Page 102 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
“Would that work?” she asked hopefully.
“Maybe. Depending on who’s at the door. Should I answer it first and see?”
“Go!” she ordered, pointing to the other room.
He rose from the bed and frowned. “Kings aren’t usually banished to bath chambers.”
“In my quarters there are no kings, only guests—now go. Hurry.”
His eyes brushed the length of her. “I think I was more than a guest last night.”
Heat rushed through her, like he was touching her in all the ways he had the night before. He was far more than a guest; he had said and done things that no guest ever would, and she wanted him to do it all over again. She saw in the glint lighting his eyes that he knew it, too. The arrogant bastard.
The tap again.
“Please, Tyghan.”
He grinned and nodded, snatching his scattered clothes from the floor before retreating to the bath chamber.
She yanked the sheet from the bed, wrapping it tightly around her as she hurried to the door, but before she reached it, the door swung open. Madame Chastain burst in carrying a small tray. “Forgive the early intrusion. I thought perhaps you were sleeping and didn’t hear me.” She walked past Bristol and set the tray on the table.
The High Witch was the last person she’d expected to see. She had certainly never brought her breakfast before.
“Is something wrong?” Bristol asked.
“You’ve been summoned. The Lumessa is feeling well this morning and will see you.”
“Oh,” Bristol said numbly, trying to shift gears from a mostly sleepless night to an unexpected morning. Summoned?
“Quickly,” Madame Chastain ordered as she poured Bristol’s tea. “Eat. Get dressed. Her windows of health are small. I will escort you.”
“Of course,” Bristol answered, and dutifully sat at her table. She took a hot apple bun from a basket and slathered it with sweet butter, suddenly ravenous, but then she spotted Tyghan’s shirt crumpled on the floor beside her chair. She nudged it beneath the table with her foot, eyeing Madame Chastain, who had already turned her attention to Bristol’s wardrobe. She flung open the doors and methodically searched for clothes, laying them out on the nearby chaise in precise order—underclothes, creamy tunic and trousers, a long green jacket with wide embroidered lapels, and a pair of soft doeskin boots. All of it understated but tasteful, as if she wanted Bristol to make a good but humble impression on this powerful sorceress. “These should do nicely,” she said, turning back to Bristol.
“Thank you. Should I—”
And then the sound of running water roared from the bath chamber.
What part of being quiet didn’t he understand?Bristol sipped her tea, hoping Madame Chastain wouldn’t say anything.
The High Witch closed the wardrobe doors. “So,thisis where he is. Eris has been looking all over for him. I suspected as much.”
Her tone was edged with something sharp. Was the High Witch one of those voices who tried to dissuade Tyghan? Bristol set her tea down. “Isthisa problem?”
The witch’s left brow rose. From her morning lectures, Bristol knew what would come next. A calculated silence. Five precise seconds to make her words punch a little more deeply. “Not as long as your sworn commitment doesn’t falter if this dalliance should sour. Broken promises are not looked kindly upon in Elphame.”
Dalliance?Yes, she was unquestionably one of the voices. “Broken promises are not looked kindly upon anywhere, Madame Chastain.”
“Indeed.” She sighed and crossed the room before Bristol could reply and pushed open the drapes, letting morning flood the room.
Bristol let the inference rest, wanting to get out of there as fast as possible. She left her breakfast half-eaten and hurried to dress, but as she sat on the chaise pulling on her last boot, a voice that was supposed to be quiet filled the room.
“How long will this meeting take?”
She and Madame Chastain both turned to see Tyghan standing in the entrance to the bath chamber. His hair was still wet, and he wore his formal jacket from the night before, his bare chest in clear view beneath it.
Bristol blinked, unsure if she wanted to melt beneath the chaise or grab his shirt from the floor and throw it in his face.
But Madame Chastain didn’t flutter a lash. “We’re subject to the Lumessa’s timing, Your Majesty. The meeting will take as long as it will.”
