“I fear I have been too busy to attend to rumor or gossip,” said the apothecary with something of a disparaging lift to his left nostril. “The baroness was taken with the fits in the wake of her husband’s abduction and required my utmost attention and skill to bring her delicate mind to a state of equilibrium. . . .”
Felix heard no more. He remained unusually quiet as the apothecary gave a few more instructions and took his leave. His eyes were a little unfocused as he studied his bandage.
The baroness had winked.
He might have imagined it. But he didn’t think so. After all, a wink on the face of that plump and powdered woman was not an image Felix’s mind was ready to conjure. No, she had winked directly at her page boy.
“She was in on it,” Felix whispered.
Of course, none of this was his business. He was here as his father’s representative, a courteous gesture from Parumvir acknowledging the shifting power of Southlands and extending goodwill in this time of upheaval. A symbol; that’s what he was and nothing more.
But . . .
“Lionheart isn’t a murderer.”
He was a liar. He was a cheat. He was a scoundrel who’d brought down destruction and danger on Parumvir. He’d betrayed Felix’s own sister and caused her pain. Felix’s good hand clenched into a fist and he grimaced. Let the blackguard suffer! He certainly deserved it after everything he’d done.
But . . .
“Lionheart isn’t a murderer.”
The sun was setting, and night looked down upon the stricken capital of Southlands. But somewhere beyond the Eldest’s House, in the gardens extending to the distant gorge, a bird, which should have long since gone to roost, sang. The song brought to mind the strange image Felix had glimpsed in the Great Hall, the image of Prince Aethelbald of Farthestshore standing before him (right in midair!) and pointing at the guard below.
Felix scratched the back of his neck and paced to the window, looking out upon the deepening evening. He listened but heard no more of the birdsong, couldn’t even be certain now if he’d heard anything to begin with.
Then he crossed to his bedroom door and flung it open, stepping out under the watchful gaze of his guards.
“Your Highness, Sir Palinurus gave us orders not to—”
“See here, am I your prince, or is Palinurus?” Felix snapped. “Last I checked, I outrank all of you, Palinurus included! If you want to take issue, send a note to my father, why don’t you?”
“Please, Your Highness, it’s for your own safety,” the poor guard pleaded.
“Well, come along if you feel the need to protect me,” Felix said with a shrug. With that, he marched down the hall, trailing guardsmen behind him. He didn’t know where he was going, so he grabbed the first footman he came across and, speaking loudly (because Southlanders always had trouble understanding his accent and he figured louder meant clearer), demanded to know where Middlecrescent’s wife was roosting these days. The poor footman, believing he had somehow offended this foreign prince, hastily bowed after Southlander fashion and pointed the way.
“Thanks, my good fellow!” Felix shouted and the poor man cringed and ducked as the prince and his entourage of guards trooped on.
The hall leading to the baroness’s chambers was crowded with an assortment of guards and ladies-in-waiting, and Felix would have been hard-pressed to say which he found more intimidating. Indeed, he very nearly gave up hope of seeing the baroness and turned back right there, save that one of the ladies caught his eye and instantly hurried over to him.
“You came!” she said, catching Felix’s good hand and squeezing it. She was a lovely young woman with paper flowers in her hair, and Felix blushed, surprised.
“Um, yes . . .”
“The baroness said you’d come,” the lady continued. “She said to send you in to her when you did. I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t show!”
“Wait.” Felix frowned then, his blushes forgotten. “The baroness is expecting me?”
But the lady-in-waiting merely took Felix more firmly by the hand and dragged him back through the crush of people in the hall. His own guards put up feeble protests, but they were obstructed by petticoats and lances and were unable to keep up, while the lady leading Felix dodged all with graceful ease and, at last, hastened Felix through a doorway.
Felix found himself standing alone in a dim chamber dominated by an enormous writing desk. It was to other writing desks what a stone fortress is to a sandcastle. From a desk such as this, a monarch might rule an empire. It was covered in perfume bottles and smelling salts.
“Hullo?” Felix called a little tentatively. The pretty lady-in-waiting had shut the door behind him, but he could still hear the bustle of people in the hall without, the sounds of his guardsmen begging (and being refused) entrance. In this room, however, all was quiet. “I . . . I was told you were expecting me?”