The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(47)

“This is your room, Mistress,” Agnes said and swung open the door.

It was beautiful. There was a pair of windows overlooking the river, with thick rugs over the wooden floors and a canopy bed that could comfortably sleep two people. It was simple, yet perfect for me, I thought as I approached a small desk before one of the windows.

“Monsieur says you are a passion of knowledge,” Agnes commented from behind me. “I can bring you any book from the library, or I can fetch paper and ink if you wish to write.”

I had no one to write to, I thought somberly, but smiled anyway. “Thank you, Agnes.”

“I will go and draw you water so you can freshen up before dinner.” She bobbed another curtsy and then was gone.

Jean David had already set my cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and while I knew that I should begin to unpack, I felt far too tired. I lay down on my bed, staring up at the gauzy canopy. Did Agnes and Pierre know about my situation? Did Jourdain trust them enough to tell them about my memories? And what of his son, this Luc? Did he know?

I wondered how long I was to live here, how long before we pursued the stone. A month? Half a year?

Time, my old nemesis, seemed to laugh at me as I closed my eyes. The hours began to move unbearably slowly, mocking me. A day would feel like a month. A month, like a year.

I wanted to rush; I wanted to hasten and reach the end of this journey.

I fell asleep with such desires tumbling through my heart as stones down a well.

I woke just before dawn, in the belly of night’s coldest hour.

I sat forward with a jolt, unsure of where I was. On the desk, a candle was burning, its wax almost completely eaten. Blearily, I soaked in the surroundings by the fragile light, and I remembered. This was my new chamber at Jourdain’s. And I must have slept through dinner.

A quilt had been laid over me. By Agnes, most likely.

I slipped from the bed and took the candle, my hunger complaining in my empty stomach. Barefoot, I descended the stairs, learned which ones creaked so I could avoid them in the future. I was about to make my way to the kitchens when the velvet darkness of the library—the rich scent of books and paper—caught me in the hall.

I entered it, taking care to look where I stepped. The bizarre piles of books stroked my interest. I had always been the same, aggregating strange clusters of books ever since I had chosen knowledge. Kneeling down to examine which titles lived in one stack, I set my candle aside and began to go through them. Astronomy. Botany. Musical theory. The History of the Renauds . . .

I had read most of these already, I thought. I was just reaching for the next pile when a strange voice spoke through the darkness. . . .

“Oh, hello.”

I whirled about, unsettling the stack of books and nearly catching the house on fire. I caught the candle just before it plummeted and stood up, my heart pounding.

In the dim light of my candle, I saw a young man sprawled in a chair, the lute cradled in his arms. I had not even noticed him sitting there.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you,” he apologized, voice dusty from sleep.

“You must be Luc.”

“Yes.” He sleepily smiled and then rubbed his nose. “You must be my sister.”

“Were you sleeping in here?” I whispered. “I am so sorry. I should not have come down so early.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he reassured me, and set the lute down to stretch. “Sometimes I sleep in here when I get home late. Because the stairs creak.”

“So I discovered.”

Luc yawned, leaning back into the chair to regard me by the light of the sputtering candle.

“You are lovely.”

I stood frozen, unsure of how to respond. And then he baffled me even further when he lumbered to his feet and folded me into a tight embrace, as if he had known me his entire life and we had been separated for years.

My arms were stiff as I slowly returned the affection.

He was tall and skinny, and he smelled of smoke and something spicy that he must have eaten for dinner and spilled on his shirt. He pulled away from me but his hands remained on my arms.

“Amadine. Amadine Jourdain.”

“Yes?”

He smiled down at me. “I am happy you are here.”

His tone told me that he knew. He knew of my memories and my purpose.

“As am I,” I returned with a faint smile.

He was not handsome. His face was plain, his jaw a bit crooked, his nose a touch too long. And his mop of dark brown hair stood up in all the wrong angles. But there was something very gentle about his gray eyes, and I found the more he smiled, the more endearing he became.

“At long last, I get a passion sister. My father says you are knowledge?”

“Y-yes.” Well, almost a passion of knowledge. But I think he knew that as well, because he didn’t press me further about it. “And you are a master of music, are you not?”

“What gave it away?” he teased. “My clutter or the instruments?”

I smiled, thinking of Merei. She and Luc would get along quite nicely. “Do all of these books belong to you?” I indicated the piles.

“Three-quarters of them do. The rest are my father’s. Which, speaking of him, how was the journey here? I heard there was . . . an altercation of sorts.”

The last thing I wanted was to appear nervous and cowardly among these people. So I brushed the hair away from my eyes and said, “Yes. Your father handled it rather . . . what is the word?”