Page 39 of Heart of Snow
“If you want to succeed in Brussels, you’ll have to school that blush of yours,” I said, my eyes skimming the text. “It gives you away every time.” The first set of pages were all in French, giving me no sense of the book’s topic, but when I flipped to a well-worn page at the rear, I recognized the courtly love poem. “Minnesang?” I glanced at her. “Does Mistress Hatzfeld still plot to entrap me?”
“I haven’t yet told her . . .”
“That I know the truth?”
She started another apology, but I raised a hand, stopping her. “No, no. It’s very clever.” I nodded. “While I read over poetry tolearn the language, my unsuspecting, simple mind is set aflame with ideas of romantic passion.”
She puffed out an embarrassed laugh. “Yes, something like that.”
I let my eyes trail over words I’d already committed to memory.
How vain my deepest plaint of yearning.
No diviner, fairer form hath pleased my heart so well.
But, can my daily torture aid you?
E’en your demeanor hath forced my heart
It ever pierced me to the core.
“I’ve never much cared for Wolkenstein’s odes.” I closed the book. “In truth, I took to calling your brother a heartsick puppy whenever he received women’s letters filled with them.” Back before I had any understanding of tortured yearning or the “ill bargain ’twere to desire’”a woman’s love.
The countess’s head snapped up. “Samuel? Receiving letters of Minnesang?”
“Often. I think he fancied himself in love at one time, but it seemed that love had faded near the end of the war.”
“Samuel in love.” She twisted a golden curl around her finger, her brows furrowing as if she did not approve. “Did this poem find him any success?”
I pulled my eyes away from her twirling finger. “Unlikely. Love doesn’t bloom out of nothing just because one recites a few pretty words.”
“Would that it did,” she muttered. “It would ease my work in Brussels considerably. My greatest worry is my brother will never be freed when his sister is so miserably suited to the task.”
“Thatis your greatest worry?” I leaned toward her. “You’re not afraid for your life? If you’re discovered doing anything to aid your brother, you could be killed.”
“Well, I admit I do fear death.” She bowed her head, tracing a finger over her gown’s design. “There is too much left undone, too many wrongs to right. What if I don’t live long enough to right them?”
The slight woman—looking even smaller pressed into her father’s imposing chair—seemed ready to buckle under the weight of needing to do more. I was half tempted to take her hand and assure her she needn’t bear such a burden, but I fought the instinct.
“No doubt we are very different in that regard,” she said. “I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything after working in mines and going to war and wandering forests alone. With such a life, what could you possibly fear?”
Our eyes met, and I held her gaze, a slow swallow tugging my throat. “I assure you, I have fears enough.” My mind reeled with them just then, my head and heart a tangle of confusion regarding the countess.
“Such as?” Her voice was a whisper.
After everything she’d done, I had no reason to trust her, yet I felt that unfathomable pull to confide truth to her. It must have been the spell of her eyes on mine.
Dropping my gaze, I toyed with a string on my jerkin, letting a deep breath clear my thoughts. “I’ve never been too keen on spiders.”
“Spiders?” she asked incredulously.
“Hairy. Jumpy. Spindly little legs and an unnerving number of eyes. They’re terrifying.”
She laughed out loud, and I returned to my book, concealing the small grin that tilted my lips, but even that smile came with a cost. The ache in my chest reminded me how much it hurt to be near her, enjoying her presence. It would be so much easier to hate her. If only I could shut out the good and remember hermanipulation and lies, perhaps I could harden myself against the pain.
The reflection made me curious. “Countess, could I ask...”
“Yes?”
