State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(58)
“If it helps, my father would probably have approved it.” Irris arched a brow. “He’s worried about how little we’ve been able to find, too.”
Sorrow began to smile, but it faded. “Someone, somewhere, preferably still alive, must know something. We need to know where Vespus is hiding this Beliss woman. And find the artist, Graxal…”
She and Irris had finally determined the signature on the portrait of Mael read Graxal, though that told them nothing. Sorrow had asked to bring it with her, but the request had been denied. Further questioning revealed the portraits were delivered to the Summer Palace on the eve of the bridge memorial every year, from an artist in Rhylla who wished that he, and the portrait’s commissioner, remain anonymous.
Sorrow had announced she had no intention of respecting his wishes and demanded an address, determined to prove a link between the artist and Vespus, only to be told the address had been mysteriously lost, and her best bet was to wait and see if the artist delivered a portrait the following year. Luvian had applauded her “inventive” use of language after that pronouncement, too.
“I wish it would happen a bit faster. I wish we didn’t have to be so secretive about it.”
“Well, it might be easier to find things once you’re in Rhylla,” Irris said. “Luvian certainly seems confident.”
“Luvian always seems confident,” Sorrow muttered darkly. “I wish you were coming.”
“Me too.” Irris smiled before adding carefully, “Rasmus will be at the Naming, won’t he?”
Sorrow had been trying not to think about it.
Rasmus had not attended Harun’s funeral. Caspar, prince consort, came in Melisia’s place, as Melisia had not long given birth to their much longed for second child. Sorrow had expected Rasmus to come too, given how many years he’d spent living in Rhannon, if for no other reason. But he hadn’t – Caspar had arrived with Vespus, and some other delegates whose names Sorrow had already forgotten. Sorrow was too proud to ask Vespus why his son hadn’t come, but afterwards, unable to stop thinking about him, she’d sent Rasmus a note, saying she was sad not to have seen him, and hoped he was well.
She’d waited every day since for a reply from him, and was finally beginning to accept it wasn’t coming. That he was gone from her life. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth; she still regretted how things had ended, and she hated him not being around.
All through her father’s funeral, the move to the North Marches, hiring Luvian – she’d missed him, used to him always being there, helping her, distracting her. Fixing her. His absence was a physical ache sometimes, driving every thought from her mind as she longed for him, miserable at the idea of never seeing him again. Now, six weeks after he’d left her standing in the library of the Summer Palace, the pain of missing him had faded, for the most part, but every now and then it flared again. Every now and then she would have moved worlds for one more selfish moment with him.
“Maybe he needs more time.” Irris knew what – or rather, who – she was thinking about.
“Maybe.” Sorrow didn’t believe it, and the thought of seeing him on his own territory, dressed up for glamourous events, made her feel ill.
Then something else occurred to her. “What on Laethea do you wear to a Naming? Or feasts? Irri, I don’t think I have any clothes for this kind of thing.”
She’d had new clothes made for campaigning, tunics and trousers in bright colours, and even a couple of dresses. But they wouldn’t do for something like this. Not if what Rasmus had told her of Rhyllian parties was true.
“Don’t worry. We’ll write to the Winter Palace today and see what they have,” Irris reassured her.
The following morning, a trunk of gowns arrived from Istevar, along with some other packages for Sorrow, and a young, timid-looking seamstress who could barely look her in the eye. Sorrow and Irris pulled the dresses out and lay them along the sofas in the library, looking at them with increasing dismay.
“Try that one.” Irris pointed to a silvery gown that was the least terrible of the lot.
“I look like Grandmama,” Sorrow said, staring at herself in the mirror. “In fact, this probably was hers. I can’t go to Rhylla wearing clothes that are eighteen years out of date. Or older. I need something modern.”
She saw, then, the enormity of what lay ahead of her in trying to rebuild Rhannon. The country had been frozen in time for eighteen years. No new art, music, fashion. No new inventions or innovations. They were almost two decades behind the rest of Laethea. Luvian had said Meridea was on the verge of creating some kind of steam-powered engine that would eliminate the need for carriages and make journeys that once took weeks take mere days. The Rhyllian ballet and opera were world class, with people travelling from all over Laethea to see them. Even austere Nyrssea – the only place, Sorrow realized, these dresses might actually still be considered risqué – had made great leaps in medicine over the past five years. Only Rhannon, the very heart of the world, had stagnated. Slumbered. And now Sorrow had to wake it.
How, though? It was one thing to talk about making changes, but how on Laethea was she going to pull it off?
Overwhelmed, she flopped down in the gown, eliciting an outraged squeak from the seamstress. Sorrow turned to her.
“What do you think of this dress, really?” she asked her. “Be honest.”