The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(30)
“Perhaps it was never meant to be,” I whispered, and began to walk away from him.
His hand took my elbow before I could stray, as if he knew words were not enough to keep me there. And then his fingertips slowly traced down the inside of my bare forearm, exploring all the way to my palm, to catch the curve of my fingers. He held me there before him on the grass—steady, resolute, celestial. It reminded me of another time, long ago, when his fingers had encompassed mine, when his touch had encouraged me to stand and earn my place in this House. When I was but a girl, and he was so far above me I never thought it possible to catch him.
I closed my eyes as the memory haunted me, a jasmine breeze weaving between us, trying to knit us closer.
“Brienna.” His thumb brushed my knuckles. I knew he wanted me to open my eyes, to look at him, to acknowledge what was unfolding between us.
He is breaking a rule, I thought. He is breaking a rule for me, and I let that truth gild my heart as I drew in a deep breath.
I opened my eyes; I parted my lips to tell him that he should let me go when we heard laughter on the other side of the hedges.
At once, his fingers released mine and we stepped farther apart.
“Bri! Bri, where are you?”
It was Merei. I turned to the sound just as she emerged from the path, Oriana with her.
“Come, it’s time for bed,” she said, not seeing Cartier until she took a step closer. She halted when she recognized him, as if she had walked into a wall. “Oh, Master Cartier.” She and Oriana instantly curtsied.
“Good night, Brienna,” Cartier murmured, bowing to me, bowing to my sisters as he strode away.
Oriana gazed after his retreat with a frown, but Merei kept her eyes on me as I moved to join them.
“What was that about?” Oriana inquired with a yawn as we began to weave our way to the back of the house.
“A deliberation about patrons,” I answered.
“Is everything all right?” Merei asked.
I linked my arm with hers, exhaustion suddenly snaking up my back. “Yes, of course.”
But her eyes were regarding my face as we emerged back into the candlelight.
She knew that I was lying.
NINE
SONG OF THE NORTH
Monday arrived with rain and restlessness. The Dowager was in her study, conversing with interested patrons for most of the day. The ardens had nothing to do but pace the second floor. We were told to remain nearby, because the Dowager would soon request our presence to discuss our offers.
I sat with my sisters in Oriana and Ciri’s room, listening to their conversations excitedly flicker back and forth as the lightning that raged outside.
“Were all three patrons interested in you?”
“Who are you going to pick, if they are?”
“How much do you think they will offer?”
So the questions spun about me, and I listened to my arden-sisters share their experiences, their hopes and dreams. I listened but didn’t speak, because as the hours stretched thin and the afternoon progressed, I began to prepare for my greatest fear to come alive: a creature molded from the shadows of my dismay and failures.
When the clock struck four, the Dowager sent for the first girl. Oriana. As soon as she left the room for her meeting, I retreated to the library. Sitting in the chair by the window, I watched the rain streak the glass with The Book of Hours in my lap. I was afraid to read about the Stone of Eventide again, afraid that I might shift into the nameless Maevan lord once more. And yet I wanted to read about the stone, about the shackled magic. I wanted to see Princess Norah again for no other reason than to discover if she had truly been the one to steal the stone from her mother’s neck.
I trembled as I read it, waiting for the shift, caught between dread and desire. But the words remained words on a ripened, speckled page. And I wondered if I would ever shift to the past again, if I would ever see him again, if I would ever know why it had happened to me, and if Princess Norah had truly been the one to hand the stone over.
There were so many questions, and no satisfying answers.
“Brienna?”
Thomas, the butler, spoke into the darkness of the library. He caught me off guard and I rose to my feet, my legs prickling with pins and needles as I saw him standing on the threshold.
“Madame would like to see you in her study.”
I nodded and set The Book of Hours on the lesson table. Following him, I tried to gird myself with courage. I dwelled on the image of Liadan Kavanagh, imagined her giving me a tiny measure of her victory and bravery. Yet I still trembled when I entered the Dowager’s study, because this was the moment I had spent seven years trying to champion, and I knew that I had failed.
The Dowager sat at her desk, warmed by the light of flickering candles. She smiled at the sight of me.
“Please, come sit, Brienna.” Her hand extended to a chair before her.
I walked to it and sat with stiff knees. My hands were as ice, and I folded them together over my lap and waited.
“How did you find the solstice last night?” she asked.
It took me a moment to choose the proper response. Should I act as if nothing was wrong? Or should I make it evident that I knew none of the patrons had contended for me?
“Madame, I must apologize,” I blurted. This was certainly not the answer I had prepared, but once it had broken from my lips, it rushed forth. “I know that I failed to passion last night. I know I have failed you, and Master Cartier, and—”