The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)

“Because she’s dead?” Hadrian asked. “Or because she’s alive?”

Royce pondered this and realized he didn’t have the slightest clue. After nearly an entire night in the city, he had more questions than when he’d arrived.





Chapter Seven

Breakfast





Royce and Hadrian were on time for breakfast.

Evelyn Hemsworth presided at a table covered in three cloths—blue upon yellow, with pristine white on top—and on this lay a vast collection of tableware. Porcelain creamers, cups, plates, and spice towers had been placed with such precision that Hadrian wondered if the woman had used plumb lines and T-squares. Crystal glasses lorded over the silver forks and knives, which guarded napkin-covered plates. Great silver serving trays with ornate lids were set with equal precision in a circle around a two-foot silver sculpture of a palm tree, at the base of which three men in turbans and Calian garb stood holding candelabras. While no food was visible, the entire house smelled of fresh pastries and sizzling bacon.

At the head of the table, Evelyn sat. She looked exactly as she had the night before: hair in a bun, formal dress, high tight collar that made Hadrian swallow in sympathy. She stared at the two of them with large piercing eyes and judgmental brows, her lips drawn up like a tight purse.

Royce looked at Hadrian, who stared back, both unsure what to do next: sit, offer a morning greeting, or ask permission to join her?

“Good morning,” Hadrian ventured as lightheartedly as he could.

“You’re late,” she said.

Hadrian glanced at the window. The morning sun had only just pierced the glass, replacing the illumination of the diminishing fire and making the crystal stemware sparkle in rainbow hues. “You said dawn.”

“I did. Dawn was eight minutes ago.”

“But the sun—”

“The sun doesn’t reach this house until eight minutes after dawn because Lardner’s Cabinet and Wardrobe Shop, on the hill at the intersection of Cross and Howell, is a full four stories tall and traps my home in shadow.”

Hadrian opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing to say.

“Sit,” she ordered.

They both complied. Hadrian sat in the middle. Royce took the seat farthest away.

“It smells wonderful,” Hadrian said, reaching out to peek under the silver lid directly before him.

“Tut, tut!” Evelyn said, and clapped her hands sharply, stopping him. “What’s wrong with you people?” She glared accusingly.

Once more Hadrian glanced at Royce, mystified. The truth was he could answer that question a dozen different ways.

“Have you no sense of propriety? No piety?”

Hadrian still hadn’t a clue what she was getting at, and apparently it showed. She frowned his way.

“We need to give thanks to Our Lord, Novron, for this meal.”

“Oh,” Hadrian replied.

“Oh?” Evelyn intensified the disappointment in her eyes. “What sort of comment is that?”

Fearful of another verbal blunder, Hadrian shrugged.

“Now he’s acting like a monkey,” she said to Royce, as if he would understand and agree. Royce sat rigidly, staring back. Hadrian imagined he was entertaining himself ticking through all the ways he planned to kill her, mentally trying each out.

Evelyn turned to Hadrian, waiting. A long minute passed, and her brows rose with the passage of time. “Well?”

“Well what?” Hadrian asked.

Evelyn looked dumbfounded. “Are you telling me that you . . . am I correct in my assumption that you’ve never offered thanks to Novron for your good fortune? How is that possible? Were the two of you hatched in a cave somewhere such that you don’t understand the basic concepts of civilization and devotion to our god?”

Hadrian looked to Royce for help, and he wasn’t surprised to see his partner lifting his hood.

“We do not wear hoods at the table.” Evelyn’s words were so firm that the declaration came out as an indisputable fact.

Royce froze like a raccoon caught in a trash bin.

“Honestly, the two of you . . . it’s like living with animals.”

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian said. “We’re not from around here.”

“Obviously. The two of you live in a forest, most likely in some worm-filled burrow.”

“If it’ll get us closer to eating, we’re all for whatever thanks giving you have planned. Right?” Hadrian looked at Royce, who remained stationary with his hood partway up, watching Evelyn with a menacing fixation.

“Fine.” Evelyn sighed with abundant disappointment. Then she bowed her head. “We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food before us. May we prove worthy of your kindness.” She lifted her head and looked at Hadrian.

“Am I supposed to say that now, too?”

Evelyn gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Just—just eat. Please.”

Lifting the lids, they found a steaming feast of eggs, pork, cheese, whitefish, shellfish, honey, almonds, pastries, and whey. For a moment, Hadrian was overwhelmed. “Did . . . did you prepare this all yourself?”

“Of course not. Didn’t you see the army of fairy-cooks that filed out while you were insulting Our Lord? I particularly like their tiny aprons, don’t you?”

“I—” Hadrian wasn’t certain she was mocking him.

“Eat,” she ordered.

They passed trays, loading up plates. Hadrian felt horribly selfish and decadent while piling up so much, but Evelyn insisted she’d cooked it for them and they had best eat it.

“I don’t recall hearing you come in last night,” Evelyn said, pouring herself tea from an elaborate pot made in the shape of an elephant.

To Evelyn Hemsworth and Royce, the pot was likely the whimsical design of a creative artist, but Hadrian had firsthand experience with the animals. He’d seen them during his years in Calis, where they were used as both beasts of burden and war machines. Much of the tableware setting was inspired by, or likely came from, Calis. The port of Rochelle was perhaps the first stop in the trans-Goblin Sea trade route. Even the spice shakers had monkeys on them.

“But I noticed you left quite a puddle on my rug and a nasty trail of wet up the stairs. I’ll ask you to please remove your boots in the future. I’m an old woman and have more than enough to do. I don’t need you providing me with extra work. And be aware, I lock the door promptly with the third chime of the bell tower after sunset.” She reached for the sugar and paused. “You’re not up to anything shady, are you? I won’t stand for any higgery-jiggery or jiggery-pokery for that matter. Not in this house. Understand? While you’re here, I’ll expect the both of you to conduct yourselves properly. And you”—she indicated Royce with a tilt of her head and the raise of a brow—“don’t wear a cloak to the meal table. And wash your hands before coming down. Who were your parents? That’s what I’d like to know.”

They ate for several minutes in silence. The food was wonderful, but Evelyn didn’t eat much at all.

“Might I ask, what became of King Reinhold?” Hadrian ventured and received an apprehensive look from Royce. Both of them visibly cringed in anticipation of the response. Talking to Evelyn was like searching for wayward eggs in a dark henhouse.

Evelyn sighed.

“I’m sorry if that’s not a polite thing to discuss over breakfast,” Hadrian added.

“What? Oh, no, that’s fine, but well, His Majesty . . .” Evelyn frowned over her plate, which consisted of only a single small roll and a slice of orange cheese. “It was quite the tragedy, you understand. His ship, the Eternal Empire, sank in a storm off Blythin Point about five months ago. The entire royal family was aboard, along with most of the royal court. That’s why stewardship of the kingdom has fallen to Bishop Tynewell.”

“Why the bishop?” Hadrian asked.

“Tradition mostly. When the last emperor of the Novronian Empire died, the Bishop of Percepliquis was the one who assumed the mantle of steward to the empire.” She peered at both of them for a moment expectantly. “Neither of you has any clue what I’m talking about, do you?”