Seraphina(40)

My anxious knot tightened. I reminded myself that the cheese of Ducana province was famously riddled with holes; he was making a simple analogy, not some veiled reference to Amaline Ducanahan, my fictional human mother.

Kiggs looked up toward the purpling sky, his hands clasped behind his back like one of my pedantic old tutors, and said, “My guess is that it has something to do with your dragon teacher. Orma, was it?”

I relaxed a little. “Indeed. I’ve known him forever; he’s practically family.”

“That makes sense. You’ve grown easy with him.”

“He’s taught me a lot about dragons,” I offered. “I ask him questions all the time; I am curious by nature.” It felt nice to be able to tell this prince something true.

The street was so steep here that it had steps; he hopped up ahead of me like a mountain sheep. Speculus lanterns hung along this block; broken mirrors behind the candles cast dazzling flecks of light onto the street and walls. Beside them hung Speculus chimes, which Kiggs set ringing. We murmured the customary words beneath the bright cacophony: “Scatter darkness, scatter silence!”

Now seemed a reasonable moment to bring up Orma’s concern, since we had just been talking about him. I opened my mouth but didn’t get any further.

“Who’s your psalter Saint?” asked the prince with no preamble.

I had been mentally arranging what I should say about Orma, so for a moment I could not answer him.

He looked back at me, his dark eyes shining in the fragmented lantern light. “You called yourself curious. We curious types tend to be children of one of three Saints. Look.” He reached into his doublet, extracting a silver medallion on a chain; it glinted in the light. “I belong to St. Clare, patron of perspicacity. You don’t appear obsessed with mystery, though, or social enough to be one of St. Willibald’s. I’m going to guess St. Capiti—the life of the mind!”

I blinked at him in astonishment. True, my psalter had fallen open to St. Yirtrudis, the heretic, but St. Capiti had been my substitute Saint. It was close enough. “How did you—”

“It’s in my nature to notice things,” he said. “Both Selda and I have noticed your intelligence.”

I suddenly found myself warm from the exertion of climbing and cold at this reminder that he was so observant. I needed to be careful. His friendliness notwithstanding, the prince and I could not be friends. I had so many things to hide, and it was in his nature to seek.

My right hand had wormed as far as it could under the binding of my left sleeve and was fingering my scaly wrist. That was exactly the sort of unconscious habit he would notice; I forced myself to stop.

Kiggs asked after my father; I said something noncommittal. He solicited my opinion of Lady Corongi’s pedagogy; I expressed a small amount of polite concern. He gave his own opinion of the matter, in blunt and unflattering terms; I kept my mouth shut.

The road flattened out, and soon we passed through the barbican of Castle Orison. The guards saluted; Kiggs inclined his head in return. I began to relax; we were almost home and this interview was surely over. We crunched across the gravel yard of Stone Court, not speaking. Kiggs paused at the steps and turned toward me with a smile. “Your mother must have been very musical.”

The box of maternal memories gave a sickening twitch in my head, as if it would have liked to answer him. I tried to get away without speaking, with just a curtsy. It came out poorly: my arms were gripped so tightly around my middle that I could barely bend.

“She was called Amaline Ducanahan, right?” he said, scrutinizing my face. “I looked her up when I was young, intrigued by your father’s mysterious first marriage, the one no one had heard of until you popped out like a cuckoo at his second. I was there. I heard you sing.”

Every part of me had turned to ice except my hammering heart and the memory box, which bucked like a colt in my mind.

“It was my first mystery: who was that singing girl, and why was Counselor Dombegh so very embarrassed when she appeared?” he said, his eyes distant with memory. His silent laugh manifested as a cloud of vapor in the air, and he shook his head, marveling at his youthful obsession. “I couldn’t let it go until I’d uncovered the truth. I may have been hoping you were illegitimate, like me, but no, everything was in order. Congratulations!”

Everything would have been in impeccable order, surely; my father’s paranoia had omitted no detail—marriage contract, birth and death certificates, letters, receipts.…

“Have you been back to Ducana province?” Kiggs asked out of nowhere.

“Why?” I’d lost the thread of his thought. I felt like a crossbow being drawn: everything he said wound the cranequin a little further.

“To see her stone. Your father had a nice one made. I didn’t go myself,” he added hastily. “I was nine years old. One of Uncle Rufus’s men had family at Trowebridge, so I asked him. He made a rubbing. I might still have it, if you’d like it.”

There was no answer I could give. I was so horrified to learn that he’d investigated my family history that I was afraid of what I might say. How close had he come? I was wound to full tension; I was dangerous now. I waved the last white flag I had: “I don’t wish to talk about my mother. Please excuse me.”

His brow furrowed in concern; he could tell I was upset, but not why. He guessed exactly wrong: “It’s hard that she left you so young. Mine did too. But she did not live in vain. What a wonderful legacy she left you!”