Free The Soul Mirror by Carol Berg

gold. A stiff ruffled collar rose to the crown of her pyramid of black and gray curls—an ancient style seen on ruined Fassid temples or potsherds.
    Many women of little taste and enormous wealth might have adorned themselves so, but one glance at her face warned that this particular lady must be approached with certain caution. Her eyes were very like olive pits, small and hard-edged. And in the style of Fassid empresses, she had completely plucked her eyebrows, an artifice that gave her an expression of either permanent surprise or permanent disdain.
    “Dear, dear Anne, I do hope the wretched journey has not pummeled you into dust! Knowing how difficult this time must be for you, I simply had to welcome you right away.”
    The serving girl gave me no clue as to the woman’s identity, save confirming her rank. She dropped instantly into a low curtsy, pasting her gaze to the floor. Her “Your Grace” was so faint as to approach a sigh. The lady tapped her elegant toe on the floor thrice, and the girl dropped my satchel and scuttered away, closing my door without so much as a click. I hadn’t thanked her, nor so much as asked her name. Had I forgotten every trace of civilized behavior?
    I followed the girl’s lead and dipped my knee, laying my left hand on my right shoulder to expose the Cazar family blood mark as the law required. The woman clucked and patted my cheek, reminiscent of Mistress Constanza at the Cask. Then her jeweled fingers encircled my wrist and drew me up and around my heaped baggage to sit beside her on the bed.
    “When I heard Duplais had brought you on horseback—astride, for love of Heaven, like some wild, immodest Kadr girl—when you have such obstacles before you already, I told my daughter we should string him up for the whipsman. We shall convict him of criminal obtuseness . . . obtusity . . . obtusativity. . . .”
    Her words flowed like honey, embracing, enveloping, mind clogging. It likely wasn’t useful to protest that my mother had insisted that no true horsewoman would ride sidesaddle. But, of course, my mother was mad.
    “You will have to correct me, caeri , as I understand you have a stellar intelligence. Such a blessing”—she swept me with such a comprehensive gaze, I’d no doubt she could recite the number of my hairs out of place— “in a—now, let us be honest, as I prize honesty above all things—a plain girl. Really, the three of us must see to the dullard’s punishment. I’ve never quite understood what quality Eugenie sees in Duplais—a failed sorcerer, so dull and craven even Philippe cannot tolerate him.”
    Despite her prattle, her eyes had not softened so much. But I could now guess who she was. Queen, indeed. Wife of a king, now dead, and mother of a king, also dead—the dowager Queen of Sabria.
    My mother had long maintained that Antonia de Foucal was the most powerful person in Sabria. She had actually ruled as Queen Regent in the first few months after her husband died, leaving only their son, Soren, a boy of thirteen. At one-and-twenty, Soren had married Eugenie de Sylvae, a child of eight years, and Lady Antonia had adopted her son’s child wife.
    Soren had fallen in battle before Eugenie was old enough to consummate the marriage, and his heir, my goodfather Philippe de Savin-Journia, had ended up marrying the widowed Eugenie to consolidate his claim to the throne. Mama had always said that Philippe and Eugenie had grown into love in spite of their marriage, and in spite of Lady Antonia.
    “Sonjeur de Duplais got me here safely, Your Grace. Now I’m eager to learn my duties.”
    She tutted and creased her browless forehead. “Of course you are, caeri . And we must give that some careful thought. Interesting that Philippe’s brought you here. Clever. Of course, he leaves such women’s matters as noble marriages to Eugenie, but I do my best to relieve her of tiresome burdens. Well, we shall do what we can. You must improve your dress and hair.”