But none of those things are true. She opens her mouth to remind him so, when instead, the door of the sauna is thrown open and a burst of cold air shocks her into silence.
“Not to fear. It’s me, Annette,” says the woman who must be the head housemaid of the estate. She speaks elegantly, without the accent of many of the peasants Isbe and William have encountered on their journey. “You can come this way. And please do hurry.”
William couldn’t have stood up any faster even if his breeches had caught fire. He throws his doublet back on with a hasty thwack.
“We’re ever so flattered to be of service to you both,” Annette says, leading them through an elaborate maze of servants’ quarters, “and grateful for your efforts during these . . . difficult times.”
As they move through Lady Almandine’s estate, Annette explains that the household servants are all taught in the arts of massage and that their primary duties involve maintaining the various salt-and clear-water baths of differing temperatures. According to Annette, there is an entire room full of twigs, dedicated to “whipping the blood into a frenzy.” Lady Almandine apparently also has many personal trainers who keep her well practiced in the arts of riding and fencing and dancing. And then, there are the lovers.
Isbe blushes as Annette lowers her voice, continuing to gossip about her ladyship. “Lady gets all kinds of . . . private visitors,” she says. “Big, small, tall, short. Men, women, and some whose sex I couldn’t tell you if I tried. That’s why there are so many snaking halls throughout the house. Many ways for her . . . friends . . . to arrive and depart discreetly. It’s also why we’ve become one of the most important junctures on the Veiled Road,” she explains with pride.
“Ah,” Isbe says, though the last thing she wants to hear about at the moment is the intimate life of a deranged faerie, when all she can think of is William and his proposal. He is deathly silent during their tour through the underbelly of the estate.
“Though Lady Almandine hasn’t taken any visitors at all in the last week,” Annette goes on, her chatter becoming white noise in Isbe’s ears. “Acting strange lately, she has . . . not herself, that’s for sure . . .”
Only some of the words reach Isbe. What she’s really listening to is William’s silence.
“No pleasure in it,” Annette is saying. “None at all. Changed, that’s certain.”
Isbe can only assume William resents her now, maybe even hates her. Men, she knows, cannot stand to have their egos stomped on. But he had to be let down. He was the one in the wrong. He never should have said what he did. She can only hope the steam had gone to his head, like it had to hers, and that he’ll come to his senses and apologize. Then they can attempt to bridge the deep rift of awkwardness that has now come between them. But given his hard, angry stomps on the marble staircase as they make their way to the safe guest quarters, she’s not sure that day will come very soon.
Annette keeps talking, oblivious to the tension between her two charges. “Not since her visit to the faerie queen Malfleur,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry, what about Malfleur?” Isbe asks, finally tuning in to the housemaid’s voice.
“Oh, just speculation, of course. The lady went out to see her cousin in LaMorte almost a week ago for a so-called hunting trip, and we don’t know if she’s pledged her support for the evil queen or not. To tell the truth, none of us can get a sense of what really happened during that visit. Only that something has very much changed in the lady’s demeanor since her return, and she won’t stop muttering about long-beaked birds. Vultures.”
“Disconcerting,” Isbe agrees. Does this mean Almandine is pro-Malfleur? When they arrived here this morning, Isbe was full of hope. Maybe Almandine could even help them, she’d thought. If she was present at Aurora’s christening, it is possible she knows something about the curse and how it works. Now it’s clear that it would be far too dangerous to risk discovery.
Annette goes on to tell a horrifying story about one of their horses, who bolted a month ago only to be found days later on the side of the road, gutted by another animal—something with claws and fangs. Definitely wasn’t wolves, Annette says. Possibly some sort of mountain lion or wildcat, they couldn’t be sure. Meanwhile, Isbe goes back to focusing on the prince and his stubborn shroud of silence. She tries to remind herself that it doesn’t matter: he can hate her now, as long as he sees through his commitment to her. As long as he falls in love with her sister, kisses Aurora awake, and seals the alliance between their kingdoms. Nothing else is important: not their friendship, if that’s what they’d had up until a few moments ago.
And certainly of least importance is the way her chest feels like it’s been cleaved in two by a war hammer.
Annette finally stows them away in a clean room that smells of salt and roses. Winter sunlight penetrates the room through warbled crown glass, warming her face. There is, however, only one bed. Rather than discuss the issue, William, as he has often done these past few days, settles onto the floor. She hears the clinking buckles of his belt and boots as he tries to get comfortable, still not saying anything.
She climbs wordlessly into the bed, pulling the sheets up around her damp dress. All the heat from the sauna has fled from her body and left her feeling shivery and exhausted.
She’s surprised a little while later, and a bit disappointed, to hear William’s faint breathing on the floor beside the bed. He has fallen asleep. She can’t fathom how that’s possible. He has robbed her of that ability.
The more she lies there trying to sleep, the more awake, and restless, and angry she becomes. They are within riding distance of the Delucian palace at this point. The only two things stopping them from continuing the rest of their journey today are one, the fact that it’s still daylight, and therefore dangerous, and two, they still aren’t sure how they are going to protect themselves against the sleeping sickness. They don’t know how contagious it really is—nor, more importantly, how it passes from one person to another.
Up until now, Isbe’s goal has been theoretical at best. But it’s about to become all too real. Either they will make it to Aurora and succeed in waking her, or they will fail. Within a day or two at most, she’ll have her answer.
Her still-wet clothes cling to her, the fabric crawling over her skin like a thousand tiny ants. She tries to swallow, but her throat is parched.