“I—I tried, but—”
“Shut up!” the regent snapped, still holding up his fist. No one in the kitchen moved. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fire in the ovens and the bubbling of broth in a pot. “If this is the result of a professional, we may as well try an amateur. They couldn’t possibly do worse.” The regent pointed at Amilia. “You! Congratulations, you are now the imperial secretary to the empress.” Turning his attention back to Lady Constance, he said, “And as for you—your services are no longer required. Guards, remove her.”
Amilia saw Lady Constance falter. Her perfect posture evaporated as she cowered and stepped backward, nearly falling over the upended chair. “No! Please, no,” she cried as a palace guard gripped her arm and pulled her toward the back door. Another guard took her other arm. She grew frantic, pleading and struggling as they dragged her out.
Amilia stood frozen in place, holding the meat tongs and carving knife, trying to remember how to breathe. Once the pleas of Lady Constance faded, Regent Saldur turned to her, his face flushed red, his teeth revealed behind taunt lips. “Don’t fail me,” he told her, and returned up the stairs, his cape whirling behind him.
Amilia looked back at the girl, who continued to stare at the wall.
The mystery of why no one saw the empress was solved when a soldier escorted the girls to Modina’s room. Amilia expected to travel to the eastern keep, home of the regents’ offices and the royal residence. To her surprise, the guard remained on the service side and headed for a curved stair across from the laundry. Chambermaids used this stairwell to service rooms on the upper floors. But here, the soldier went down.
Amilia did not question the guard, her thoughts preoccupied with the sword that hung at his side. His dark eyes were embedded in a stone face, and the top of her head reached the bottom of his chin. Each of his hands was the size of two of hers. He was not one of the guards who had taken Lady Constance away, but Amilia knew he would not hesitate when her time came.
The air turned cool and damp as they descended into darkness cut only by three mounted lanterns. The last dripped wax from an unhinged faceplate. At the bottom of the stairs a wooden door stood open, which led to a tiny corridor with more doors on either side. In one room Amilia spotted several casks and a rack of bottles dressed in packs of straw. Large locks sealed two other doors, and a third door stood open, revealing a small stone room, empty except for a pile of straw and a wooden bucket. When they reached it, the soldier stood to one side, his back to the wall.
“I’m sorry …” Amilia began, confused. “I don’t understand. I thought we were going to the empress’s bedchamber.”
The guard nodded.
“Are you saying this is where Her Eminence sleeps?”
Again the soldier nodded.
As Amilia stared in shock, Modina wandered forward into the room and curled up on the pile of straw. The guard closed the heavy door and began fitting a large lock through the latch.
“Wait,” Amilia said, “you can’t leave her here. Can’t you see she’s sick?”
The guard snapped the lock in place.
Amilia stared at the oak door.
How is this possible? She’s the empress. She’s the daughter of a god and the high priestess of the church.
“You keep the empress in an old cellar?”
“It’s better than where she was,” the soldier told her. He had not spoken until then, and his voice was not what she expected. Soft, sympathetic, and not much louder than a whisper, his tone disarmed her.
“Where was she?”
“I’ve said too much already.”
“I can’t just leave her in there. She doesn’t even have a candle.”
“My orders are to keep her here.”
Amilia stared at him. She could not see his eyes. The visor of his helm and the way the shadows fell cast darkness on everything above his nose. “Fine,” she said at last, and walked out of the cellar.
She returned a moment later carrying the wax-laden lantern from the stairwell. “May I at least keep her company?”
“Are you sure?” He sounded surprised.
Amilia was not but nodded anyway. The guard opened the door.
The empress was lying huddled on the bed of straw, her eyes open, staring but not seeing. Amilia spotted a blanket wadded up in the corner. She set the lantern on the floor, shook out the wool covering, and draped it over the girl.
“They don’t treat you very well, do they?” she said, carefully brushing back the mass of hair that lay across Modina’s face. The strands felt as stiff and brittle as the straw that littered them. “How old are you?”