The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(27)

“So, Brienna,” Monique began, and I let all other noise fade to the background. “Tell me about yourself.”

I had several points of introductory conversation prepared. One was my dual citizenship, one was learning beneath Master Cartier, one was the splendor of Magnalia. I decided to choose the first thread.

“I am an arden of knowledge, Mistress. My father is Maevan, my mother Valenian. I was raised in Colbert’s orphanage until I was brought here my tenth summer. . . .” And so my words flowed, short and pinched as if I could not draw a proper breath. But she was kind, her eyes interested in all that I said, encouraging me to tell her more of my lessons, of Magnalia, of my favorite branch of knowledge.

Finally, after what felt like days of me rambling about myself, she opened up.

“I am a physician on the island of Bascune,” Monique said, accepting a fresh glass of cordial from a server. “I grew up on the island, but I passioned when I was eighteen and became an assistant to a physician. I have had my own infirmary and apothecary for ten years now, and I am seeking to gain a new aide.”

So she belonged to the physician branch of knowledge, and she was seeking a passion to assist her. She was offering a partnership. And no sooner did I let her offer tempt me than I felt Ciri’s concerned gaze drift to us.

“Perhaps I should ask you first how you respond to blood,” Monique said, sipping her cordial with a smile. “For I see it quite often.”

“Blood does not affect me, thankfully,” I responded, and here was my chance to integrate my story, as Cartier had told me to do.

I told her about Abree’s wounded forehead, an injury she had acquired after tripping off the practice stage during her rehearsal. Instead of calling the physician, Cartier had allowed Ciri and me to stitch our friend’s wound, walking us through the motions as he looked over our shoulders and Abree had remained—amazingly—calm.

“Ah, Ciri has told me the same story,” Monique said, and I felt my face warm. I hadn’t thought to check my story against Ciri’s. “How wonderful, that the two of you could work together to mend your friend.”

Ciri was trying not to stare at me, but she had heard my duplicate story and Monique’s response. The air crackled with tension, and there was only one way I could think to smooth it.

“Yes, indeed, Mistress Monique. But Ciri is far more skilled than I with needles. We compared our stitches afterward, and mine were not as cleanly placed as hers.”

Monique smiled sadly, knowing what I was doing, that I was withdrawing myself from her contention. That she should choose Ciri, and not me.

A shadow tumbled over my skirts as I realized the young bearded patron had come to stand at my side. He was dressed in clean-cut black and silver; he smelled of cardamom and peppermint as he extended a pale, manicured hand to me.

“Might I steal you now?”

“Yes, Master Brice,” I responded, thanking Monique for her time as I let my fingers rest in his, as I let him draw me up from the divan.

I could not remember the last time I had touched the opposite sex.

No, wait, I did remember. The autumn my grandpapa had surrendered me to Magnalia, seven years ago. He had hugged me, kissed my cheek. But since that moment, the only affection I had ever felt had come from my arden-sisters, when we laced fingers or hugged or danced.

I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as Brice continued to hold my hand, leading me over to a quieter corner of the tent where two chairs were arranged in tender candlelight.

I sat and resisted the urge to wipe my palm on my skirts as he brought me a tumbler of cordial. That was when I saw Cartier had finally returned to the tent. He had taken Brice’s abandoned seat and was talking to the red-haired patron, my master appearing at ease as he crossed his legs.

“I hear you are quite the historian,” Brice stated, settling into the chair at my side.

I withdrew my eyes from Cartier and said, “May I ask how you came to know such, Master Brice?”

“Ciri said such of you,” he answered. I tried to guess his age, casting him in his early thirties. He was attractive, his eyes bright and friendly; his voice was polished, as if he had only attended the nicest of schools, ate at the richest of tables, danced with the loveliest of women. “Which, I confess, interests me because I am a historian myself.”

Ciri had called me one. As had Cartier, who had confessed that he aligned himself with this branch, even though he had chosen to teach. Helplessly, my eyes drifted to Cartier again.

He was already looking at me, regarding me with absolutely no expression in his face as I sat in this corner with Brice Mathieu. It was as if I was a stranger to Cartier, until I realized that auburn-haired Nicolas was saying something, and Cartier didn’t hear a word of it.

Brice was saying something to me as well.

I turned back to the patron, my skin soaking in the heat of the night. “Forgive me, Master Brice. I did not hear what you said.”

“Oh.” He blinked. He was not accustomed to being ignored, I could tell. “I asked if you would like to talk of your favorite lineage. I am currently employed by the royal scribes, ensuring their historical records are accurate. And I need an assistant, one who is just as sharp and keen as me, who knows genealogy as the lines on her palm.”

Another partnership.

This interested me. And so I pretended like Cartier was not in that tent, and smiled at Brice Mathieu.