Free Wildwing by Emily Whitman Page B

expected to arrive on that boat.
    I yank the curtains open the rest of the way, breathing fast. They were expecting a lady—where is she, then? I stare at the door as if soldiers were about to fling it open with cries of “Imposter!” I look around frantically for my dress, so I’ll have something on when they hurl me out the gates. It’s nowhere to be seen, but a long linen shift hangs from a peg on the wall. That must be what counts as underclothes here. I clamber down and slip it over my head.
    The feel of it on my skin stops me. It may just be linen, but the hand is wondrous soft and fine. The best, no doubt, that money can buy. I hug my arms about me, running my fingers up and down the fabric, the movement slowing me down enough to think. I look again at the monumental bed, the soft furs, the tapestries, the embroideries.
    There’s no army surging through that door at the moment, is there? A day and a night have passed, and I’m still here. There must have been men searching everywhere. Wouldn’t they have found their lady, if she’s still alive? And if she’s dead …
    I stand up straighter, determination filling me, spreading all the way down to my toes. If she’s dead, there’s a place open in this castle for a lady. And I’ve waltzed right into it. All I have to do is learn the part.
    “Lady Matilda,” I say out loud.
    I turn to the bed, my hands automatically reaching to straighten the sheets.
    But what if someone knows what she looks like, and sees I’m all wrong? What if her body washes ashore, or her parents come searching, or—
    I shake out the fur coverlet, then settle it down again neat as can be. Then I’ll deal with that when it happens. I’ve got the chance of my life, more than I ever imagined, and I’m not going to throw it away—I grab a pillow and give it a good hard shake to fluff the down—because of a mere what if .
    I lay the pillow in place, and I’m shaking out the next one when the door opens. In bustles Beatrix, a tray in her hands, a blue gown draped over her arm. She kicks the door shut before turning to the bed.
    She stops dead. “My lady! Whatever are you doing?”
    “Just making my—” And then I stop, too, because Irealize what she’s seeing: a grand lady who’s used to being waited on hand and foot, making her own bed. I jump back like a child caught doing something naughty.
    But if I’m a grand lady …
    I put my hands on my hips. “How could you?” I demand.
    “How could I what, my lady?” She walks to a chest and sets down the tray.
    “You drugged me! You made me pass out!”
    “I didn’t drug you, I dosed you, as any caring person would. And you with no mother or lady-in-waiting about to think what you need.” She clucks like a mother hen. “You needed sleep. And it’s done you good. You should have seen yourself yesterday, all wild eyes and shivers. And look at you now! Such rosy cheeks, and your green eyes so bright, they’re a wonder against your chestnut hair. Indeed, they were mistaken when they said you were—” She stops suddenly, putting a hand to her mouth, then continues, flustered, “That is to say, their descriptions didn’t do you justice.”
    I look up sharply. What descriptions? What am I supposed to look like?
    A wonderful smell of warm bread wafts through the air. My stomach growls; I’m starving, and everything on that tray must be for me. I reach for a fat buttered slice, and take a huge bite. It’s delicious. I grab the mug, take a gulp—and almost gag on a thick alcoholic brew. I start coughing.
    Beatrix comes over, takes the mug from my hands, and pats me on the back.
    “Oh, Beatrix,” I say. “I do need your help!”
    She looks pleased. “Indeed you do. Why, you’ve put your shift on backward, trying to dress yourself! Oswald was right. That must have been a fearsome blow you were struck.”
    “A blow?”
    She nods, then motions me to pull my arms from the sleeves and twirl the shift around to face the right