State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(6)
“Does anyone wish to speak about something other than the Decorum Ward?”
To her surprise, a single hand rose, and she beckoned the small, neat-looking woman forward.
“Yes?”
“Senator Kaspira has concerns about the Rathbone family again.”
Sorrow hadn’t expected to ever feel grateful at the mention of the thieves and occasional pirates that plagued the district of Prekara, but right then she’d take them over the Decorum Ward. “I thought they’d gone to ground since Jeraphim Rathbone was jailed,” Sorrow said.
“It’s his eldest son, Arkady—”
“Oh, sorry, my lovely.” Meeren’s voice was a loud, oozing drawl as he interrupted. “Am I in your way?”
Sorrow whirled around to see Irris standing beyond the doorway, hidden behind Vine, her lips pressed together tightly. The captain of the Decorum Ward took a tiny step aside and held out an arm as though to welcome her, giving Irris no choice but to attempt slipping past him, or else remain outside. Irris appeared to consider her options, then pressed her body against the door frame and edged into the room. Meeren licked his lips as her arm brushed his stomach, meeting Sorrow’s eyes as he did.
“You need to go to your father,” Irris said on a breath once she’d reached Sorrow.
Her head gave a throb of agony that had nothing to do with Lamentia then, but everything to do with Harun. “Where’s his valet?” she whispered back.
“I’ve sent him to get some rest. Sorrow, the man was exhausted. I don’t think he’s slept in days.” There was a hint of reproval in her tone. “And Balthasar is with the chancellor.”
“Then surely your father should—”
“I went to him first.” Irris cut her off. “He told me to send you.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”
Sorrow had thought her spirits couldn’t sink any lower. “It’s fine. I’ll go right away.”
She didn’t mean it. And from the look on Irris’s face, her friend knew it. But she nodded, allowing Sorrow the lie.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you all to leave,” Sorrow announced to the room. “I have some urgent business to attend to. If you write down your complaints, I’ll do my best to get to them as soon as I can.”
The people began to file out, their expressions a mixture of bewilderment and disappointment, but none protested, meekly doing as she’d asked. Vine remained in the doorway until last.
“Are you OK?” Irris asked her once he’d gone. “What did Vine want?”
“Mostly a good smack,” Sorrow murmured, mindful he might be loitering to hear. “So, no, I’m not.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Arrange to have me kidnapped by the Svartans and kept there in luxury as a political prisoner until I die?”
“I’ll write to them now.” Amusement laced Irris’s whisper. “Do you want me to stay? Or come with you?”
“No; thank you, though.” Sorrow turned to her oldest friend. “I need a few moments alone before I deal with my father, that’s all. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“All right.” Irris gave her hand a squeeze and was gone, closing the door behind her.
Sorrow pulled at a loose thread on the hem of her sleeve. She watched as the embroidery began to unravel, feeling a spark of pleasure at the destruction, until a soft sound behind her made her turn.
Despite her command, someone had stayed behind.
Rasmus Corrigan stood by the window, his violet eyes fixed on her.
A New Layer of Guilt
He pushed his long pale hair behind gently tapered ears, carefully avoiding the row of silver rings that pierced them lobe to top, and offered Sorrow a faint smile. Like every other person at the palace – in the country – he was dressed in mourning: a long black coat, tight at the waist, flaring over his hips down to his knees; wide legged black trousers beneath; black boots on his feet. The uniform of Rhannon.
But Rasmus was Rhyllian. Where the black brought out the yellow tones in Rhannish skin, it complemented his paler complexion: shadow to moonlight, ink to paper. Even lovely Irris, with her wide eyes and heart-shaped face, could not make the mourning black look as good as Rasmus did.
He watched her, looking as cool and crisp as ever, despite the layers of clothing, and the heat, and Sorrow was painfully aware that by comparison she looked wilted, and more than a little frazzled.
Still, she returned his smile with the ghost of her own, and that was all it took to bring him across the room, moving with impossible grace, to pull her into his arms. She relaxed against him, pressing her face into his chest, instantly feeling calmer.
“I didn’t know you’d come back,” she said.
“Of course I did.”
“You don’t think my orders apply to you, then?” she murmured into his shirt.
“You’re not my queen.”
“I’m not anyone’s queen,” Sorrow replied.
“As near as, if the line of subjects here petitioning you is anything to go by. And as you said yourself, you will be the chancellor one day…” Rasmus said, an edge to his voice.
Sorrow looked up at him. But before she could reply, the pain in her head pulsed, threatening to return, and she grimaced.