Free Tales of Arilland by Alethea Kontis Page B

care which one, Prelati. Choose whomever—or whatever—you want. I just want some sort of answer, angel or demon or otherwise. There is a way to escape this place, and I will find it. Henriette! You read my mind. Stoke the fire, girl, there’s a bit of a chill.”
    The room was dark; Prelati’s idiot form blocked what little light escaped from the dying fire, casting giant shadows of him against the walls hung with thick velvet tapestries to keep out the stones’ cold. The air was bitter with the unnatural balsamic tang of Prelati’s infernal frankincense.
    Prelati scowled at me beneath his great beard and mustaches, so black and thick that he might topple over at any moment with the weight of them. I scowled right back. I didn’t care what Prelati thought of me, and he knew it. I worried more that the baron might see an ash smudge upon my cheek, though I was of less note to him than a pebble in his shoe. He ordered me about in the same breath he spoke of summoning demons. I was neither a benefit nor a threat to him and his situation, and he was a skunk for thinking it.
    Lord Polecat.
    I quickly knelt on the marble hearth, so that only the fire witnessed my grin. I dutifully shoveled the white and gray ashes into the almost full metal bin—the baron often spent long hours in this study, and I was not usually permitted to attend to the fire while his lordship was present. I’d make sure to carry this one away with me when I departed and replace it with the now-empty bin I’d knocked over in the adjacent room. I considered hiding it from cook for a few days before she set me to making the lye soap again.
    “We will need candles, my lord, and soft chalk,” said Prelati. “If you will excuse me, I will prepare a few new scents that might persuade more unlikely visitors.”
    I stifled another grin. They’d have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to summon anything more unlikeable than Prelati. My father might have met that criteria, so it’s just as well I’m a bastard child. Perhaps I could persuade the baron that my sire had been a demon; he’d have no choice but to notice me then!
    I moved quickly across the room with the quiet grace all servants practiced, allowing not so much as a clank from the exceptionally heavy ash bin. Prelati rattled on about his needs and preparations. I dropped a small curtsey to no one and turned.
    “Henriette, please send for Poitou; I need the carpets in this study removed.”
    My breath caught, my chest ached, and my heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice and the thrill of being addressed, if not seen.
    “Yes, sir,” I said politely. I curtseyed again and jauntily swung the metal down the cold, dank hall.
    I already had plans to make a far more lasting impression.
    Unnoticed in plain sight, I monitored their progress for weeks. Every time I crossed the room I skipped and hopped over more and more shapes drawn across the marble. What the baron lacked in funds, it appeared he did not make up for in artistic ability. The air, thick with Prelati’s incense experimentation, went from spicy to sweet to cloying; I wondered if he’d begun urinating in the thurible as a last resort.
    I continued to empty the ashes from the fireplace while the room was unoccupied, an ever-dwindling window of time in the wee hours of the morning while the men pursued their supernatural prey. Spell after spell failed. I collected my ashes and waited. The morning finally came when the study door was locked, barring me from entrance. Beyond I heard the baron’s frustrated, sleep-deprived tones berating Prelati for their constant failure.
    It was time.
    I excused myself from the palace with a message to Cook that I was to run an errand for the baron. I did not speak untruth—the errand was for him, every thought in my head was for him. I covered my hair with a scarf, took a woven basket—so much lighter than ash pails—and walked briskly down the hill into town. The smile never left my face and