Seraphina(54)

It would put my neurons back in ard. I have wished to forget; it’s why I came home. I want it, and don’t want it.

One cannot fly in two directions at once. I cannot perch among those who think that I am broken.

I scan the text recorded on my note block. To it I add: Love is not a disease.


I opened my eyes, closing them again immediately when I saw Kiggs leaning over me, looking concerned, his hand on my forehead. Saints’ dogs, I’d collapsed under that memory. Why couldn’t I have plunged headfirst over the parapet and saved myself the mortification of waking up with everyone staring at me?

“She’s coming round,” he said. “Phina, do you hear me?”

“It’s stuffy up here,” said our best trumpeter. “We’ve been playing for three hours. She’s really all right?”


“It’s that bastard Viridius’s fault. He lets her take everything on herself!” That sounded like Guntard.

The hand on my forehead tensed at the word bastard. My eyes opened just in time to catch the irritation on Kiggs’s face; it softened upon seeing me awake.

He helped me rise. I swayed dizzily—the ground was so far away!—until I realized I was still up in the gallery, looking down at the almost empty hall. The last few dignitaries were trickling out, trying to pretend they weren’t staring up at me.

“What happened?” I croaked, my throat like parchment.

“You fainted,” said Guntard. “We thought you’d overheated, but we didn’t know how to cool you down decently. We took off your shoes—your pardon, please—and we were just going to roll up your sleeves—”

I looked away, bracing my hands against the railing so they wouldn’t shake.

“—but Prince Lucian suggested we fan you. Your oud is undamaged.”

“Thank you, Guntard,” I said, avoiding his eye and reaching for my shoes.

My musicians hovered solicitously, as if uncertain what I required. I waved a dismissal; they nearly trampled each other rushing off to lunch. Kiggs had claimed a chair and was sitting on it backward, leaning his chin on his hands, watching me. He was wearing a fancier scarlet doublet today, with ropes of gold braid crisscrossing it; his plain white armband looked all the more mournful in contrast.

“Don’t you have someplace official to be?” I said lightly as I buckled my shoes, trying to be funny but fearing he’d hear the crankiness beneath it.

He raised his eyebrows. “In fact, I do. But I’m also in charge of security, and there was quite a commotion up here when you keeled over. Selda promised she’d guard my plate. I’ll escort you down, if you like.”

“I don’t feel like eating.” I didn’t feel like vomiting either, thank Allsaints. I sat and rubbed my eyes; behind them, my head still ached. “Did you get my note?” I asked.

He sat up straighter. “Yes. Thank you. Sounds like your efforts yesterday were as futile as mine. I didn’t manage to speak with Eskar; she’d left for Dewcomb’s Outpost with the rest of the embassy staff to await the Ardmagar’s arrival.”

I said, “Does the embassy know about the knights’ story?”

He puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “Grandmother met with Ambassador Fulda before he left, apprising him of the ‘rumor.’ ”

“Rumor?” I said, astonished. “She doesn’t believe Sir Karal saw a dragon?”

Kiggs shook his head irritably. “It pains me to say so, but she doesn’t want to believe that dragons might violate her treaty. She’s staked her entire reign upon the idea that we can trust dragons, and she refuses to consider the possibility of an unauthorized dragon loose in the countryside—to say nothing of killing Uncle Rufus—without an awful lot of unambiguous proof.”

“Orma’s coin—” I began.

“Convinced her of nothing,” he said, drumming his fingers on the back of his chair; his nails were short as if he bit them, an unexpected habit in a Captain of the Guard. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose your teacher described Imlann’s saarantras at all?”

“Blue eyes, fair hair,” I said. “That describes two-thirds of the Ninysh courtiers.”

“It describes all the Ninysh, counting the redheads, and half the Highland Samsamese,” said the prince. “But there’s no reason to think he’s at court, surely? Where does Orma think he’d be?”

“Orma has no idea, of course. He only knows Imlann was at the funeral.”

Kiggs wagged a finger at me. “Selda and I talked it over. We think your idea about going to see Sir James and the knights—”

A clatter below interrupted him. A cadre of the palace guard had entered the hall; they snapped to attention at the sight of Kiggs up in the gallery. “Captain! The Queen is most displeased that you disregard the dictates of politeness to our—”

“I’ll be there directly,” Kiggs said, rising. He turned to me apologetically. “We’re not finished. Save me the fourth dance at the ball.”

I counted off the order of dances. “The pavano?”

“Perfect. We’ll talk more then.” He raised a hand as if to give me a soldierly slap on the shoulder, but then deftly turned it into a polite bow. He departed for his luncheon with the Ardmagar.