And so, again, I had erred. And badly. I walked slowly down the corridor, my little child by my side. She did not take my hand. She walked just out of my arm’s reach, and I knew that was no accident. If pain can radiate as heat from a fire, then that was the cold that I felt from her stiff little form. I had been so sure that I was doing it right. That she would be delighted with her new room and furnishings that took her size into consideration. And in my eagerness to deceive the staff about the “guest” who had gone missing, I had destroyed precious mementos, irreplaceable pieces of her childhood.
I took her to my bedchamber. It was a different place than it had been the last time she had been there. I’d gathered all my clothing and bedding and sent for the launderer. The man had made two trips with a very large basket, disapproval pinching his narrow nose nearly closed. That evening, when I returned to my room, my featherbed had been aired and turned, all surfaces dusted, and the room otherwise tidied. I hadn’t authorized it; I suspected Revel. That night I slept on linens washed clean of the sweat of grief, on pillows that had not been soaked with my tears. The tapers for my candleholders were plain white ones, unscented, and the nightshirt I donned was soft and clean against my skin. I had felt like a traveler who had been on a long and arduous journey, and arrived at a faceless inn.
I was not surprised when Bee halted just inside the door and stared in dismay. It could have been any man’s room. Or no one’s. She looked around the room and then back at me.
“I want my things back.” She spoke clearly. There was no trace of huskiness in her voice, no strain of tears held back. I took her to a storage chest under the window, unlocked it, and opened it. She looked in and grew very still.
Inside were not only the items I had removed from her room on that cruel and frantic evening, but many another memento as well. I had the first garment Bee had ever worn, and a ribbon stolen many years ago from Molly’s hair. I had her mother’s brush and her looking glass, and her favorite belt, leather dyed blue with pouches laced to it. Burrich had made it for her, and the buckle was worn thin with use. She had worn it until the day she died. There was a small casket that held not only her mother’s jewelry, but each of Bee’s baby teeth.
Bee found her books, and her nightgowns. “The candles are in my study, kept only for you,” I reminded her. She found and gathered several small figurines. She did not speak, but by her folded lips I knew there were other significant items missing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, when she turned from the trunk with her arms full of her precious items. “I should have asked you. If I could bring back your cherished things, I would.”
She turned, and fleetingly her eyes met mine. Anger and pain smoldered in a banked fire there. Abruptly, she set her armful down on my bed. “I want my mother’s belt-knife,” she announced.
I looked down into the chest. The little knife rode on the belt, where it had for years. It had a bone handle, and at some time Molly or perhaps Burrich had wrapped it with a strip of leather to keep it from slipping. It had a blue sheath to match the leather belt. “The belt will be too big for you for many years,” I said. It was an observation, not an objection. I had never thought of it going to anyone except Bee.
“I just need the knife and sheath now,” she said. She met my eyes again with that sliding glance. “To protect myself.”
I drew a deep breath and took Molly’s belt from the chest. I had to take several little pouches off the belt before I could slide the sheathed knife free. I held it out toward Bee, haft-first, but as she reached for it I drew it back. “Protect yourself from what?” I demanded.
“Assassins.” She asserted it quietly. “And people who hate me.”
Those words hit me like stones. “No one hates you!” I exclaimed.
“They do. Those children that you have decided will take lessons beside me. At least three of them hate me. Maybe more.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed, Molly’s knife loose in my hands. “Bee,” I said rationally. “They scarcely know you, so how could they hate you? And even if they dislike you, I doubt that the children of the keep would dare to—”
“They threw stones at me. And chased me. He slapped me so hard my mouth bled.”
A terrible cold anger welled in me. “Who did this? When?”
She looked away from me. She stared at the corner of the room. I think she fought tears. She spoke very quietly. “It was years ago. And I’m not going to say. Your knowing would only make it worse.”
“I doubt that,” I said harshly. “Tell me who chased you, who dared to stone you, and they will be gone from Withywoods this very night. They and their parents with them.”