Free Exile by Anne Osterlund Page B

the same height as Aurelia, seemed as slight as a child’s. The shoulders came down. The flowers dripped from shaking fingers. Only now did her mother turn, tears flowing freely down her face. The beautiful dusky skin was thin and blotchy, and the matching dark eyes were red and ringed in shadows. “Because,” came the ragged whisper, “I didn’t know if I could survive ever having to say good-bye.”
    Then her mother had never wished to leave? At least had never wished to leave her? Could that be possible? Could it be enough?
    The anger that had propelled Aurelia through so many confrontations deserted her as she struggled to reconcile the emptiness in her head with the shaking, desperate figure before her now. Her mother was so thin—the bones in her arms and face protruding more than they had in the portrait in the hall. Intricate lace graced her throat. And embroidery with the same pattern trailed down the folds of her skirt to the hem.
    What must this lady think of the bedraggled figure now claiming to be her daughter?
    The thin woman gave no insight into such questions. Instead, she retreated to the fallen bluebells and the empty vase.
    At this, Aurelia swept forward to retrieve the flowers, then offered them up. To her mother.
    But the stranger moved to the other side of the vase.

Chapter Seven
    SANCTUARY
    “DON’T WORRY, I WON’T KILL HIM,” SAID A WRY, masculine voice.
    Robert woke to those auspicious words and the bleak view of a gray-stone basement room. No windows. No hearth. No curtains, cushions, or tapestries. Only the bed, a side table, and a solitary wooden chair upon the bare stone floor. After a month of struggling to survive in the Asyan—of waking at every snap and crack in the forest in order to protect Aurelia—he had fallen asleep. In the traitor’s lair.
    Robert could not even summon the energy for regret. At least here, no one but himself would pay for his lapse in vigilance.
    A female voice, not Aurelia’s, responded to the earlier comment. “But Your Lordship—”
    “I am the head of this estate, am I not, Mrs. Solier?”
    Solier? Robert had heard that name before. He lifted his chest. “Daria?”
    The black-haired girl he had rescued from swarming bees when he and she were both seven hurried toward him. Her hair was still dark, and her eyes still glittered; but despite the fact that he had seen her less than two months ago, she looked somehow older and more complete.
    Her gaze dropped at once to his shoulder.
    Too late he realized the scar was showing through his loosened shirt. Immediately he tied the laces at his neckline.
    “Chris’s sword?” she whispered.
    Robert winced. His cousin had been her friend as well.
    “It’s not a safe occupation, is it?” she murmured. “To protect a princess.”
    He had never managed to protect Aurelia.
    And he could not discuss this with Daria.
    Especially not with Lord Lester’s bulky chest blocking the doorframe, his large arms crossed over the hilt of the confiscated Vantauge sword.
    “Where is she?” Robert could not help asking.
    There was no hesitation in Daria’s response. “Upstairs with her mother.”
    “In truth?” He knew Aurelia’s feelings toward her mother were far from warm.
    “Indeed.” Lord Lester uncrossed his arms and drew closer, then slowly propped the naked weapon against the wall. “You may wait outside, Mrs. Solier,” he stated in a clear command, his gaze scanning Robert with deliberation. The lord’s musclebound arms furled again.
    Robert did not have the mental stamina for political cat and mouse. “What is it you want to know?”
    His Lordship’s green eyes narrowed. “It’s a matter of need, not want. I need to know what the two of you were doing in the forest. Alone.”
    Was this man accusing Robert of running off with the crown princess? “You should ask her . It’s not my place to answer for Her Royal Highness.” The title flew off his tongue like a weapon.
    Lester’s red beard