I met his gaze, a smile quirking the corner of my mouth. “You can write to me as well, Master. To make sure I am not dwindling in my studies.”
He gave me a wry look, one that made me wonder what he was thinking, as he slipped his satchel over his shoulder. “Very good. I will be awaiting word from Madame.”
I watched him step into the flood of morning, his passion cloak snapping behind him as he departed. I could not believe he had left so swiftly—he was worse at good-byes than I was!—and I hurried to the threshold.
“Master Cartier!”
He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned to look at me. I leaned on the door frame, the small pendant box clutched in my fingers.
“Your books! They are still upstairs on my shelf.”
“Keep them, Brienna. I have far too many as it is, and you will need to start your own collection.” He smiled; I lost my thread of thought, until I realized he was about to spin around and continue on.
“Thank you.”
It felt far too simple for what he had given me. But I could not allow him to leave without hearing it from my lips. Because I felt that fissure again, a cleaving of my heart. It was an admonition, as I had felt saying good-bye to Merei, a warning that I may never see him again.
He did not speak, but he bowed. And then he was gone, like the rest of them.
ELEVEN
BURIED
July 1566
The next month passed quietly. I longed for Merei’s music, for Abree’s laughter. I missed Oriana’s spontaneous art, Sibylle’s games, and Ciri’s company. But even with loneliness for a companion, I was faithful to my studies; I filled my hours with books and lineages, with anatomy and herb lore, with histories and astronomy. I wanted to be able to branch any way I desired with knowledge.
Every Monday, I wrote to Cartier.
At first it was only to ask for his advice about my studies. But then my letters became longer, eager for a conversation with him, even if it was made of ink and paper.
And his letters reflected mine; at first he was succinct, giving me lists of things to study, as he had often done in the past, and then asking me for my thoughts and opinions. But I gradually began to encourage more words and stories out of him, until his letters required two pages, and then three. He wrote about his father, about growing up in Delaroche, about why he’d chosen the passion of knowledge. And soon, our letters were not so much concerned with lessons but about discovering more of each other.
It astonished me that for three years, I had sat nearly every day in his presence and there was still so much I did not know about him.
The month elapsed with letters and studies, with the Dowager sending inquiries to potential patrons, all of which were kindly rejected. But at last, in that fourth week of waiting, something finally happened.
I was walking the long drive one afternoon, beneath the oaks and the threat of a thunderstorm, waiting on the mail. When I was out of sight of the house, I chose one of the oaks to sit beneath, leaning against the trunk, closing my eyes as I thought about how much time I had left of summer. That was when the rain came, gently through the rustling branches above me. Sighing, I rose and caught my sleeve on a small branch.
I felt the sting of a cut in my arm.
The storm broke loose above me, drenching my dress and hair, as I begrudgingly examined my cut. I had torn my sleeve and blood oozed forth. Gently, I touched the wound, the blood staining my fingertips.
There was a buzzing in my ears, a shiver over my skin, the sort of premonition lightning might give before it strikes. The storm no longer smelled like sweet meadows but like bitter earth, and I watched as the hands before me widened into those of a man, crooked knuckles smudged by dirt and blood.
I glanced up, and the orderly oaks of Magnalia twisted into a dark forest of pines and alders, aspens and hickories. I felt like the woods were spreading me thin; my ears popped and my knees ached until the shift had fully overcome me.
He had cut his arm on a branch too. The same place as mine. And he had stopped to examine it, to smudge his blood on his fingertips.
He didn’t have time for this.
He continued weaving through the forest, his tread soft, his breath slightly ragged. He wasn’t out of shape; he was nervous, anxious. But he knew the tree that he wanted, and he continued to let branch after branch claw at him to get there.
At last, he reached the old oak.
It had been here long before the other trees, had sprouted upward with a massive canopy. He had often come to this tree as a boy, climbed and rested in her branches, carved his initials within her wood.
He fell to his knees before her now, the twilight dying blue and cold as he began to dig. The loam was still soft from the spring rains, and he furrowed a deep hole among the weaker roots.
Slowly, he drew the wooden locket up from beneath his tunic, away from his neck. It dangled from his fingers in a slow, burdened circle.
He had had his carpenter render it, just for this purpose, an ungainly wooden locket the size of a fist. It was a locket designed for one purpose: to hold and guard something. A casket for a stone.
His fingers were stained with soil as he flicked open the latch, just to look at it one final time.
The Stone of Eventide sat within its coffin, translucent save for a tiny flare of red. It was like watching a heart slowly cease beating, the last of the blood drip from a wound.
He latched the locket and dropped it into the darkness of the hole.
As he buried it—packed down the earth, scattered the pine straw and leaves—he doubted himself again. He had wanted to hide it in the castle—there were so many secret passages and crannies—but if it was ever found among his walls, he would lose his head. It needed to be given back to the earth.
Satisfied, he rose with a pop to his knees. But just before he turned away, he searched over the deep ridges of the trunk. And there . . . his fingers found it, traced the old carving of his initials.
T.A.
He smiled.
Only one other person knew of this tree. His brother, and he was dead.
He left the tree to the shadows, weaving through the forest just as darkness fell, until he could no longer see.
He felt his way out.
I ran the remainder of the drive, up the hill to the courtyard through sheets of rain. I was sore for breath, because—unlike him—I was not in shape, and I nearly busted my shin as I slipped on the front stairs.
I could still feel his thoughts in my own, like oil slipping over water, inspiring a sharp ache in my head; I could still feel the weight of the locket, dangling from my fingers.
The Stone of Eventide.
He had hidden it, tucked it away in the soil.
So the princess had stolen it from the queen’s neck, after all.
But more important . . . was the stone still buried there, beneath that old oak?
I burst in through the front doors, shocking the sleepy-eyed butler, and then raced down the corridor to the Dowager’s study. I knocked, slinging water all over the doors.
“Come in.”