“Without me?”
“Our schedule is very specific.” The maid leaned forward, looking to either side as though fearful of discovery. “I will bring you some food from the kitchens later tonight,” she whispered.
Lada did not know how to respond. With gratitude? Incredulity? Instead, she pushed forward with her goal. “If supper is over, I can see her now.”
“Yes! She will be waiting to receive visitors in the drawing room.”
“Does she receive many visitors?”
The maid shook her head. “Almost never.”
“So she is only waiting to see me.”
“After supper, she waits to receive visitors. You are a visitor. So you may see her now.”
Lada followed the girl through the hall and down the stairs. She would much rather be facing a contingent of Bulgars, or a mounted cavalry. At least those she would understand.
Mehmed’s mother, Huma, suddenly came to mind. Huma had been ferocious and terrifying. She had wielded her very womanhood like a weapon, one Lada did not understand and could not ever use. Was that what her mother was doing? Throwing Lada off guard to gain the upper hand? Huma had been able to manipulate Lada and Radu by forcing them to meet on her terms. Her mother must be doing the same thing.
It was comforting, in a way, girding herself to meet a challenge like Mehmed’s formidable mother. Huma was a foe worth having. A murderer many times over, who had even had Mehmed’s infant half brother drowned in a bath. Lada shuddered, the back of her hair wet against her neck. Was there a darker reason the maid had tried to insist on staying during Lada’s bath?
She regarded the tiny, trembling thing ahead of her with new suspicion. Flexing her hands, Lada dismissed the notion. Though Lada was certain that if her mother wanted her dead, she would make someone else do it. This waif would have to resort to poison or murdering her in her sleep. She was glad she had missed supper, after all.
But everything Huma had done, she had done to further her son’s place in life. What would Vasilissa stand to gain by killing Lada? And why did Lada find it more com fortable to think of Vasilissa as a potential assassin lying in wait than as her mother?
Before Lada could settle her mind, the maid opened a door to a sitting room. It was like being greeted by an open oven. The air was too close and heated past any reasonable degree. The windows were shuttered tightly, and a fire roared in a fireplace too large for a room this size.
The maid practically tugged Lada inside, closing the door as quickly as possible behind them. It took a moment for Lada’s eyes to adjust to the dim room. Her mother sat in a high-backed chair, hands folded primly in her lap, voluminous skirt hiding her feet. Her hat had been replaced with a long veil pinned at the top of her head that completely obscured her face. She was not wearing the same dress as before. This one was white, with a ruffled neck so high it looked as though her veiled head sat on a platter. All the dress’s folds and pleats nearly swallowed her whole.
“Oh,” she said, an entire discourse in disappointment contained in that single word. “You did not change.”
Lada longed to draw her knives, sheathed at her wrists. “These are my clothes.” She took the chair opposite her mother without being invited. It sank under her weight, the stuffing worn and the velvet threadbare.
“Would you like something? Tea? Wine?”
“Wine.”
Vasilissa nodded toward the maid, who poured two glasses and handed one to each of them. Lada took a sip. Or rather, she pretended to take a sip, preferring to wait until her mother drank first. Huma was too recently on her mind to risk otherwise. So far her mother was nothing like Huma, though. Huma had filled the space around her, no matter how large the room. Even in this small room, Lada’s mother seemed to blend into the furniture.
Vasilissa lifted her veil and took a dainty sip. Lada followed suit. Her mother’s eyes were large, like hers, but there was more of Radu in her face. It was startling, seeing her brother reflected in the face of a stranger. Lada could not place the exact similarities; they had something delicate and beautiful in common. But her mother’s face was worn and broken at the edges. Was that what would happen to Radu, too? Would he fade with time, become a withered shadow of himself?
Lada longed for Radu at her side yet again. If he were here, she could focus on protecting him. Having only herself to protect made her feel so much more vulnerable.
“Tell me,” her mother said, keeping a hand in front of her mouth. “What brings you to the countryside? It is not so lovely this time of year, I am afraid. Much nicer once spring has taken hold.”
Lada frowned. “I am here to see you.”
“That is sweet. We do not have many visitors.” She lowered her hand, smiling with tightly shut lips. Then she simply stared. Lada wondered if her own large, hooded eyes were that disconcerting.
Lada had never been good at the games women played, the battles fought and won through incomprehensible conversations. So she pushed ahead. “I assume you have had news that my father is dead. So is Mircea.”
Vasilissa lifted her hand to her mouth again. Lada thought it was in horror or mourning, but Vasilissa’s tone was conversational. “Do you ride? I find a brisk ride in the afternoon settles my nerves and rouses my appetite. I have three horses. They have no names. I am so terrible with choosing names! But they are all gentle and sweet. Perhaps you can meet them tomorrow.”
“Why are you speaking to me of horses?” Lada set aside her glass and leaned forward. “You have not seen me in so many years, since you abandoned us. At least do me the courtesy of speaking to me as an equal. Your husband, my father, is dead.”
Her mother made a wounded face, a flash of truth breaking free. Her lips parted in an animal way, and Lada had a glimpse of a mouth full of broken teeth. Not rotted teeth—Lada had seen plenty of those—nor the gaps indicating lost teeth. Vasilissa’s mouth was a graveyard of shattered teeth. Lada did not know what could have caused such damage.
Her mother, crawling away, weeping.
No. She did know what could have caused such damage.
Lada lowered her voice. “He is dead. Gone.”
If her mother heard her, she did not indicate it. She drew her veil back down, making a repetitive clicking noise with her tongue. “Tell me, do you hunt? I find it abominable, but I have word that all the fashionable ladies do it now.” Her laugh was high and trilling, like the panicked flight of a startled bird. “If you would like, I can have word sent to your cousin. He has an excellent falconer. I am certain he would give you a demonstration, should you wish it. He visits every summer. He has to stay in town, of course, several leagues away, but he always stops by when I receive visitors! We can expect him in a few months.”
“I will not be here then. I am not here for a visit. I need help.”
Vasilissa laughed again, the same terrible noise. “I should say so! But my maid works wonders on hair. We will have you settled in no time. Do you like your room?”
Lada stood. “I need to speak to your father.”
Vasilissa shook her head. “He is— He has— I believe he is dead?”
With a defeated sigh, Lada sat back down. “Who leads Moldavia?”
“Your cousin, I think. Oh.” Vasilissa wrung her hands in her lap. “Do you suppose that means he will not come this summer? I am sorry. I promised you a falcon demonstration.”