Free The Hedgewitch Queen by Lilith Saintcrow Page A

handled far more adroitly by Tavanche than his presentation had been. I wore them habitually—Arioste would say I had no other jewels, but this was not true. I merely liked these overmuch.
    I weighed them in my palm for a moment, and slipped them into my pocket.
    The dress I bundled up and decided to carry downstairs with my servant-girl’s bag. I hoped Arioste’s maid had survived the carnage in Lisele’s rooms. I could not remember her body, and did not want to think too deeply lest I do so. My own maid, the shy but occasionally tart-tongued Meridia, had been granted a week’s leave to visit her ailing mother, and right glad of it I was. At least away from the Palais she was safe enough, though at the time it had annoyed me to put up with the clumsy fingers of other ladyservants.
    This time, I had to take a deep breath before leaving the safety of the room. I heard the murmur of voices again, and set off down the hall. Each step was more difficult than the last.
    Panic beat under my ribs as I reached the stairs, and I stood irresolute atop the flight. Men’s voices resounded below. Without the protection of a woman’s skirts, what could I expect from them?
    The problem was larger than that, though. Without Lisele’s protection, how could I manage in the world? I had never been on my own, safely trammeled by childhood and later by the rules of Court protocol and etiquette. I knew what was expected each day of Court, when to sit and when to stand, who was of the sword and who was of the robe, who was of the lower order; and I knew each arcane bit of manners for the festivals, feasts, and fêtes.
    I was not such a fool to think this was knowledge prized outside the Palais.
    I could not depend on Tristan d’Arcenne, that much was certain. He wanted his revenge and a biddable Queen Pretender; I was only a hedgewitch with an accident of royal blood.
    The Aryx warmed, hard metal against my skin. I lifted my chin. Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Walk so, and speak thusly, and never forget you are of noble birth. I heard again Comtesse Rochburre’s voice as she taught a gaggle of noble girls how to behave at Court, and imagined I was sweeping in procession down the stairs into the Great Ballroom at Lisele’s side, the train of ladies behind us in their silk and velvet and jewels. After a moment’s thought, I pulled the Aryx from its hiding and settled it against my chest. Let Jierre di Yspres feast his eyes on that , and we would have no more talk of leaving me to the Duc’s mercy.
    For by now, you see, I had decided I had little wish to be left so.
    I came down the stairs slowly, one at a time, pausing between each as if waiting for the train of a dress to catch pace with me. By the time I was halfway, they noticed me; three steps after they were rising; when I reached the bottom of the stairs they had all removed their feathered hats. I stood on the last step and surveyed the room with the cool haughtiness of a Court lady. My gaze moved unhurried from one man to the next, and most dropped their eyes immediately. The ones that did not looked down after only a few moments.
    My looks are nothing special, as the ladies of the Court reminded me so very often. But a good posture and the right expression can make any woman regal.
    Of course, my Lisele had called me beautiful, but I always laughed. I knew my place. Had not I been taught it often enough?
    “Good morn to you, sieurs .” I addressed them clearly, as if I were administering the beginning of a dance. Tristan d’Arcenne stood by the fireplace, blue eyes bright with something I could not decipher. Relief that I was playing the rôle for his troupe? Perhaps. “I have you to thank for my escape from the Palais, and I hear I have you to thank for the relief of traveling to safety.”
    A few of them colored, and Jierre di Yspres, in his place next to Tristan, stiffened—a movement I caught easily at the corner of my gaze.
    Good.
    There was a slight