Master Jacomel appeared by Lena’s side. Black robes, keys jangling. He set the foul-smelling cup on the table. “You are lying. I can always tell.”
“They’re just bruises.” Cas touched his ribs lightly, very lightly. “Nothing’s broken. I know the difference.”
“Take it off,” Master Jacomel ordered. “Let me see.”
Cas had removed his tunic during his fitting. Nearly all of the keep had seen his scars. But Lena had not. He would keep it that way. “No.”
Master Jacomel, who was not without mercy, said, “My dear lady, perhaps—”
“I’m not going anywhere, Master Jacomel. You will have to pick me up and make me.” Lena’s expression was set.
Cas bowed his head. This was what shame felt like, a hollowness in his gut. “Lena. It’s awful.”
“I know, Cas,” she said quietly. “Stop this. Did you hurt your ribs?”
She knew. Someone must have told her of his scars. Cas would not win this argument. He could tell just by looking at her. He pulled off the tunic with painful slowness and heard Master Jacomel’s sharply drawn breath.
“You idiot child. Were you truly going to say nothing?”
Cas did not look at either of them. As Master Jacomel railed on about his new wounds—a vicious scrape across the entire right half of his torso and the deep bruising beneath it—Cas kept his head bent and followed the pattern on Lena’s blue dress, tiny silver falcons perched on branches. Master Jacomel marched back to the table by the window, which held an assortment of bottles and jars, each carefully labeled.
Lena had not spoken a word or moved an inch. When he could bear it no longer, Cas turned his head.
She was trying very hard not to cry. Even as he watched, a single tear fell. His heart sank. The sight of him made her weep.
Cas crumpled the discarded tunic in a fist. “I tried to warn you.”
“I hate them all.” Her voice was low and fierce. Another tear fell.
“Don’t.” Cas looked down at his new injuries, winced. “This was a mistake. It will heal. And this . . .” The whiplash, the crescents, the old scars. “These men are all dead. There’s no point hating them.”
Master Jacomel returned with an open jar. The salve within, a thick, green substance, smelled of mint. He scooped it out with his fingers, then rubbed it briskly between both hands to warm it. “Lift your arm.” When Cas obeyed, Master Jacomel spread the ointment onto the scrape from top to bottom. Instantly, Cas felt better. The steward did not comment on Lena’s tears, which fell freely now, but he said, in a far gentler voice than he had used with Cas, “If it will make you feel better, Lady, I can make sure those men are given some sort of terrible latrine duty for the next month or so. Will that do?”
Lena’s smile wobbled. “It would make me feel better, Master Jacomel.”
“Good. Consider it done.” The steward wiped the salve from his hands with a cloth. “Come now, help me with these bindings.”
The task distracted her. Cas knew this was Master Jacomel’s intent. Lena brushed aside her tears, and together, she and Master Jacomel unwound a bolt of linen and wrapped it tight around Cas’ chest. A servant poked his head in to say Master Jacomel was needed in the great hall. There was some sort of catastrophe surrounding the packing of musical instruments.
“Catastrophes everywhere,” Master Jacomel said with a sigh. He pointed to the foul-smelling cup, ordered Cas to “Drink it all, every last drop,” and then he was gone.
Neither Cas nor Lena spoke as she helped him back into his tunic. She picked up his cup and sniffed. The mysterious concoction, a gray sludge, resembled the sort that clogged gutters in the streets. Not Palmerin’s streets, not with the city inspector. Other streets.
Lena made a face. “What did he put in it? It smells like feet.”
Cas grimaced. Now that she mentioned it, it did bring to mind a room full of soldiers removing their boots. “Best not to know.”
She offered him the cup, then hopped onto the table beside him, her shoulder brushing his. Neither was in a hurry to speak. Lena studied the painting on the wall opposite them. A life-size portrait of a woman in a blue cloak, standing on the peak of a mountain and looking off into the distance. She held a long wooden staff in her right hand. Below her, cloud cover shielded the landscape.
“Who is she?” Lena asked.
“I don’t know,” Cas told her. “I used to ask when I was a boy. He would only say she was an old friend.”
“She’s beautiful.” Lena’s eyes shifted to his, curious. “Did Master Jacomel ever marry?”
Cas shook his head. Glancing down, he said, “Your hands. Are they . . . ?”
She turned them over. The scrapes and cuts were nearly healed.
“You’ll be back climbing trees before you know it.”
Her smile was quick, fading as she said, “I have to tell Jehan about the coins. And my brother. I can’t put it off any longer.”
“No.” Cas shook the cup slightly. The sludge did not move. “Ventillas thinks this woman is a stranger. Someone upset by the king’s marriage.”
“You don’t?”
“It’s possible,” Cas admitted. “But I’ve been wondering . . . Imagine you’re part of Princess Jehan’s cortege. You’ve left your country behind to serve her faithfully, and now you're racing across Oliveras trying to outrun the plague.”
Lena folded her hands on her lap and nodded once. “I am imagining.”
Cas glanced at her, smiling briefly. “Now imagine you catch the pestilence and are left behind. How would you feel?”
A frown. “I would not have time to feel much of anything. I would be dead.”
“But what if you didn’t die?” Cas countered. “What if you were left in a hospital or village or the side of the road, and you survived? What would you think about the people who left you there?”
Lena was quiet. “Jehan’s safety was their mission. If it were me, I would understand that they had no choice, that their decision was made for the greater good.”
Cas looked at her. He said nothing.
“I might be a little resentful,” Lena admitted.
“Anger doesn’t always make sense.” Cas knew this very well. “Master Dimas said the woman spoke too-perfect Oliveran. It’s possible she came from another kingdom. Brisa maybe. Do you have a list of people who were part of that cortege?”
“Yes. My grandfather kept one. What are you looking for?”
Cas set the cup down. He was not drinking this. Master Jacomel could not force him if he was not here. “The women. The names of the servants, the ladies in waiting, anyone from Brisa.”
“I don’t need to look at a list,” Lena said. “Nearly everyone was Oliveran. The soldiers, the servants. Rayan sent them. Jehan knew it would be a hardship for her ladies to join her here. They had lives in Brisa, families. She only brought two women with her. Faustina and . . .” Lena stopped.
“Lady Mari,” Cas finished. “That’s her name, isn’t it? The queen’s oldest friend?”
A nod. “They left her at a hospital in Gregoria. She died there.”
“I know what hospitals are like during a plague, Lena. Did anyone see her body?”
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