The attic took up the entire length of the house. Centuries’ worth of discarded furniture had been relegated here. Scavengers had made their mark, leaving behind the heaviest pieces, absconding with the rest. Perhaps in a fit of goodwill, they had decided against breaking the windows. Every one of them remained intact, which meant the space was dry and relatively warm.
Cas stood by the door. The little footsteps disappeared into the maze of overturned trunks and broken armoires. “Hello?” he called. There was no answer. “Hello there?”
How had the child entered the house in the first place? Not through front doors wrapped in chains. Cas thought of Palmerin Keep with its hidden passageways and secret doors. There were any number of ways in and out of a home. If one knew where to look.
He said, “Is anyone here? My name is Cas. I mean you no harm.” He stayed where he was. It occurred to him that the sound of heavy, measured footsteps walking up and down the chamber might be terrifying to a small someone trying to hide. “I live at Palmerin Keep. Do you know it? It’s not far from here. My elder brother is Lord Ventillas. Do you have a brother?”
There. Halfway down the chamber, to the right, a shadow moved.
Cas focused on that spot. “Most days I like my brother. He taught me how to fish.” Also how to fight with a sword, shoot with a bow and arrow, scale a castle wall, throw a dagger directly into a man’s throat. But these were not things you mentioned to someone you were trying to put at ease. “Some days I don’t like him as much. Elder brothers like to tell you what to do, which can be tedious. I would have liked to have had a sister. Do you have a sister?”
Another shift, a small sound.
Cas raised the torch. “Do you live up here? I used to visit sometimes when I was a boy.”
A minute passed. Cas began to feel like a lump. There was no one here. He was talking to air. Good thing Bittor was not around to see. Whoever had left those footprints had come and gone. There were mice in this attic. That was all. He had heard nothing more than the scuttling and scraping of claws.
Even so, he tried one last thing. He took an apple from his pocket, one that had been meant for his horse. He had forgotten it was there. He placed it on the floor, shiny and red amid the dust. “Are you hungry? I have an apple. I’ll leave it here for you and then I’ll go. You can eat in peace.” He took a step back, feeling more and more foolish as the seconds passed. “There’s food downstairs. A warm fire. You have my word no harm will come to you . . .” Nothing. He sighed and turned around. Under his breath, he said, “Wasting food on a mouse.”
Downstairs, Cas opened the front doors and peered down the path. It was impossible to see anything through the sheets of rain. His saddlebag had been brought in and left by the fireplace. Crouching, he rifled through the contents. He had pillaged the food wagon before riding here. Wrapped in various cloths were bread, cheese, grapes, and olives. Sticks of meat, dried and salted. He could have sworn . . . ah. And a large slice of olive oil cake wrapped in more cloth.
Cas heard nothing over the crackling fire and the pouring rain, but something had him turning his head toward the stairs.
A small figure stood on the bottom step. A little girl, hair a wild tangle, feet bare. She wore what appeared to be a collection of tattered blankets around her shoulders, and Cas was reminded of the old crones from his childhood tales. Except this crone was three feet tall, if that. She looked scared. Cas knew what had drawn her from her hiding place, for she could not take her eyes from the food he had spread out by the fire.
Cas remained kneeling. “Hello there. I was just about to have supper. Will you join me?”
She took a few steps toward him, then stopped. Cas had never seen such a quiet, watchful child. “I have bread and cheese. The grapes are very sweet.” He laid two squares of cloth on the floor and divided the food in half.
Hunger won out over fear. Several blankets were discarded as she hurried over and knelt before her share of the food. Her reek nearly knocked him over. It reminded him of his time in prison. The smell was the same. Cas watched her fall on the meal, inhaling more than eating. Like a wild animal, feral. He should tell her to slow down—she might be sick otherwise—but he did not have the heart to.
Not a crumb was left on her napkin. Immediately, she eyed his untouched meal.
Cas said, “Drink first.” Slowly, so as not to scare her, he reached for his water flask, pulled off the cap, and offered it to her.
She snatched it away and drank, watching him the entire time with wide, unblinking eyes. When he gauged she had consumed half the flask, he held out his hand. Only a slight hesitation before she returned it. She turned back to his napkin, waiting.
Cas asked her a question, though he knew the answer already. He had seen the birthmark on her cheek and recognized it. As big as his thumbnail, it reminded him of the rosetta window at Palmerin Keep. He had first seen it at her naming ceremony five years ago. “What is your name?”
She reached for more bread. Cas held up a palm, stopping her. “Do you remember your name?”
“Clara.” It was a strange voice, with the high-pitched tone of a child, but full of rust, like a hermit unused to speech. “I am Clara.”
22
When the royal household arrived, full dark had fallen. The doors were thrown open and they poured in, tired and damp, happy to be out of the storm. They stopped at the sight that greeted them. Directly ahead was a massive stone staircase. Cas sat on the bottom step, elbows on bent knees. Beside him was a small girl, five or so, wearing a heap of ancient, holeyblankets.
Queen Jehan was the first to approach. Her cloak was a rich purple, the hood lined with black fur. She pushed it back, revealing dark hair gathered in cauls above her ears. Clara shrank against Cas.
Queen Jehan paused. She said something to one of the soldiers, who immediately began steering everyone toward the fire and away from the staircase.
“Who do we have here?” Queen Jehan smiled. She was close enough to see the girl’s condition, to smell her. Nothing showed on her face except a mild curiosity.
Cas tried to stand; he needed to greet the queen properly, but Clara hung on to him with both arms. “It’s all right. No one will hurt you here. This is Queen Jehan.” Clara only buried herself deeper into his armpit. Queen Jehan shook her head slightly at Cas’ apologetic look. By then, a small crowd had gathered beside her. King Rayan, Ventillas, Lena, Bittor, and High Councilor Amador, who covered his nose with a handkerchief until the queen turned and looked at him. The handkerchief disappeared but the pinched expression remained.
Bittor swiped rainwater from his face, baffled. “Where did she come from?”
“I found her in the attic,” Cas said. “I think she’s been alone since . . . for some time. I don’t know what she’s been eating.” The girl peeked out from under Cas’ arm, the birthmark clearly visible.
There was a strangled sound from Ventillas. “Cassia. That’s—”
“Yes.” Cas explained to the others, “This is Clara, Lord Pastor’s daughter.”
“How is this possible?” King Rayan asked, appalled.