Gilbert is sitting to Isbe’s right at the table, and she can feel his shoulder grazing hers. “You look somber,” he mutters into her ear.
She hates how aware she is of his breath whispering against her skin. That if she turned too soon, her mouth would collide with his.
“I’m afraid this life is harder on you than either of us knew it would be,” he goes on quietly, beneath the din of the rest of the group.
“No,” she replies immediately. The last thing she wants to admit is how shocked she’s been by how different things are for the peasants. Even though she was treated more like a servant at the palace than royalty, she had freedom to choose her activities. No one’s livelihood has ever truly depended on her before.
But there’s a deep satisfaction in being of real use for once. “I’m not afraid of hard work,” she tells him.
“All right. No need to get defensive,” he says, poking her in the ribs.
She gives him a half grin. “Better than when I’m on the offensive, though.”
He laughs quietly. “I like it when you get aggressive.”
“Oh, do you?” she challenges.
Even though the room is noisy, she can hear him breathing again. They are sitting very close, his voice directed only at her. “Yes,” he says, sounding serious. “I do.”
And then he flicks a bit of his stew at her face.
“Hey!” she says, turning to him.
“It wasn’t me!” he protests.
“Oh, don’t try and blame the children.” She grins wider this time, picking up a soggy carrot from her bowl, not caring as broth soaks into her sleeve.
“Isbe!” he says. “You’re making a mess of your—”
She tosses the chunk of carrot at him and he squeals with laughter. She’s always loved his ridiculous laugh.
“Truce,” he says now, leaning closer to her again, then tenderly wiping a bit of broth from the corner of her mouth.
She freezes, holding her breath at his touch.
“It’s so nice to be able to relax for once,” one of the neighbors cuts in. “It seems everyone’s been so tense, what with the murders.”
The word “murders” quiets the rest of the room.
“Good riddance, if you ask me,” says the wife.
“What do you mean?” Gilbert asks carefully.
“Aubin? Trust that filthy dog’s nation?” the husband says in response. “Never bought that alliance bein’ a good idea. Not for one minute. Them princes better off dead.”
“Better off without ’em in these parts,” the wife seconds.
“Well,” Isbe begins. “Many at the palace fear the approach of Malfleur and the forces of LaMorte.”
The husband laughs. “All mule dung! LaMorte? Them mountains been silent since before time I was a kid. An attack from LaMorte? Likely as God bringing down a flood.”
Roul grunts. “You ask me, it’s all stories. Scare us into more taxes, like they always do. Never enough. Levy on the grain. Next it’ll be a tax to use my right foot and ’nother to use my left.”
“I don’t know much,” says the wife. “But I ain’t ever trusted the council.”
Isbe bites her tongue. She’s not sure, in fact, what to think. She’s not exactly full of warm feelings toward the council at the moment. But would they invent a threat just to manipulate the poor people of the kingdom? It’s something that simply never occurred to her before.
“Palace deserves what it’s had,” the husband adds. “All them just gone and asleep. Well. They been sleeping on the job for years, you ask me.”
“What are you talking about?” Isbe asks. Her body has gone cold.
“You ain’t heard?” the wife puts in. “What a tale. And they’re saying it’s all the fault of the princess herself. Wandered off and fell right down where she lay. Well, of course they tried to bring her back. But anyone what’s so much as looked at her fell down sick in their spots.”
All at once, Gil’s hand is on Isbe’s arm.
“What’s that?” Roul is saying. “We haven’t heard of a disease here.”
“Ain’t heard of the sleeping sickness?” says the wife. “Say it’s worse than anything. Hits you before you know it. May as well be dead, all of ’em.”
“All of them?” Isbe blurts out, her pulse leaping into her throat.
The husband replies: “Princess. Most of the palace too. All them like children, just sleepin’ right there on the ground. No one can wake ’em. Soon the flies’ll come, you ask me.”
Isbe stands up and shoves her chair away from the table, the smell of the stew now nauseating to her. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Course, some are saying it’s no sickness at all,” the wife says, clearly enjoying herself. “Old faerie magic, you ask me.”
“Isbe,” Gil says, wrapping his arms around her. “Let’s go outside for a moment. You look like you need a breath of clean air.”
Numbly she lets him direct her out of the house, where the chill of the evening attacks her immediately on all sides. She begins to shiver uncontrollably. “Gil, what can they mean? Is it true? What do we do? I have to help my sister, I have to go to her, I have to—”
“We can’t go to her, Isbe. It isn’t safe. Didn’t you hear what they said? The roads are closed off. It’s catching.”
“So, what, I’m just supposed to go about making rabbit stew and gossiping with neighbors while my sister suffers? She could die, Gil!”
“We don’t know that. We don’t know enough yet,” he insists. “Just try and stay calm, and—”
“Calm?” She shoves his arms away from her. And yet she feels disoriented. The night, usually so soothing, now seems swollen with unfamiliar sounds. “Calm?” She’d like to take a battering ram to those peasants and their story.
“Bad choice in words,” Gil says, letting out a sigh. “Look, you heard what Martine said. Maybe . . . maybe there’s more to it than a sickness.”
“What are you saying?” Isbe asks, feeling a tiny glimpse of hope, the way she can sometimes feel, just from the subtle coolness of shadows giving way, when the sun is about to peek out from behind the clouds. “You think there’s faerie magic involved?”
She imagines Gil shrugging. “Maybe.”
Isbe doesn’t know what to believe. Magic like that . . . none of the faeries she has ever met can do more than parlor tricks. But it’s possible. It’s an idea. And curses, unlike diseases, can potentially be reversed. “Are there any local noblefaeries who might understand it? Anyone at all?”
“Lord Barnabé,” Gil says slowly. “He goes by Binks. Roul says he’s not very trustworthy, but what fae are? It might be worth a try.”
And then she remembers: Binks tithes human luck. She wonders now whether Roul’s lack of luck could be blamed for the death of Celeste and their baby. She shudders. But then she straightens her shoulders. “Yes. It’s definitely worth a try.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Isbe feels her heart clawing at her throat. Without Gil’s help, she’s lost. She’ll never be able to seek out Binks on her own.