The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(31)

“My dear girl, please don’t apologize,” she gently interrupted. “That is not why I have called you in.”

I drew in a deep breath, my teeth aching, my eyes resting on hers. And then I found a tiny seed of courage and acknowledged my fear. “I know that I have no offers, Madame.”

Nicolas Babineaux and Brice Mathieu had both found fault in me. But before this truth could further blister my confidence, the Dowager said, “No offers were made, but do not let this distress you. I know the challenges you have faced here over the years, Brienna. You have worked harder than any other arden I have ever admitted.”

Ask her now, a dark voice whispered in my mind. Ask her why she accepted you; ask her for the name of your father.

But to ask would require more courage, more confidence, and mine had waned. I twisted my arden dress in my hands and said, “I will leave tomorrow, with the others. I do not wish to be a burden on your House any longer.”

“Leave tomorrow?” the Dowager echoed. She stood and walked the length of the room, coming to a resting place by her window. “I do not want you to depart tomorrow, Brienna.”

“But Madame—”

“I know what you are thinking, dear one,” she said. “You are thinking that you do not deserve to be here, that your passion is contingent on securing a patron at the solstice. But not all of us travel the same path. And yes, your other five sisters have chosen their patrons and will leave on the morrow, but that does not make you less worthy. On the contrary, Brienna, it makes me believe there is more to you, and I misjudged the proper patrons for you.”

I think I must have been gaping at her. For she turned to look at me and smiled.

“I want you to remain the summer with me,” the Dowager continued. “During that time, we will find you the right patron.”

“But Madame, I . . . I could not ask such of you,” I stammered.

“You are not asking for it,” she said. “I am offering it.”

We both fell quiet, listening to our own thoughts and the chorus of the storm. The Dowager resumed her seat and said, “It is not my choice to say whether you have passioned or not. For that is Master Cartier’s decision. But I do think a little more time here will benefit you tremendously, Brienna. So I hope that you will stay the summer. By autumn, we will have you in the graces of a good patron.”

Isn’t this what I wanted? A little more time to polish myself, to measure the true depths of the passion I was claiming. I would not have to face my grandfather, who would be ashamed of my shortcomings. Nor would I have to embrace the title of inept.

“Thank you, Madame,” I said. “I would like to stay the summer.”

“I am happy to hear such.” When she stood again, I knew she was dismissing me.

I wandered up the stairs to my room, pain blooming with each step as I began to realize what this summer would be like. Quiet and lonely. It would just be the Dowager and me, and a few of the servants. . . .

“Who did you choose?” Merei’s enthusiasm greeted me the moment she heard me enter. She was on her knees, busy packing her belongings into the cedar trunk at the foot of her bed.

My own cedar trunk sat in the shadows. I had already packed my possessions, with the expectation I would depart tomorrow with the others. Now I needed to unpack it.

“I had no offers.” The confession was liberating. It felt as if I could finally move and breathe, now that it was in the open.

“What?”

I sat on my bed and stared at Cartier’s books. I needed to remember to give them back to him tomorrow, when I bid him good-bye with the others.

“Bri!” Merei came to me, settled beside me on the mattress. “What happened?”

We had not had a chance to talk. Last night, we had been so weary and bruised from our corsets that we had tumbled into bed. Merei had begun snoring at once, although I had lain in bed and stared into the darkness, wondering.

So I told her everything now.

I told her of what I had overheard in the corridor, of the three patrons, of Ciri’s draw to the physician, of my blunders and my spoiled dinner. I told her of the Dowager’s offer, of my chance to stay through the summer, of how I honestly wasn’t sure what to feel.

The only thing I withheld was that starlit moment with Cartier in the gardens, when he had touched me, when our fingers had been linked. I couldn’t expose his decision to willingly break a rule, even though Merei would guard and protect such a secret for me.

She brought her arm around me. “I am so sorry, Bri.”

I sighed and leaned into her. “It’s all right. I actually do believe the Dowager is correct, as far as patrons. I do not think Brice Mathieu or Nicolas Babineaux were good matches for me.”

“Even so, I know you are disappointed and hurt. Because I know I would be.”

We sat side by side quietly. I was surprised when Merei stood and retrieved her violin, the wood lustrous in the evening light as she brought it to her shoulder.

“I wrote a song for you,” she said. “One I hope will help you remember all the good memories we shared here, and remind you of all the great things still to come.”

She began to play, the music soaring through our chamber, eating the shadows and cobwebs. I leaned back on my hands and closed my eyes, feeling the notes fill me, one by one, as rain in a jar. And when I reached that point of overflowing, I beheld something in my mind.