The Queen's Rising(33)
“What does Master Cartier think, Bri?” Merei asked around a yawn.
“About what?”
“About you staying through the summer.”
I fiddled with a loose thread in my quilt and then responded, “I don’t know. I haven’t told him yet.”
“Will he still give you your cloak tomorrow, then?”
“Probably not,” I said.
Merei blinked at me through the watery moonlight. “Did something happen between the two of you, last night in the garden?”
I swallowed, my heart quieting as if it wanted to hear what I might say. I could still feel that agonizing trace of his fingertips down my arm, feather soft and wildly deliberate. What had he been trying to say to me? He was my master, and I was his arden, and until I passioned there was to be nothing more between us. So maybe he was only trying to reassure me, and I had completely misread the touch? That seemed more reasonable, because this was Master Cartier, the strict law abider who never smiled.
Until he had.
“Nothing important,” I finally murmured, and then forced a yawn to hide the deceit in my voice.
If she hadn’t been so tired, Merei would have pressed me. But two minutes later, she was softly snoring.
I, on the other hand, lay awake and thought about Cartier and cloaks and the unpredictable days to come.
TEN
OF CLOAKS AND GIFTS
By nine the following morning, the patrons were beginning their departures from Magnalia. The footmen started to ascend the stairs, gathering each girl’s cedar chest and packing it away in the coach of her new patron. I stood amid the flurry in the sunlight of the courtyard and watched, waiting with my basket of poetry booklets. By then, it was no secret that I had not been chosen. And each of my sisters had reacted in the same manner during breakfast. They had hugged me with sympathy, reassured me that the Dowager would find me the perfect patron.
As soon as breakfast was cleared away, I retreated outside, knowing that my arden-sisters were about to receive their cloaks. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them officially gain impassionment; I merely thought it best if I was not there. I did not want to be the awkward observer when Cartier gave Ciri her cloak.
Sweat was beginning to dampen my dress by the time I heard Ciri’s voice. She was descending the front stairwell, her pale blond hair tamed in a braided crown. At her back fluttered a blue cloak, a color for midsummer days. She and I came together without words; we didn’t truly need them, and when I smiled she turned about, so I could see the constellation Cartier had chosen for her.
“Yvette’s Bow,” I murmured, admiring the silver threads. “It suits you, Ciri.”
Ciri spun back around and gave me a toothless smile, her cheeks flushed. “I only wish that I could see what he picks for you.” And there was no longer spite in her voice, no envy, although I heard the words she didn’t say. Master Cartier did favor me, and we both knew it.
“Ah, well, perhaps when we meet again,” I said.
I gave her the book of poetry, which made her eyes alight. And then she gave me a beautiful writing quill, which swarmed me with a sad pleasure.
“Good-bye, Brienna,” Ciri whispered.
We embraced, and then I watched her walk to Monique Lavoie’s coach.
I bid farewell to Sibylle and Abree next, who both gave me bracelets as their departing gifts as I admired their cloaks.
Sibylle’s green cloak had the stitched emblem of a spade, for wits adorned their cloaks with one of the four suits according to their strengths: hearts for humor, spades for persuasion, diamonds for elegance, clubs for opposition. So Mistress Therese had given Sibylle a spade, and I had to confess it suited my sister very well.
Abree’s black cloak had a golden crescent moon nestled in the sun—the dramatics’ crest—stitched over the center. But I also noticed that Master Xavier had sewn pieces of her past costumes along the trim of her cloak, to commemorate the roles that had gotten her to this moment. So it was like beholding a sumptuous story of colors and threads and textures. Perfect for my Abree.
Oriana emerged next for the farewell. Her red cloak was extremely detailed and personalized; all passions of art had a bold A stitched to the backs of their cloaks, which commemorated Agathe, the first passion of art. But a master or mistress of art would then design something to be stitched within that A, and Mistress Solene had outdone herself. For Oriana, Solene had designed the story of a girl ruling an underwater kingdom, complete with sunken ships and treasure. It glistened in silver thread as I gazed at it in awe, honestly not knowing what to say.
“I have a gift for you,” Oriana said, shyly withdrawing a sheet of paper from the portfolio she carried. She set the parchment in my hands. It was the portrait she had drawn of me, illuminating my Maevan heritage.
“But Ori, I thought this was for you.”
“I made a copy. I felt like you should have one.” And then to my surprise, she pulled out yet another sheet. “I also want you to have this.” The caricature of Cartier she had drawn years ago, the one of him emerging from rock when we all thought him mean.
I started to laugh, until I questioned why she was presenting this to me. “Why not give this to Ciri?”
Oriana grinned. “I think it would fare better in your hands.”
Saint LeGrand, was it that obvious? But I had no time to ask her further about it, because her patron was waiting for her in the coach. I slipped the poetry into her hands and watched her leave, my heart trembling as the weight of these good-byes spread an ache in my bones.