

“Yes, my lady.”

While Ead found a pan to warm the garment, Sabran raised her arms, allowing Roslain to slip her shift over her head. The two Ladies of the Bedchamber took their queen to the washbasin, where they cleaned her from head to toe. As she smoothed the nightgown, Ead stole a glance.

Divested of her regalia, Sabran Berethnet did not look like the scion of any saint, false or true. She was mortal. Still imposing, still graceful, but softer, somehow.

Her body was a sandglass. Round hips, a small waist, and full breasts, the nipples whetted. Long legs, strong from riding. When she saw the dusk between them, a chill flickered through Ead.

She wrenched her attention back to her task. The Inysh were squeamish about nakedness. She had not seen a disrobed body that was not her own in years.

“Ros,” Sabran said, “will it hurt?”

Roslain patted her skin dry with clean linen. “It can a little, at first,” she said, “but not for long. And not if His Royal Highness is . . . attentive.”

Sabran stared into the room without seeming to see it. She turned her love-knot ring.

“What if I cannot conceive?”

In the silence that followed that question, a mouse could not have breathed unheard.

“Sabran,” Katryen said gently, taking her arm, “of course you will.”

Ead kept quiet. This seemed like a conversation only for the intimates, but no one had ordered her to leave.

“My grandmother could not for many years,” Sabran murmured. “High Westerns are on the wing. Yscalin has betrayed me. If Fýredel and Sigoso invade Inys and I have no heir—”

“You will have an heir. Queen Jillian gave birth to a beautiful daughter, your lady mother. And soon enough, you will be a mother, too.” Roslain rested her chin on Sabran’s shoulder. “After it is done, lie still for a time, and sleep on your back.”

Sabran leaned into her.

“I wish Loth had been here,” she said. “He was to be my giver. I promised him.” Now the powder was gone, the bruise-like marks under her eyes had never looked starker. “Now he is . . . lost. Somewhere in Cárscaro. And I am powerless to reach him.”

“Loth will be all right. I have faith that he will come home soon.” Roslain held her closer. “And when he does, he will bring news of your lord father.”

“Another missing face. Loth and Father . . . and Bella, too. Loyal Bella, who served three queens.” Sabran closed her eyes. “It bodes ill that she died so near to this day. In the bed where—”

“Sabran,” Roslain said, “this is your wedding night. You must not have these dark thoughts, or they will taint the seed.”

Ead emptied the pan back into the hearth. She wondered if the Inysh knew anything useful about childing, or if their physicians dealt in naught but guesswork.

As the hour approached, the queen grew quiet. Roslain whispered guidance in her ear, and Katryen combed every petal from her hair.

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