The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(27)

Burn.

The thought flittered through her mind. Had it even come from her? Fire roared from the hearth instantly, sending out billowing white tongues of flame. She scuttled back in fear and also a gust of excitement. The entire mouth of the hearth was ablaze.

“For certes, Maia, I told you to revive the fire, not burn down the castle! How many logs did you feed into it?” Lady Deorwynn’s voice was outraged. Maia stood, staring with wonder at her creation, startled by the immensity of the flames. She had caused that. She had used a Leering with no more effort than it would take to blow a feather.

Maia rubbed her arms, ignoring the plain coarse wool. It was not quite a peasant’s dress, but it was certainly nothing like the gowns she had worn all her life. Servants were never to outshine their betters.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the door burst open, and Lady Deorwynn’s daughters rushed inside. Murer and Jolecia—the banes of Maia’s heart. Murer’s gown was the finer of the two, of course, decorated with elegant colors slashing through the sleeves and trim and a fancy pattern, and she was literally dripping with necklaces and jewels. Her hair was blond, like her mother’s, only curlier, and pinned up with gems and the like. She had a beautiful smile that was full of teasing, and a razor tongue that could leave someone’s feelings in shreds. Her sister, Jolecia, had straight hair, also blond, and she mimicked everything her sister did, though with less success, and was constantly jealous and petulant as a result.

“Mother!” Murer said with relish, “The Earl of Forshee just arrived! I am so grateful my new papa decided to visit Billerbeck for Whitsunday. The Earl of Forshee! He has several sons, and they are quite striking.”

The flames from the hearth had died down. Lady Deorwynn sat on a cushioned seat and picked up her needlework. “They may be handsome, but they despise my Family. They will not suit you, dearest.”

Murer approached her mother quickly. “But what if one of them fell in love with me? Might that not tame their Family’s hostility against us?”

“There are five brothers,” Jolecia said. “We can each have one.”

Lady Deorwynn clucked her tongue. “No, do not be simple. The Forshees have been loyal to Papa’s enemy.”

Maia bit her tongue. That was the word Lady Deorwynn used to describe Maia’s mother. With the fire now in full bloom, she went back to the porcelain cups and began serving the girls’ favorite drink, apple cider.

“I should not be ashamed to love a Forshee,” Murer said. “They are handsome, Mother. But I think you have someone else in mind for me?”

“Do you have a match for me as well?” Jolecia said, a slight whine in her voice.

Lady Deorwynn worked at the stitches studiously.

“Mother?” Murer pressed after a little silence, her voice eager.

“Why should you confine your aspirations to an earl, my daughter, when there are members of the Family abroad who are kings?” She said it in almost a playful way, but Maia could hear the deep ambition behind the words, like an echo in a well. “The King of Dahomey has two sons who are legitimate. The eldest is nearly your age, Murer.”

There was silence as daughter stared at mother, dumbstruck. “To be . . . Queen . . . of Dahomey? The cursed kingdom?”

Maia felt a prick of apprehension and envy, remembering that, at one time, she had been betrothed to the heir of Dahomey. She had always thought of the cursed shores with a degree of curiosity, and if things had turned out differently, she would have reigned over them one day. She stifled her resentful feelings.

“I would not wish that,” Jolecia said. “I should be frightened to live in Dahomey. Their Leerings are cursed!”

“They do have strange customs there, do they not?” Murer said. “You once lived there, Mother, and always ridiculed them. And the Family who was chosen to rule . . .” There was a pronounced note of distaste in her voice. “We all know about that heritage, do we not? I should think one of the Earl of Forshee’s sons would be infinitely preferable. I have been curling my hair for Whitsunday, as you can see.”

“She will not let me curl mine,” Jolecia murmured.

“I have heard the Forshees fancy that,” Murer went on. “But Dahomey . . . truly, Mother?”

Lady Deorwynn continued stitching, saying nothing.

Murer went to the tray where Maia had finished pouring the cups. “Thank you,” she said. Then her expression changed, as if she had only then recognized it was Maia who had served her and not one of the other girls. The look turned to disdain.

Holding the cup elegantly, she took a dainty sip and walked behind the couch. “Today is Whitsunday, Mother. Even the servants are allowed to dance around the maypole with their betters. Is Maia going to dance?”

A blush of hot shame shot through Maia’s cheeks at being drawn into the girl’s devious web. She cursed Murer under her breath.

“Even the wretcheds are allowed,” Lady Deorwynn said musingly. “I suppose we cannot forbid it.” The needlework flashed like silver knives. “But really, who do you think will ask her to dance around the maypole? Even the local villagers here at Billerbeck Hundred know who she is.” She looked up from her work, flashing a malicious glance at Maia.

“I am not feeling well,” Maia said in a low voice. “I did not plan to attend.”