Free Wildwing by Emily Whitman

if the lady herself shows up, dripping and furious? Or they find her body washed ashore?
    It’s a delicate line I’m walking, and I’ll need all my wits about me.
    Clutching the fur to my neck, I try for my noble voice, the one I was going to use in the play. Confidence , I think. Command .
    “Verily, I would that you bring me dry vestments to wear,” I say. “Prithee.”
    She raises her eyebrows slightly, but then she nods. “I’ll have to round something up,” she says. “Oh, to think of all your beautiful kirtles and cloaks lost to the sea! What a tragedy! And what a tremendous cost to replace them. Though of course that’s nothing to you.”
    Right, I think. Nothing to me.
    “Though it may take me awhile,” she goes on. “But no matter, as you’ll be resting in bed for at least a day or two.”
    I almost agree, she sounds so certain, but then I take in what she’s saying. A day or two! I could be long gone by then, if they find their real lady. I want to see my castle, all of it, while I have the chance. I want to learn how to play my part, find clues about who I’m meant to be.
    She’s standing there, all respectful, waiting for me to respond. Well, she’s my servant, isn’t she? And I’m her lady. I get to do what I want for a change.
    In my best regal tone, I demand, “What is your name, wench?”
    She straightens up. “Beatrix, at your service, my lady.”
    “Well, Beatrix, I do not wish to wait. Verily, I desire dry clothes, and I desire—I mean, I want them now.” There’s a questioning look in her eyes. Don’t I sound medieval enough? I search around for words, and a line from The Tempest pops into my head. “Do not infest your mind with beating on the strangeness of this business.”
    “Infest my … ?”
    Oh, that wasn’t right at all! Her eyebrows shoot up so high, they disappear beneath her headdress; her mouth is agape. I clamp my teeth together so no more wayward lines can sneak through.
    Slowly, very slowly, Beatrix closes her mouth, and a different, thoughtful expression comes into her eyes. “Yes, my lady,” she says, with a curtsey. “Indeed, my lady. I’ll go and see what I can find. In the meantime, if it please your ladyship, do stay under the covers until you stop shivering and talking so odd. Let me care for you, as your lady mother would do were she still alive to see this day. I’ll send for agood hot drink to warm your blood and soothe your poor bumped head. And then I’ll find you something to wear just as fast as ever I can.”
    My teeth are chattering. A hot drink would feel good, and I suppose it won’t take long. I find myself nodding and sinking back against the pillows.
    Once she’s out the door, I look around. The walls aren’t bare stone, like I expected; they’re painted a cheerful gold and green. A long tapestry hangs on the far wall, with horses and hounds. And—Oh! There’s a window seat tucked into the wall’s thickness, but it’s brightened with a scattering of richly embroidered cushions and a shutter pulled back from the window.
    “Here you are then!” Beatrix bustles back in with a steaming cup coddled in a cloth. She pulls back the curtain enough to stand by the bed and sits me up, the covers wrapped high around me. As if helping a toddler, she holds the cup to my lips and tilts it as I drink—something hot and slightly bitter—and I can’t stop, because she’s still tilting, and a drowsy warmth starts flowing through my veins.
    “One more sip, now,” she’s cooing. “That’s right. Feels lovely, doesn’t it? So relaxing. So restful. Just what you need… .”
    My eyelids are growing heavy, my limbs loosen, my hand lets go of the side of the cup …

To His Most Excellent Lord, Sir Hugh of Berringstoke, From His Faithful Servant Eustace

    M y lord, greetings and faithful service. It is with great concern that I write to urge you return with all possible haste. Following a storm the likes of which I have never before