Ina doesn’t miss a beat, and there’s an easy cheerfulness in her voice that wasn’t there when we were alone. “I am escorted, in case you think this girl is a ghost,” she says, sweeping her hand in my direction. “I’m only going to surprise Roan on his hunt.”
Again, I’m surprised by how easily the lie falls from her lips. Her eyes, clear and pure as drops of water, give away nothing. Instinct kicks at me to tell Ina about Roan’s visit to the servants’ quarters this morning—instead, I tuck the knowledge away, next to my other secrets to keep for later.
Regardless, it works—the guards stand back and let us through. We ride out into the plain beyond Everless’s walls; the doors stand open a moment longer, then swing heavily shut. It’s amazing how rapidly I feel lighter, as if I hadn’t noticed the iron weight sitting on my chest until it was lifted away.
Ina leads us to the main road. It’s early enough that travelers are few and far between—we pass a handful of carts ambling toward Everless, loaded up with hay or wood or piles of grain, but no one else seems to be heading away. Ina keeps her hood up, but outside the walls of Everless, nobody looks her way twice. Or rather, people look, but only in the way anyone would upon seeing a girl as beautiful as Ina. None of the farmers and merchants we pass seem to know she’s the Queen’s daughter, the future ruler of Sempera.
When she pulls Mava to a smaller road that cuts through the forest, I follow, though my fingers grip the reins, making them slick with sweat. I wonder if my father walked through these woods on his last trip to Everless.
“You don’t think there would be . . . bleeders in these woods?” Ina glances around fearfully, less dismissive now that we’re surrounded by twisting black trunks and shadows. I wonder if she was badly frightened in the raid that killed their servants. To my confused look, she replies, “Have you heard? A hedge witch was murdered yesterday in Ayleston.”
A chill runs down my spine. Papa always told me that hedge witches and other so-called lesser sorcerers were charlatans, but not everyone believes that—and someone said to have a special relationship with time might make a pretty target for thieves. I shake my head, clear my throat as well as my mind. “We’re safe this close to Everless.” Since I am expected to die for her if we’re attacked, I hope that it’s the truth. “But I don’t know this part of the forest well.”
“That’s all right,” Ina says, pulling a folded map out of her dress pocket.
The light grows thicker as the tree branches give way to the sky. I’m uneasy on Honey’s back—every time she turns slightly to follow Mava or avoid debris in the path, I grip the saddle with my thighs, afraid of falling. At least the cold has eased some as the sun has risen. And the landscape around us is strangely beautiful; it all sparkles now with snow and melting ice.
As grateful as I am for the change of scenery, I can’t push aside the suspicion the Queen’s daughter may be hiding something.
“Ina . . .” I trail off. Questioning the Queen’s charge still feels more than unnatural—Ina’s power hovers in the air like a creature waiting to strike. But I push on. “Why are we going to an orphanage? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Oh.” Ina laughs a little, though it sounds hollow to me. “You know, I’ve been so engrossed in this map that I forgot I didn’t tell you.”
She half turns in her saddle, just as at ease as if she is on a chaise longue at the palace on the shores. Still, she takes a long time to respond, and when she does, her voice is slow and soft. “I want to know who my birth parents are,” she says matter-of-factly. “I love the Queen, and am grateful to her, but I want to know who . . . who came before.”
She faces forward again, so I no longer see her face. “I thought about asking Roan along, but he’s so—so lighthearted. I didn’t want him to think about something sad, or to think that I was unhappy.” This I understand perfectly, wanting to keep all the darkness and grief of the world from touching Roan. “And if the Queen finds out . . .”
I finish her sentence in my head: she’ll be disappointed.
She’ll accuse me of treason.
She’ll have my head.
I wonder which is true, though I don’t yet dare to ask. The memory of the Queen’s knife flying toward Ina flashes through my mind.
“And Caro?” I ask.
Ina sighs, sounding disappointed. “She knows I go out on rides by myself, but not where I go. She wouldn’t approve either. Anyway, she’s off on one of her mysterious errands for the Queen.”
“What are the errands?” I ask, curious, then blush for my nosiness.
“Nothing important,” Ina says dismissively. “You know the Queen is obsessed with the Sorceress. She likes to go to the old places, battle sites and graves and so on, and she always takes Caro with her.”
A thought occurs to me. “How did Caro come into the Queen’s favor? Was she . . .” I let my words trail off, though by the way her hand grips the reins, I know Ina understands what I mean to say.
“Was she abandoned, like the others?” Ina finishes softly.
My silence is a nod.
Ina turns her head again and flashes a smile—though the sadness still hangs delicately in her features, like smoke. “She says she’s never been curious about her parents, and neither should I. She thinks it was fate that brought her to the palace, to the Queen, so she doesn’t care about what came before. She’s very loyal, as good as family. If she hadn’t come to the Queen at an older age, I wonder . . .”
There’s an emotion tangled in Ina’s voice—whether its doubt, guilt, or envy, I can’t quite tell. Perhaps it’s all three.
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’m grateful to you for being discreet. It’s good to talk to another or—” She pulls Mava to a sudden halt. “I’m so foolish. I didn’t mean to bring up family just after your father passed.”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, though my heart twists a little. It’s a good kind of pain, if there is such a thing. To have these words—parents, orphan—out in the air is strange, but it’s better than having them boiling under my skin. Part of me wonders that Ina Gold should be so trusting. But why shouldn’t she be? Maybe it’s me, with my hidden landscapes of secrets and fears, who’s the abnormal one.
Ina blinks, as if she feels it too. “It’s such a relief to trust you, Jules—I feel like I can talk to you. Like you understand.” She smiles, a little bashfully. “Do tell me to stop if I’m not making sense. I know it’s forward of me—”
I shake my head—I do understand, at least in regards to how she feels about her parentage. My whole being wants to cling to the idea of Papa. His letter in my breast pocket, now almost falling apart from being folded and refolded so many times, is a testament to that. And I want Ina to know that. I want her to trust me.