Sophie and Cameron stood like statues as the two of them argued, learning in the process that the question of the preservation of the king’s body was somewhat moot as he had been killed by the fire from the explosion. Charred bones didn’t spoil.
Sophie thought she might finally throw up when she heard that little tidbit come out of the Domina’s mouth. She bit down, clenching her jaw tightly and swallowing. Cameron must have noticed something because he stepped closer. “Are you quite well, milady?” he asked in a tone just above a whisper.
Milady. They were to be married and he was sticking to that? The irritation pushed back the queasiness in her stomach, and she managed a nod.
But the movement caught Eloisa’s attention as well.
“Lady Sophia, you are dismissed. Attend me in the morning. Lieutenant, you may also leave. Please do not speak of this to anyone yet.”
“I must inform my brother, the erl, Your Highness,” Cameron objected.
Eloisa considered. “Very well. But charge him to keep his counsel until the betrothal is announced. The Erl of Inglewood does not need to start his tenure with our disfavor.”
That was a blunt enough warning. Sophie dropped into a curtsy and then made for the door, Cameron at her heels. They stepped out into a semicircle of curious ladies-in-waiting, faces expectant above the black dresses they wore, for all the world like a row of crows waiting for carrion to feed upon.
“Lady Sophia,” Lady Beata said. “We assume felicitations are due upon the happy day of your Ais-Seann?”
Sophie suddenly remembered the sigils on her palms. None of Eloisa’s ladies were witches, so presumably they would not know the significance of the symbols, but still she curled her palms in to her dress as she bobbed a much shallower curtsy to Beata. “Yes. Thank you for your care. The queen-to-be has asked that I attend her in the morning. I think I will retire. It has been a difficult few days. As it has been for all of you, I would imagine.”
Behind Beata, Lady Aria’s face looked stricken. She was the lady-in-waiting closest to Sophie’s age. And the most friendly. She stepped forward and whispered something in Beata’s ear.
Beata nodded, a flash of weariness revealed for a moment under her careful court expression. “Sophie, the ladies’ quarters were damaged. Those of us not with the queen-to-be have been staying with family or other connections, as can be arranged. I’m afraid the rooms assigned to your family for your birthday were also damaged. Do you have somewhere to stay?”
Her family, unlike Cameron’s, didn’t have a permanent apartment in the palace. Until she knew her parents’ whereabouts, she couldn’t join them in whatever lodgings they had managed to secure. If, indeed, they had secured somewhere.
“I was told that the Lord of Inglewood’s suite is intact,” Cameron said. “I’m sure my brother will have room for Lady Sophia.”
That raised almost every pair of eyebrows in the room. But Sophie couldn’t bring herself to protest to Cameron. If she denied his offer and had to beg to share a bed or sleep on a cot in a room with one of the other ladies, there was no way she would avoid being relentlessly interrogated about her time away from the palace or hide the sigils on her hands. Which would not please the queen-to-be.
She turned to Cameron and curtsied again. “Your kindness does you credit, Lieutenant. I would be most grateful for your family’s hospitality.”
Relief flashed in his eyes. Apparently his thoughts had been traveling similar paths to hers.
He extended an arm. “In that case, milady, let us depart. I have to return to the barracks as soon as possible.”
Sophie kept her hands pressed against the sides of her skirts as they walked, wishing she had gloves to hide her hands or that women’s clothes had useful things like pockets, as men’s did. The route they took was, of necessity, a little convoluted.
The Erl of Inglewood’s apartments were a large set of rooms that lay between the Salt Spire—the oldest of the rearward palace towers—and the western wing of the palace on the third floor. As much of the western wing was blocked off due to the damage to the west tower, which had extended to part of the wing itself, they had to cut through the middle of the palace. Working their way through the center of the palace, a maze of rooms and passageways designed to confuse anyone who wasn’t familiar with the routes, took time.
King Stefan’s great-grandfather had built most of the central palace after he’d come to power in the wake of the last true Illvyan incursion. He’d been deadly serious about wanting a palace that was strongly defended. He was the one who’d added the moat—fed by a labyrinthine system of aqueducts and pumps with seawater from the harbor—that circled the palace itself with nearly fifteen feet of salt water and sent a narrower tendril through the stone channels outside the walls of the grounds as well.
As he’d won his way to power after defeating an Illvyan wizard and his demon sanctii leading an army bent on conquest, a bit of well-placed paranoia could be forgiven.
If it was the Illvyans who had attacked the palace, then presumably blowing up the east and west towers had been partly an attempt to form a bridge of rubble over the moat. One that a demon could have crossed. But no demons had been detected that she knew of. Or had they? Surely the palace would be deserted if a sanctii had gotten inside. Besides which, it seemed unlikely that Eloisa or Margaretta would still be alive if a demon had been present. Wiping out the royal family would have to be a primary goal of any Illvyan plot.
She could ask Cameron, of course, but something stayed her questions. She had already caused enough trouble for him. A lifetime’s worth. He was being forced to marry her, for goddess’ sake. An outcome he couldn’t have possibly wanted. Yet he was being nothing but courteous in return. Taking her to stay with his family.