Prince Lionheart gave his mother a boyish grin. “Come on, Mother, it was just a bit of fun! Those old songs get so—”
“Have done,” said Starflower, holding up her hand.
Daylily could take no more. She rose from her place and curtsied to those assembled, but did not look Lionheart’s way. “Forgive me,” she said in her sweetest voice, “but I am fatigued from the day’s journey. May I have Your Majesties’ leave to retire?”
The Eldest nodded, and Daylily swept from the room, still without a look the prince’s way. As a servant opened and shut the dining hall door behind her, she heard Lionheart begin, “Now, look here, Mother, you know those songs are lousy at best. I don’t see why—”
Daylily hastened on. Her expression was serene and her chin high as she made her way to her apartments, followed by her goodwoman. When she reached the doorway to her rooms, she dismissed the woman with a wave of her hand. “I will see to myself tonight,” she said. “You may go.”
Her goodwoman knew better than to argue and bowed herself away. Daylily stepped inside and shut the door.
She did not rage. She did not scream. She did not stamp her feet, not even once. She crossed to her fireplace and sat in the chair drawn up before it. Someone had lit a small blaze, and although it was a little too hot for comfort, Lady Daylily did not care.
“How could he treat me with such disrespect?” she whispered to the flames.
She was no fool. Nobody in that room could have failed to miss the message Prince Lionheart declared by twisting that reverenced song into a jester’s ditty. What a fool he was . . . and she too for that matter! What a fool for coming here again when she knew just what he was. A rattlebrained scamp without a mature idea in his head! What a fool she was for thinking ten months would make any difference.
Daylily put a hand lightly to her temple and closed her eyes. What a fool she was for letting her heart—
A clatter from the bedchamber door. Daylily sat up straighter and folded both hands in her lap, not deigning to look around. “I thought I told you that I would look after myself tonight,” she said in a crisp voice.
But it was not her maidservant who answered. “Forgive me, m’lady. I didn’t realize you’d be back so soon.”
Daylily turned. A chambermaid stood in the doorway between the bedroom and the sitting room, a porcelain pitcher in her hand. She curtsied and said, “I was on my way to refill this for your ladyship, but I can come back later.”
The girl was covered in veils.
“Rose Red,” said Daylily. “I remember you.”
The chambermaid curtsied again. “Forgive me for disturbin’ you, m’lady—”
“Come here,” Daylily said. “Leave that pitcher, and come here.”
Rose Red obeyed. If she trembled behind the veil, Daylily could not see it. Though her rags had been exchanged for a clean servant’s smock and her old veils replaced with new ones of fresh linen, she still looked rather horrible, standing before the fire with its lights and shadows playing off her small frame. Daylily licked her lips.
“He cares for you a great deal, doesn’t he?”
Rose Red made no answer. She did not know what to say.
“The prince, I mean,” Daylily continued. “Leo.”
The maid shook her head and curtsied again. “He is a good and kind master, m’lady.”
“And what about me?” Daylily asked. “Do you think I might be a good and kind mistress?”
“I . . . m’lady, I—”
“That is what I will be someday,” the baron’s daughter continued. “Your mistress. Not just a guest in this household, but its lady. Its queen.”
The maid curtsied again.
“Do you doubt me?”
“I trust you must believe what you’re sayin’,” Rose Red replied in a whisper, then added quickly, “m’lady.”
“Will you serve me then as faithfully as you serve your prince now?”
Rose Red made no answer. She could hardly breathe, and the fire behind her was hot.
Daylily spoke again, and this time her voice was as smooth as honey. “What do you hide behind that veil, Rose Red?”
“That’s my secret.”
“Does Leo know your secret?”
There was something terrible in the way Daylily used the prince’s boyhood nickname; something possessive. Rose Red shook her head sharply, her gloved hands clenched into fists. “The secret is mine,” she said, “to tell or keep as I will.”
“It is no birthmark,” Daylily whispered. “Nor are you what the mountain folk claim.”
“It’s my secret,” Rose Red repeated. She wanted to back away, but the baron’s daughter held her locked in her gaze. So she closed her eyes behind her veil, hoping somehow to gain the courage to flee.
Daylily set her teeth. Then she reached out and removed the veil from Rose Red’s face.
The fire crackled on its hearth. Outside, the wind pressed up against the window, rattling the glass, then moved on its way with a howl. The Lady of Middlecrescent and the prince’s chambermaid stared at each other in the dimly lit chamber, and in that moment, neither wore a veil.