Whatever she wishes, it will most likely be just she and her ladies in waiting in the solar, so I will not have to face Beast just yet. While Ismae was most forgiving, my family has not harmed her or those she loved in any way. Beast’s betrayal at my hand goes much deeper than a secret not shared between childhood friends.
By the time the maid arrives, I have already washed with the water remaining in the ewer, the coldness of it helping to restore my wits. I slip into the second of the gowns Ismae has lent me, a stark, simple black silk with severe lines. I settle my heavy garnet and gold crucifix on the thick chain around my waist and consider myself ready. At least, as ready as I’ll ever be.
The maid herself leads me to the duchess’s solar, which is two floors up from my own chamber. She murmurs my name to the sentry on duty, who nods and opens the door, announcing me.
“Come in!” the duchess’s young voice calls out. Cautiously, I step into the room, blinking at all the golden sunlight spilling in through the mullioned windows.
The duchess is sitting near a couch, surrounded by three ladies in waiting. As they eye me furtively, I cannot help but wonder if news of my parentage has traveled to their delicate ears. Or is the council treating it as a secret to be guarded?
A young girl, no more than ten years of age, reclines on the couch, looking fragile and wan.
“Lady Sybella!” The duchess waves her hand at me. I step farther into the room, pleased that she has not used my last name. As I sink into a deep curtsy, I comfort myself that she has most likely not brought me here to censure me in front of her younger sister.
“Come. Sit with us.” She pats the empty chair between herself and the couch, and I realize that this summons is an invitation. An open declaration of acceptance, and I am humbled by this great kindness she is showing me.
“But of course, Your Grace.”
I ignore the glances of her ladies and cross to the chair the duchess indicates. As I sit down, the duchess gives me another smile. “I had thought to invite you to stitch with us, then realized you probably did not think to pack your embroidery silks when you left Nantes.”
I smile at her gentle joke. “No, Your Grace. I did not.”
One of the ladies leans forward, her brow creased. “How did you find Nantes, my lady?”
The duchess looks at her attendant and shakes her head with a glance in the young girl’s direction. The woman nods in understanding.
“It is as magnificent as ever, a true testament to the house of Montfort,” I say, and the duchess relaxes slightly.
“Demoiselle, I do not think you have met my sister before. Isabeau, dear, this is the Lady Sybella, a great ally of ours.”
Her words cause a blush to rise to my cheeks—I, who never blush—and I turn to properly greet her sister. The child’s skin looks nearly translucent, and her large eyes peer out of her pale, drawn face. And her heart—ah, her heart is beating slowly, weakly, as if it may give up at any moment. She reminds me wholly of my younger sister Louise, who also battles fragile health. Once again I am grateful that both my sisters are tucked away in one of our father’s most remote holdings, far from his political scheming and influence.
Not welcoming all the painful memories that the young princess stirs, I harden my heart against her, but in the end, she is so small and weak and charming, I cannot keep myself from liking her. Her embroidery sits forgotten in her lap, and she plucks at her bodice, as if she finds it difficult to breathe. To distract her, I beg a length of scarlet embroidery silk from the duchess, then busy my fingers.
My action immediately catches Isabeau’s attention. “What are you doing, my lady?” She pokes her nose forward to see better.
“I am making a cat’s cradle, a puzzle of thread.” A few more twists of my fingers and the red thread is shaped like a trestle bridge. The princess’s face brightens and her mouth forms a small O of delight.
“Take your hands and pinch where the threads cross on each side,” I tell her.
She glances at the duchess, who nods her head in permission, then reaches out with two slim fingers and hesitatingly pinches the crossed threads. “Ready now?” I ask.
She glances up at me, then back down at the threads. She nods. “Pinch hard,” I say, “pull your hands out to the side, then bring them slowly back in and under my own.”
Biting her lip in concentration, Isabeau does as I instruct. It is clumsy and awkward, but when she is finished, she has transferred the cat’s cradle to her own small hands, and her face flushes with triumph and delight.
“Oh, well done,” murmurs the duchess.
I smile at Isabeau, who smiles back. She is no longer plucking at her bodice, and her heart is beating a little more steadily. Thus it was with Louise as well. Her own illness made her anxious, which in turn made her feel worse. It comes over me with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer that I may very well never see Louise or Charlotte again. Not after betraying d’Albret.