He nodded. “I am tired. Will you let me fall asleep holding you?”
“You need not ask.” She drew him to the bed and aided in shedding his garments. When she removed her own, he was pleased, not so they might be intimate again, simply that he could be that much closer to her.
A quarter hour later, she slept where he held her against his chest, and he knew she had lain awake since Sebille threw open the door and told Lady Raisa was dying. Laura had offered to accompany him, but he had declined lest he further expose her to his mother’s venom. Though that was no longer possible by way of word, Lady Raisa’s eyes remained expressive.
Had he wronged his mother as those eyes told? Though all evidence said otherwise, that not only had she endangered the lives of Lady Beata and her husband, but worse, Laura’s, the Lord would not allow him to abandon her in her time of greatest need.
True, there is not much about her to like, he imagined Father Atticus saying, but she is your mother and shall remain so even in death.
Lothaire closed his eyes and remembered a younger Raisa—before his father’s disappearance. He had been only six, and yet he had known she was not happy, just as he had known his father had greater affection for a pretty serving girl than his wife who could never be called pretty. Still, sometimes his mother had smiled and laughed, and just as Lothaire had felt loved by his parents, there was no doubt Sebille felt it more.
Then Ricard Soames did not come home, and of a sudden Raisa had only enough time and regard for her son—naught for her daughter whom she no longer named a miracle.
Why? Lothaire wondered as he had ceased to wonder years ago. What had caused his sister to be reduced to little more than a servant—and on the night past denied entirely?
He sighed and, accepting he would never know, slept.
Finally, the physician departed.
Though the opportunity to confront the witch now lay before Clarice, she hesitated where she stood at the door inside the small chamber into which she had slipped an hour past.
Go, she told herself. Now ere he returns with whatever concoction he thinks will save a life not in need of saving.
But her feet remained fixed to the floor as she peered through the crack at the door behind which lay the woman who feigned sickness so she might remain at High Castle and further threaten the Baron of Lexeter’s new wife.
You are weak, Clarice, she silently scorned. It is daylight. Go!
A sound of distress slipping from her, she opened the door, crossed the corridor, and entered the witch’s lair.
As seen when the physician exited, the chamber was barely lit and turned dimmer when Clarice started to close herself in. Fear urging her to leave the door open a hand’s width, the more easily for her scream to be heard were she roused to one, she clung to the shadow in which she stood. Heart racing, she swallowed so loudly she was certain the still figure at the center of the bed would open her eyes. Did she sleep? Or merely lie in wait, ready to spring upon her prey?
“Be brave,” Clarice whispered and winced at how stiff her legs were as she advanced. Upon reaching the center of the room, she heard a soft moan and halted.
Lady Raisa’s eyes remained closed, but now Clarice could see there was something wrong with her face. Was this what was called a stroke? Regardless, she looked near death. And it made her sad as she ought not be for one like this.
“I care not!” she rasped, and the woman lifted her lids. Clarice wanted to flee, and could have in the time it took those frantically flitting eyes to land on her, but once again she could not move.
The eyes of her mother’s tormentor widened, bent lips parted, and now her moan had volume. But no words.
Clarice resumed her advance. Reaching the bed, she closed her trembling hands into fists. “I am Clarice, the daughter of Lady Laura Soames and now your son. I…” She searched for moisture in her mouth. “I know you hurt my mother—and I wish you to be aware that if ever you even look at her again, I shall…”
She blinked, wished she could say what she meant to say, but the woman was so pitiful it was not believable she could hurt anyone. It had to be true death came for her. “You will not look at her again, will you?” she said softly. “You will not rise again from this bed.”
Another moan, this one very long.
Clarice did not understand why her chest hurt and eyes stung, and it angered her. “You are not a good person, but I am sorry you are hurting.”
The old woman gasped, mouth worked.
“And I am sorry for your son and daughter.”
The woman grunted and one side of her mouth rose in what seemed a sneer.
“I know not how, but surely they care for you.”
A sibilant hiss spilled the lady’s foul breath across the air. Was she trying to speak?
Though Clarice longed to flee, she leaned forward, though not so near the woman could reach her were she capable of doing so. “I do not understand, Lady Raisa.”
Another hiss, then a moan as she sank more deeply into the pillows as if her battle were lost.
Clarice gave her time to recover, and in the silence heard a familiar click from beyond the chamber.
Lady Raisa made a choking sound and lids that had begun to lower flew wide. Her frantic gaze struck Clarice’s, but the bit of speech she pushed past her lips was not needed. “Se…Se…”
Of course it was that lady who came, as told by the sound of her prayer beads. What was not known was whether it was the old woman who whimpered or herself. Regardless, Clarice must not be found here. Lady Sebille, who did not seem to like her, would name it trespass.
Hoping Lady Raisa would not be able to express herself any better with her daughter to reveal who hid inside, Clarice sprang across the room and crouched behind a chair steeped in shadow.
Lady Sebille entered, closed the door, and crossed to the bed.
Peering out from behind the chair where she knelt, Clarice saw fairly well the face of the woman who was now her aunt. The only color about it was splotches that evidenced she had been weeping.
With what seemed sorrow, Lady Sebille said, “How was I to know this time it was real?” Her eyebrows rose, fell. “Not that it would make much difference had I sooner summoned the physician and Lothaire.”
As if Lady Raisa had been holding her breath, she expelled it on a groan at whose end Clarice thought she tried to speak her son’s name.
Lady Sebille lowered to the mattress. “Aye, Lothaire. He sat so long with you I fell asleep waiting for him to leave.”
“Lo,” the old woman said.
“Aye, whom we both love—rather, I do. Methinks ’tis more pride and possessiveness you feel for him than anything of the heart. That you wasted on me, did you not—ere you hated me?”
As Clarice pondered that last, Lady Sebille reached to her mother and swept back wisps of hair that did naught to soften the lined, age-spotted brow.