“Brienna . . . this is not a game.”
“As I know,” I said, keeping my voice respectful. “My patron will know I hail from Allenach’s House, that my father’s allegiance is to that House, but that does not mean my patron needs to know my father’s identity.”
The Dowager hesitated, her eyes sharpening over mine as she tried to understand my request.
“I have never seen my father,” I continued, my heart twisting deep in my chest. “My father has never seen me. We are utter strangers, and our paths most likely will never cross. But if they do, I would prefer my patron not to know who he is, since I will never know who he is.”
She was still debating.
“I have grown up here with you knowing, with my grandfather knowing, with such knowledge withheld from me,” I whispered. “Please, do not give it to another to hold over me, to judge me by.”
She finally softened. “I understand, Brienna. So I will swear to you: I will speak your father’s name to no other.”
I leaned back into the chair, shivering against the dampness of my dress.
I thought of these old, faded memories, of the patron who was very soon coming to meet me.
I thought of Grandpapa.
Merei.
My cloak.
The Dowager pressed her seal into the wax.
And I resolved to think of Cartier no more.
TWELVE
A PATRON FATHER
August 1566
Aldéric Jourdain arrived to Magnalia on a hot stormy evening a fortnight after the Dowager had sent her letter in the post. I remained in my room watching the rain streak the window, even after I heard the sounds of the grand doors opening below and the Dowager greeting him.
She had sent all of the servants away for a brief vacation, leaving behind only her faithful Thomas. This was to ensure that Jourdain and I left in utter secrecy.
As I waited for her to send word to come downstairs, I walked to my bureau. Cartier’s latest letter sat open, weighed down by the pendant’s box, his penmanship elegant in the candlelight.
Ever since the Dowager and I had made our resolution about Aldéric Jourdain, I had begun to gradually shorten my letters to Cartier, preparing for this moment when I would quietly leave. And he had felt it—my distance, my retreat, my desire to talk only of knowledge and not of life.
Are you worried about a patron? Talk to me, Brienna. Tell me what is drawing you away. . . .
So he had written to me, his words smoldering as an ember in my heart. I hated to think that he would never receive a proper response, that I had written my final letter to him days ago, claiming all was well.
There was a gentle rap on the door.
I crossed the floor, smoothing the wrinkles from my arden dress, tucking my hair behind my ears. Thomas stood on the other side of my door, holding a candle to burn away the evening shadows.
“Madame is ready for you, Brienna.”
“Thank you, I will be right down.” I waited until he had melted back into the darkened corridor before I began my descent down the stairs, my hand trailing behind me on the balustrade.
The Dowager had told me nothing of this Aldéric Jourdain. I did not know his profession, how old he was, or where he lived. So I followed the light to the Dowager’s study with a tremor of apprehension.
Pausing before the door, the place of all my eavesdropping transgressions, I listened to his voice, a rich baritone, polished around the vowels. He spoke too low for me to catch every word, but from the sound of him, I imagined he was a well-educated man in his early fifties. Perhaps he was a fellow passion.
I stepped forward into the candlelight.
He was sitting with his back to me, but he saw my entrance in the softness of the Dowager’s face as her eyes shifted to me.
“Here she is. Brienna, this is Monsieur Aldéric Jourdain.”
He immediately stood and turned to face me. I met his stare, carefully taking in his height and strong build, his russet hair streaked with gray. He was clean-shaven and handsome even with a crooked nose, although in the dim lighting I could see the scar of an angry wound along his right jaw. Despite his travel, his clothes hardly held a wrinkle. The scent of rain still hovered about him, along with the tang of a spice I did not recognize. There was no passion cloak.
“A pleasure,” he said, giving me a casual bow.
I returned it with a curtsy, moving to sit in the chair that had been set for me, adjacent to his. The Dowager was perched behind her desk, per usual.
“Now, Brienna,” Jourdain said, resuming his seat and retrieving his glass of cordial. “Madame has told me only a glimpse of what you have seen. Tell me more of your memories.”
I glanced to the Dowager, hesitant to share something so personal with an utter stranger. But she smiled and nodded at me, encouraging me to raise my voice.
I told him all that I had told to her. And I expected him to snort, to scoff, to say that I was making absurd claims. But Jourdain did nothing but quietly listen, his eyes not once leaving my face. When I was done, he set his glass down with an eager clink.
“Could you find this tree?” he asked.
“I . . . I am not sure, monsieur,” I replied. “I saw no other distinguishing landmarks. It was a very dense forest.”
“Is it possible for you return to the memories? Revisit them just as vividly?”
“I do not know. I have only experienced the shift three times, and there is little I can do as far as controlling them.”
“It seems that Brienna must make a connection to her ancestor,” the Dowager inputted. “Through one of her senses.”
“Hmm.” Jourdain crossed his legs, his finger absently stroking the scar on his chin. “And your ancestor’s name? Do you, at least, know that?”
My eyes flickered to the Dowager once more. “His first name begins with a T. As for his last name . . . I believe it was Allenach.”
Jourdain went very still. He was not looking at me, but I felt the ice of his gaze, a bitterness so cold it could sunder bone. “Allenach.” The name—my name—sounded very rough on his tongue. “I take it you hail from that House, Brienna?”
“Yes. My father is Maevan, serves beneath that House.”
“And who is your father?”
“We do not know his full name,” the Dowager lied. She lied, for me, and I could not help but sag in relief, especially after seeing Jourdain’s apparent disdain for the Allenachs. “Brienna was raised here in Valenia, with no ties to her paternal family.”
Jourdain settled deeper in his chair and took his glass once more. He swirled the rosy liquid about, deep in his own thoughts. “Hmm,” he hummed again, a sound that must mean he was perturbed by his contemplations. And then he looked at me, and I swore there was a touch of wariness in his gaze, as if I was not nearly as innocent as I had once been upon entering, now that he knew half of my heritage.