The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(34)

Patrice Linville’s coach was the only one remaining in the courtyard. I set Oriana’s drawings into my basket and turned to the front doors, to the stairs, where Merei stood waiting for me, a glorious purple cloak fastened about her collar.

She was weeping by the time she reached the final stair, as she rushed to meet me on the cobblestones.

“Don’t cry!” I fussed, folding her into an embrace. My hands tangled with her passion cloak, and if I hadn’t already emptied myself the night before, I would have wept again.

“What am I doing, Bri?” she whispered, dashing the tears from her cheeks.

“You are going to see and play for the realm, sister,” I said, tucking a curl of her dark hair away from her eyes. “For you are a passion of music, Mistress Merei.”

She laughed, because it was so odd to know she now had a title fastened to her name. “I wish you could write to me, but I . . . I do not think I shall be in one place for too long.”

“You should, of course, write to me from wherever you are, and perhaps I can get Francis to track you down with my letters.”

She drew in a deep breath, and I knew she was calming her heart, girding herself for this next phase. “Here, this is your song. In case you would like to hear it played by another.” Merei handed me a roll of music, bound by a ribbon.

I accepted it, although it hurt to imagine another instrument, another set of hands, playing this song that she had borne. That was when I felt the fissure in my heart. A shadow was creeping up my back, making me shiver in broad daylight, because this farewell might mark something everlasting.

I might never see her again.

“Let me see your cloak,” I said, my voice thick.

She turned.

There was music stitched upon the violet fabric, a song Mistress Evelina had written just for Merei. I let my fingertip trace the notes—some of them I remembered; some were now a mystery.

“It is lovely, Mer.”

She spun back around and said, “I shall play it for you, when you come to visit me on the island.”

I smiled, taking hold of the fragile hope she extended of future visits and music. Let me believe such, I thought, if only to get me through this farewell.

“I think Patrice Linville is ready for you,” I whispered, feeling his eyes on us.

I walked her to the coach, to her new patron, a middle-aged man with thistledown hair and a charming smile. He greeted us both and offered his hand to help Merei up into the open coach.

She settled on the bench across from Patrice, her eyes finding mine. Even as the coach began to clatter over the stones, she watched me as I watched her. I stood in the courtyard, as if my feet had grown roots, and watched until I could no longer see her beneath the shadows of the oaks, until she truly was gone.

I should return to the house. Acclimate myself with how quiet it now would be, how bare, how lonely. I should go back and flood myself with books and studies, with anything to keep me distracted.

I walked to the stairs, hollowly looked up at the front doors. They still sat open; I could hear the murmuring of voices—the Dowager and the arials debriefing, no doubt. And I suddenly could not bear to be enclosed within walls.

I couldn’t even bear to hold my basket any longer.

I set it on the stairs and walked, walked until I craved to go faster, and then I ran deep into the gardens. I tore open my collar, too impatient to fuss with the buttons, and then decided to also rip the buttons from my sleeves, forcing the ugly gray fabric up my forearms.

I finally came to a stop at the farthest acre, deep in the maze of hedges, where the roses bloomed wild and bright, and there I surrendered wholly to the grass, lying down on the damp earth. But I still wasn’t satisfied, so I conceded to yank off my boots and my stockings and pull my dress up to my knees.

I was watching the clouds, listening to the quiet murmur of the bees, the rustling wings of the birds, when I heard him.

“She walks with grace upon the clouds, and the stars know her by name.”

I should have been flustered. Here my master had found me, boots and stockings gone, my legs revealed, my collar broken and my dress muddied. And he had just recited the poem that I loved best. But I felt nothing. And I did not even acknowledge him until he had done the impossible and lain down beside me on the grass.

“You will get muddy, Master.”

“It has been far too long since I have lain on the grass and watched clouds.”

I still had not looked at him, but he was near enough to me that I could smell the spice of his aftershave. We lay in the quiet for a while, both of our eyes to the sky. I wanted to put some distance between us, let a wide expanse of grass grow betwixt our shoulders, and I wanted to draw close to him, to let my fingers rush over him as his had done to me. How was it that I could want two conflicting things at once? How was it that I did neither of them but remained, unmoving, breathing, captive in my own body?

“Did the Dowager tell you?” I eventually asked, when the desires became so entangled that I needed to speak to loosen them.

Cartier took his time responding. For a moment, I thought he had not heard me. But he finally said, “About you staying on for the summer? Yes.”

I wanted to know what he thought about the arrangement. But the words caught in my throat, and so I remained quiet, my fingers weaving through the grass.

“It eases my mind, knowing you will be here,” he said. “We do not need to rush. The right patron will come in time, when you are ready.”