Free Daughter of Mystery by Heather Rose Jones Page A

what you’re throwing away, but that’s why you have guardians. You have no power to alienate any part of your inheritance if I forbid it.”
    “I’m afraid it’s true, Maisetra Sovitre,” LeFevre confirmed.
    For the first time the magistrate spoke up, adding, “I believe that Prince Aukust will also have some opinion on any action that would greatly reduce his gift.”
    Her uncle’s voice turned harder. “You needn’t concern yourself with this matter further, Margerit. I have no intention of allowing this,” he glanced at Barbara with an expression of distaste, “this unwomanly freak into my house. There are only two years until the conditions of the will are fulfilled. Something will be arranged.”
    The moment was slipping away. If she couldn’t give Barbara her freedom, she could at least try to keep her safely close by. Her uncle’s looming presence was daunting but an unfamiliar strength flowed into her from her clenched fists—one on the hilt of the sword still half-hidden in her skirts and the other in a white-knuckled ball. She looked over at LeFevre and asked, “Could you read that last part again? I’m not certain I understood it perfectly.”
    A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he bent over the sheaf of papers with a faint cough. “And to ensure that my wishes in this matter are carried out, it is stipulated that Margerit is to take and maintain the woman Barbara in her own household and—”
    “Uncle,” Margerit interrupted. “I’m afraid the will is clear. If I’m not to forfeit, then nothing different can be arranged.” Before he could respond, she turned and took two quick steps over to where Barbara still knelt. In a quiet but firm voice she asked, “Barbara, do you promise to serve me as well and faithfully as you served my godfather?”
    Barbara hesitated and Margerit thought she could see the reflection of all those other roads that had briefly stretched before her. “I promise,” she said.
    In the impulse of the moment, Margerit stretched out her hand to her—still clenched tightly—and glared at the men holding Barbara with what she hoped was a commanding gaze. They loosed their grip and Barbara reached out to take the hand and press it to her lips. Margerit winced slightly as her fingers relaxed and saw the faint smear of red left on Barbara’s fingertips. Barbara had seen it too and jerked her gaze up in concern. Margerit locked eyes with her and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Barbara nodded just as faintly then rose to her feet as Margerit handed back her sword and she returned it home. As Margerit turned back to LeFevre’s desk, she saw Barbara step into the same post she had always taken with the baron: one step behind and to the right. She glanced back briefly. Barbara’s expression was relaxed now—as if the world had returned to spinning on its true axis. The rest of the room was staring and whispering but she paid them no mind.
    LeFevre once more shuffled his sheaf of papers, bringing all eyes back to him. “That’s all there is of note. There are the inventories and lists but they needn’t be included in the public reading. Maistir Fulpi, perhaps Maisetra Sovitre’s guardians could meet with me in the next day or two to begin on the details.”
    And then, it seemed, the reading was over. In the milling confusion of the exodus, Barbara stuck to her as if they had been harnessed together. There was a delay at the carriages for Uncle Fulpi, who had stayed to make further arrangements. Then a brief argument when he returned to find the new armin ensconced inseparably at her side in the smaller chaise. She had hoped for a respite at least until they returned home, but he joined her for the ride, first shouting, then cold and cutting and at last retreating into a stony silence. It took no dissembling, when they arrived, to plead a headache and retreat for her room. Barbara mounted a rear-guard action against her aunts’ sudden solicitude as