The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(35)

The door opened slowly and doubtfully, if such a thing were possible, and she was left facing Fuadain’s chief butler. He looked through her for a moment or two, then deigned to acknowledge her. He was little better than any of the rest of them, but at least he was more inclined to ignore her than sneer at her.

“Clean your boots,” he commanded.

She suppressed the urge to take one of her boots and plant it firmly against his backside. The whole situation was ridiculous. They had been doing the same thing for so many years, she wondered why he even bothered to speak. She cleaned her boots of any remaining, imaginary dirt as instructed, then followed the butler into the house. Not by the usual way, of course, because that would have elevated her to a status she certainly wasn’t entitled to. They went through the servants’ quarters and up the back stairs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been up the regular stairs. It might have been once during the first fortnight she’d been in Sàraichte. Certainly not since then.

There was a chamber just off the turn of the stairs where she paused. The butler paused as well, though he didn’t look at her. She put a coin into his gloved hand, then waited as he moved on down the passageway. He stopped in an alcove where she was quite certain he’d hidden a bottle of His Lordship’s finest port—for emergency’s sake, of course—and proceeded to ignore her, as usual.

She made certain the passageway was empty, then opened the door and slipped inside the room.

It was a rather shabby chamber, all things considered. There was nothing to be done about that, though, so she didn’t let it bother her. She walked over to the fire where her grandfather reclined, propped up in a chaise that was at least comfortable and solid. She pulled up a stool next to him and sat down.

“Good e’en, Grandfather,” she said pleasantly. “How are you?”

He didn’t look at her, his breathing didn’t change, his limbs didn’t move, but she didn’t expect anything else. Why he lived still, she didn’t know, but perhaps there was a purpose in it.

She took his hand and looked at him critically. He didn’t look any different than he usually did, which left her wondering just what that serving maid had been thinking. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if she could linger by his side and see if she noticed anything too subtle for a quick, cursory glance.

She thought, not for the first time, that it was a damned shame that there was only magic in faery tales. Well, in those and perhaps a few less civilized parts of the Nine Kingdoms where she would never wish to go. What she needed, if she could have had anything, was a mage. The sort of man who, if he existed, could be prevailed upon to visit her grandfather and simply heal him with a mighty spell. She had no idea what that sort of business might cost, but perhaps an attempt could be made, for the right price.

It was, after all, why she saved her coins, ate the pot scrapings after the stable lads had taken their share, and wore the same clothes she’d been wearing for at least a decade. Everything she had, as meager as it might have been, she put toward her only goal, which was escape. They would escape and her grandfather would be whole. She would accept nothing else.

She took a minute or two to tell him of her most recent adventures, not because the conversation was anything but one-sided, but because she thought that somehow, he might be hearing what she was saying.

It hadn’t always been that way. She had very vivid memories of her first encounter with Tosdach of Sàraichte. She had been brought inside the manor house, out of the rain, bedraggled, hungry, and exhausted. She honestly had little memory of the journey there save an endless, terrifying flight in the care of people she couldn’t have identified at present if her life had depended on it. Her parents had been slain, her siblings gone, and she alone had been spirited off for reasons no one would tell her. She’d been a child, so she had learned to think of it as a rescue.

Her grandfather had met her in the garden, scooped her up into his arms, and carried her off to a spot in front of a hearth in a far nicer chamber than he enjoyed at present. He had sung her to sleep with a lullaby her own father had sung her countless times. She remembered nothing more of that day save that he’d promised he would take care of her.

The next morning, she’d woken to find him in his current state and her uncle looming over her with a frown of disapproval on his face. She had been told to dress herself, then she’d been taken to her accommodations in the stables and given a pitchfork.

She didn’t like to think about that next pair of years.

She heard a footstep outside the door and realized she had stayed too long. She squeezed her grandfather’s hand, then rose and hurried to the door. She cast one last look behind her but nothing had changed. Her grandfather still sat there, reclining, unmoving. He didn’t look worse, though, which she supposed was the best she could hope for.

She wondered what that housemaid had seen.

She slipped out into the passageway, then followed the butler through increasingly opulent surroundings until he stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. He knocked and waited until he received a reply in the affirmative. He opened the door and stood back. Léirsinn took a deep breath, put on an appropriately submissive expression, then walked inside her uncle’s study.

She ignored the richness of the surroundings. She’d been ignoring it for years because the thought of how much money he spent on his own comfort while ignoring the needs of those around him made her so angry she could scarce control herself. Better to simply keep her head down and be about the evening’s business, silently.