Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

“I don’t understand what you mean.”


“It’s quite simple, my dear. On the one hand, they think belittling you should be easy because of your common roots. But, on the other, you’ve never made any pretense of being otherwise, which negates their effort. It’s difficult to demean someone for something they’re not embarrassed of, now isn’t it? Still, you must turn a deaf ear to any jibes told at your expense. You may hear name calling like swine herder and such. Which, of course, you’re not. You must remember you’re the daughter of a carriage maker and a fine one at that. Why, absolutely everyone who is anyone is beating a path to your father’s door. They all want to ride in a coach crafted by the father of the Chosen One of Maribor.”

“You know about my father? My family? Are they all right?” Amilia stopped so suddenly that the duchess walked four steps before realizing she had lost her.

Amilia had long feared her family was dead from starvation or illness. They had had so little. She left home two years ago to remove an extra mouth from the table with the intent of sending money home, but she had not counted on Edith Mon.

The head maid had declared Amilia’s old clothes unfit and demanded she pay for new ones. This forced Amilia to borrow against her salary. Broken or chipped plates also added to her bill, and in the first few months, there were many. With Edith, there was always something to keep Amilia penniless. Eventually the head maid even began fining her for disobedience or misbehavior, keeping Amilia in constant debt.

How she had hated Edith. The old ogre had been so cruel that there had been nights when Amilia had gone to sleep wishing the woman would die. She fantasized that a carriage would hit her or that she would choke on a bone. Now that Edith was gone, she almost regretted those thoughts. Charged with treason, Edith had been executed less than a week ago, with all of the palace staff required to watch.

In more than two years, Amilia had been unable to save even a single copper to send home and had heard nothing from her family. While the empress was trapped in her catatonic daze, the regents sequestered the palace staff to prevent others from learning about her condition. During that time, Amilia had been as much a prisoner as Modina. Writing letters home had been useless. The palace rumor mill maintained that all letters were burned by order of the regents. After Modina recovered, Amilia continued to write, but she never received a single reply. There had been reports of an epidemic near her home, and she feared her family was dead. Amilia had given up all hope of ever seeing them again—until now.

“Of course they’re all right, darling. They are more than all right. Your family is the toast of Tarin Vale. From the moment the empress spoke your name during her speech on the balcony, people have flocked to the hamlet to kiss the hand of the woman who bore you and to beg words of wisdom from the man who raised you.”

As they reached the third floor guest chambers, Amilia’s eyes began to water. “Tell me about them. Please. I must know.”

“Well, let’s see. Your father expanded his workshop, and it now takes up an entire block. He’s received hundreds of orders from all over Avryn. Artisans from as far away as Ghent beg for the chance to work as his apprentices, and he’s hired dozens. The townsfolk have elected him to city council. There is even talk of making him mayor come spring.”

“And my mother?” Amilia asked with a quivering lip. “How is she?”

“She’s just marvelous, darling. Your father bought the grandest house in town and filled it with servants, leaving her plenty of time for leisure. She started a modest salon for the local artisan women. They mostly eat cake and gossip. Even your brothers are prospering. They supervise your father’s workers and have their pick of the women for wives. So you see, my dear, I think it is safe to say your family is doing very well indeed.”

Tears ran down Amilia’s face.

“Oh, darling! What is wrong? Wentworth!” she called out as they reached her quarters. A dozen servants paused in their tasks to look up. “Give me your handkerchief, and get a glass of water immediately!”

The duchess directed Amilia to sit on a settee, and Genevieve dabbed the girl’s tears away with surprising delicacy.

“I’m sorry,” Amilia said softly. “I just—”

“Nonsense! I’m the one who should apologize. I had no idea such news would upset you,” she spoke in a soft motherly voice. Then, turning in the direction the servant had gone, the duchess roared, “Where’s that water!”

“I’m all right—really,” Amilia assured her. “I just haven’t seen my family in so long and I was afraid…”

Lady Genevieve smiled and embraced Amilia. The duchess whispered in her ear, “Dear, I’ve heard it said that people come from far and wide to ask your family how you saved the empress. Their reported response is that they know nothing about that, but what they can say with complete certainty is that you saved them.”

Amilia shook with emotion at the words.

Lady Genevieve picked up the handkerchief. “Where’s that water!” she bellowed once more. When it arrived, the duchess thrust the cool glass into Amilia’s hands. She drank while the big woman brushed back her hair.

“There now, that’s better,” Lady Genevieve purred.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, darling. Do you feel up to finding out why I brought you here?”

“Yes, I think so.”

They were in the duchess’s formal reception area, part of the four-room suite that Lady Genevieve had redecorated, transforming the dull stone shell into a warm, rich parlor. Thick woolen drapes of red and gold covered every inch of wall. Facades made the arrow slits appear large and opulent. An intricately carved cherry mantle fronted the previously bare stone fireplace. Layers of carpets covered the entire room, making the floor soft and cozy. Not a stick of the original furniture remained. Everything was new and lovelier than anything Amilia had ever seen.

A dozen servants, all dressed in reds and golds, returned to work. One individual, however, stood out. He was a tall, well-tailored man in a delightful outfit of silver and gold brocade. On his head he wore a whimsical, yet elegant, hat that displayed a long, billowing plume.

“Viscount,” the duchess called, waving the man over. “Amilia, darling, I want you to meet Viscount Albert Winslow.”

“Enchanted indeed.” He removed his hat and swept it elaborately in a reverent bow.

“Albert is perhaps the foremost expert on organizing grand events. I hired him to mastermind my Summersrule Festival, and it was utterly amazing. I tell you, the man is a genius.”

“You are far too kind, My Lady,” Winslow said softly with a warm smile.

“How you managed to fill the moat with leaping dolphins is beyond me. And the streamers that filled the sky—why I’ve never seen such a thing. It was pure magic!”