He had dark eyes and a snapping temper. He spoke in Dahomeyjan. “I am told you are rude and disobedient. Also that you do not speak our tongue. You are from Dahomey then?”
Maia swallowed, feeling even more ill at ease now that she was here in the Aldermaston’s house. This was not the beginning she had hoped for. “Forgive me for arriving at such a late hour, Aldermaston.”
He scowled and observed her more closely, his brows furrowing. “You are not from Dahomey,” he said upon reflection. “Though you speak the language well. What other tongues do you speak?”
She stared at him, wondering how much she should reveal. “May we speak privately, Aldermaston?” She nodded toward the still-open door.
“I do not intend for this to be a long conversation,” he replied curtly. “I had a learner break his arm climbing one of the walls today, and the healer says it needs to be set, which will be excruciating. My stomach is growling for the supper I have not yet eaten. There are scrolls to read, tomes to engrave, and punishments to dole out this evening, my dear. I do not have much time to spare. But you were persistent. Is it money you need?”
Maia shook her head no.
“You are not a maston, though. You did not give the porter a sign.”
She shook her head no again.
He walked around the edge of the desk and pulled at the strands of his beard. “My porter believed you were obdurately seeking alms. I typically make such visitors wait a day before speaking with them. I have learned in my six years as Aldermaston that delaying a day will make the majority of your problems fly away.” He grimaced and then clasped his hands in front of his portly belly. “What do you seek? You are not even twenty by the look of you.”
“I am not,” Maia confessed.
“Where are you from?”
She sucked in her breath. “I am from Comoros.”
His brows needled like daggers. “Comoros?” He coughed, looking at her as if she had said she had somehow dropped down from the moon.
“I am Princess Marciana. Please call me Maia.”
“The bastard?” he asked curtly, coughing again.
She bowed her head and nodded.
“This is not at all what I suspected. Indeed!” He shook his head incredulously and scratched his bearded throat. His fingers were fidgety. He grabbed one of the scrolls off the desk before setting it back down just as abruptly. He looked down, then back at her again, sharply. “Can you prove your claim? Do you have a signet ring or some other way I can identify you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Please, Aldermaston.” Her insides churned with dread and shame. She should flee. She should leave. How could she reveal herself to a man so distracted and contemptible? She tried to master her unpleasant emotions. “I need your help.”
He shrugged, obviously perplexed. “With what, may I ask?”
She stepped closer to him, dropping her voice lower. “Help me,” she whispered. “I . . . I . . . am . . .” She could not say it. Her tongue was too thick in her mouth.
“What?” he asked, crinkling his brows. “Speak up!”
She tried to make the sounds, but her throat locked up. She was miserable with shame. “I am not a maston. I wish to be one, as my parents both were, but my father has denied me. Aldermaston, I am a hetaera. Please . . . you must help me. I am so very tired . . . so very weary. When I fall asleep, I am not myself. It . . . takes over. Help me!”
His eyes and mouth widened as if she had sloshed a pan of boiling water on his face. He walked around her swiftly, went to the open door and slammed it shut. He turned, staring at her in unbridled fear now. “What did you say you were?”
“I have become one . . . undeliberately. I was not trained in an abbey. I have been banished for many years. My father sent me to Dahomey, to a forgotten abbey where I found the hetaera’s Leering—”
“Stop!” he said, holding up his hand. He bit his forefinger, muttering to himself in another language. It was a long moment before he looked at her again. “And you came here? To Cruix Abbey? Why? Why here?”
“I do not want this thing inside me,” she moaned, wincing, clutching her breast. “It takes an Aldermaston to cast away a Myriad One.” She wrung her hands together miserably. “I was hunted by the Dochte Mandar in Dahomey and fled across the mountains. I have not slept in three days trying to reach this abbey.”
“Sit down,” he ordered.
She looked at him in confusion.
“You are ready to collapse. Please, sit down.”
Maia nodded and gratefully seated herself in one of the many wooden chairs. Her shoulders slumped. He walked up behind her.
“Close your eyes. You cannot see the maston sign. I will Gift you.”