Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(68)

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.

She can’t sleep. Doesn’t want to. She’ll have plenty of time to sleep later, she thinks morbidly, if the sickness gets to her. What does it feel like, she wonders, to be trapped deep in the illness that is ravaging their country?

She’s got to get William to her sister. She’s suddenly intensely consumed with the urgency of it. She needs to see Aurora. She needs to save her. What has she been doing, spying on nuns and freeing a narwhal? Traipsing through the countryside and flirting with a prince? She’s no longer angry at William. She’s angry at herself. If she had just stayed the course, everything might have been different. She has to make things right.

Isbe throws back the covers. The sauna must have dehydrated her. She can’t think. She needs water, badly.

She stumbles out into the hallway, which is cold and echoey. She wraps her arms around herself and tries to remember which way they came. She’s pretty sure Annette pointed out where the kitchens are, but the layout of the house is unlike any other she’s been to. She turns left, then takes another left, then after about forty paces she feels around for the staircase she could swear was at the end of the next corridor. . . .

She’s not sure which wrong turn she has taken until it’s too late. She stumbles into a vast, bright room rich with moisture and minerals. She hears a tinkling sound like a gently flowing spring. This must be one of Almandine’s bathing chambers. She is about to back out, but then it occurs to her that perhaps the fountain is potable. Maybe she could just take a quick sip before finding her way back.

She takes a few steps toward the plashing fountain—and hears a gasp.

Isbe freezes in place, with no idea whether the other person in the room has spotted her.

There’s another gasp, and then the sound of a woman moaning.

Isbe’s ears blaze in alarm. Oh, no.

Has she walked in on Lady Almandine with one of her paramours? Isbe feels dizzy with humiliation and disgust. She has to get out of here somehow!

Carefully she takes one step backward, extending her hands to make sure she doesn’t bump into anything and make a noise.

Almandine releases another moan. Except it’s not exactly a moan, and certainly not one of pleasure. It’s more like a groan, and a little bit like a quiet sob.

As Isbe stands there trying to figure out how to make an exit without drawing notice, it becomes obvious that these are sounds of anguish. Isbe doesn’t know what to do. She would just bolt, but something keeps her rooted to the spot. She has never been at ease with people crying, and truth be told, it never occurred to her that the fae could cry. Maybe it isn’t the lady of the house after all. It might only be a troubled servant.

“Pardon me,” Isbe finds herself saying. “Can I . . . is there something I can do?”

Water swishing.

The person is in one of the baths.

She can’t imagine the household staff freely availing themselves of the mistress’s baths. Isbe swallows hard. So then it must be Lady Almandine.

The woman sucks in a breath. “Belcoeur?” she asks abruptly, her voice ragged and shaky. “How—” Almandine’s tone changes, hardens. “Your face . . . no. Who are you?” she demands.

“Madame, I apologize, I just—”

“Have you come to help me out of my bath? Here then, fetch my robe,” she commands in a husky whisper.

Isbe should really run out of the room, but part of her is riveted, tingling with curiosity. Besides, fleeing would make her seem suspicious. If the lady has mistaken Isbe for a servant, that’s far preferable to her discovering the truth. “Your robe? But . . .”

“Don’t be stupid. The robe, on the back of the Adonis!”