Page 83 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“I know she would, but Mama insists I stay here. She says Papa most likely has no idea what he is saying, and that it is my duty to remain—but in truth, I think she is living through me.” With a sigh, Margret tucked the letter into her bodice. “You know . . . I was fool enough to think the Master of the Posts would have something from Loth.”

“He may have written.” Ead helped her lift a fustian. “Combe intercepts every letter.”

“Then perhaps I shall write a letter saying what a cur he is,” Margret muttered.

Ead smiled. “I would pay to see his face. Speaking of which,” she added, quieter, “I was just offered payment of my own. In exchange for petitioning the queen.”

Margret looked up at her, eyebrows raised. “Who from?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Zeedeur. She wants me to speak for Niclays Roos.”

“That will do you no good. Loth told me Sabran hates that man with a passion.” Margret glanced at the door. “You be careful, Ead. She lets Ros and Kate get away with it, but Sab is no fool. She knows when the whispers in her ear are too sweet.”

“I have no intention of playing those games.” Ead touched her elbow. “I think Loth will be all right, Meg. He knows now that the world is more dangerous than it seems.”

Margret snorted. “You think too highly of his wits. Loth will trust anyone who smiles at him.”

“I know.” Ead took her by the shoulders and steered her to the door. “Now, go and drink some hot wine at the dance. I am sure Captain Lintley would be pleased to see you.”

“Captain Lintley?”

“Yes. The very gallant Captain Lintley.”

Margret was a little bright-eyed as she left.

Linora was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was still dancing. Ead secured the Royal Bedchamber alone. Unlike the room at Ascalon Palace, it had two entrances. The Great Door was for the queen, the Little Door for her consort.

There had been no attempts on Sabran since the betrothal was announced, but Ead knew it must only be a matter of time. She checked the featherbed, looked behind the curtains, searched every wall and tapestry and floorboard. There was no secret third way in, she was sure, but the possibility that she had missed something nudged at her. At least Chassar had laid new wardings on the threshold, stronger than her own. He had recently eaten of the fruit.

Ead plumped the little pillows and replenished the closet. She was closing a hot coal into a bedwarmer when Sabran stepped into the room. Ead stood and curtsied.

“Majesty.”

Sabran looked her up and down with half-lidded eyes. She wore a sleeveless rail over her nightgown, and a blue sash around her waist. Ead had never seen her so undressed.

“Forgive me,” Ead said, to fill the silence. “I thought you would not retire until later.”

“I have slept ill of late. Doctor Bourn tells me I should try to retire by ten of the clock to promote a quiet mind, or some such,” Sabran said. “Do you know some cure for sleeplessness, Ead?”

“Do you take anything presently, madam?”

“Sleepwater. Sometimes caudle, if the night is cold.”

Sleepwater was the Inysh name for a decoction of setwall. While it had some medicinal properties, it was clearly doing little good.

“I would recommend lavender, earthapple, and creamgrail root, simmered in milk,” Ead said, “with one spoonful of rosewater.”

“Rosewater.”

“Yes, madam. In the Ersyr, they say the scent of the rose brings sweet dreams.”

Slowly, Sabran unfastened her sash.

“I will taste your remedy. Nothing else has worked,” she said. “When Kate comes, you may tell her what to bring.”

Ead approached with the barest nod and took the sash from her. Sabran’s eyes were circled with shadow.

“Does something trouble Your Majesty?” Ead helped her out of the rail. “Something that disquiets your sleep?”

---