There was a woman in the hall ahead, pacing. As they drew closer, the woman’s head shot up to look at them. Maia recognized the woman, Lady Deorwynn of Chester Hundred. She had long golden hair, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, and a charming smile. Maia was not quite as tall as her yet, but she recognized Lady Deorwynn as one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting. She had two daughters who were close to Maia’s age. Their names were Murer and Jolecia. Maia’s memory had always been exceptional, but she did not see either daughter nearby. Instead, there was a little boy half hidden by his mother’s skirts.
“Welcome back to Comoros, Lady Marciana,” said Lady Deorwynn sweetly. Something flashed in her eyes, a look so confusing that Maia could not, in her limited experience, interpret it. It was the look of someone who hated her but did so with a sumptuous smile. The woman flicked some of her golden hair over her shoulder and approached them, looking down her nose at Maia. “You have grown taller, I should think. My girls are taller, of course, but you do look handsome. I have always adored your eyes, Marciana. My Hundred, Chester, is so near the sea, and your eyes look like they were fashioned out of seawater. I am quite envious.” She reached out and pinched Maia’s chin, tilting her head one way and then another. The possessiveness of her touch was humiliating. Maia wanted to shove her hand away, but she felt a palpable threat coming from Lady Deorwynn’s eyes.
“Thank you, Lady Deorwynn,” Maia said.
“Mama, make her go,” said the little boy. He was barely visible from around the woman’s skirts, but she could see part of his face and . . . it made her blood run with ice.
“Do not fret, Edmon,” she replied, tousling his hair. “This is Lady Marciana returned from Pry-Ree. Our Hundred borders Pry-Ree as well. Is not she pretty?”
The little boy peered at Maia, his eyes wary and distrusting. Her throat caught at the sight of his little face. It was like staring at her father as a young boy. The shape of his nose, the same shade of sandy-brown hair. Even his eyes matched her father’s—and her own.
“How . . . old are you, little Edmon?” Maia managed, her voice faltering a little. She struggled to steel herself, willing her eyes to stay dry, her voice to harden.
He scowled at her, refusing to speak.
“The duckling is almost four,” Lady Deorwynn said, playing with his hair. Her eyes were filled with an unspoken challenge when they met Maia’s, as if she were daring her to speak what was so obvious. When she did not, she leaned over and kissed the boy lightly on the head. “He has a little brother as well,” she added like a knife thrust.
“The king is expecting to see his daughter,” Chancellor Walraven said disdainfully. “I would not like to keep him waiting.”
She gazed at the chancellor, her eyes flashing. “Of course. I would not wish to detain you. Welcome home, Marciana.” The words were innocuous, but there was venom on her breath.
Chancellor Walraven escorted her to the door of the solar. The thick oaken door had a multitude of carved squares on it, many of them offset with other squares—the maston symbols. Her heart lurched as she glanced back once at the little boy and his mother, both gazing at her with persecuting eyes.
When she entered the room, Maia saw her father pacing, hands clenched behind his back. She had always thought her father the most handsome man in all the world. He was fit and trim, with the body of a hunter and sportsman. He had the reputation of being an excellent swordsman, diplomat, and ruler. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he saw her, and a genuine smile lit his face, but there were smudges above his cheekbones, shadows that had not been there before, and a subtle fringe of gray lined the edges of his hair. He wore his hair cropped close, in the southern fashion. His smile was so handsome it melted her heart, but she could see that his delight was suffused with discomfort . . . suffering.
“Maia,” he breathed, throwing wide his arms.
She wanted to run to him, just as she had as a little girl. She wanted him to sweep her up, to soothe her with kisses and promises and dispel the awful dream that had suddenly plunged her soul into darkness.
The chancellor released her arm and she approached her father, dropping to a formal curtsy in front of him.
“What is this nonsense?” he asked, his eyes suddenly stern. “Maia, you are home! I am grateful to see you. I want your embrace, not formality. Come here!”
She choked down her feelings and came into his arms. There was a smell about him. Not the scent of cinnamon or some contrived odor. Just the smell of his skin, his breath, and she felt a surge of girlish emotions that threatened to ruin her composure. It almost made her forget her disgraced mother, and little Edmon who shared her father’s eyes. Almost.
“That is better,” he said, giving her a hearty squeeze. He held her away from him by the shoulders, gazing down at her with obvious pleasure. “You are quite beautiful, Maia, though must not all fathers think that about their daughters? Look at her, Walraven. She is a beauty.”