“No…” Ophele thought back to the most recent sewing circle. Justenin had quizzed her after each one, teaching her to manage and analyze the women who attended. It had been more or less the same group each time, a kindly assortment of the townswomen, and she had learned so much and enjoyed their conversation and each gathering had been so pleasant, and he wasruiningit with his cold dissections.
“Did they speak of any particular troubles?”
“Yes. Their husbands, their children, Mistress Tregue says she can’t keep her husband tidy either…” Ophele shut her mouth. She had been sworn to secrecy regarding the foibles of husbands.
“Anything else?”
“Mistress Roscout said she was having trouble with the dyer,” she confessed, shifting unhappily in her chair. “Just that he was trying to winkle her out of every copper sen he could get…”
As soon as she said it, she remembered that Remin had bought the wool fabric for Ophele’s blankets from Mistress Roscout, and they were due to renegotiate their contract for a further year in the near future.
“But I’m sure she was just talking,” Ophele added quickly. “She’s been very helpful, teaching everyone invisible stitches.”
“I find that an apt metaphor. People may be helpful for a purpose, my lady,” Juste said, and tossed his quill down in disgust. “This is useless.”
“Perhaps you might like some tea,” Ophele suggested. She still had some of Genon’s pain medication that she sometimes slipped into Remin’s tea, when he was welted from sword practice and crabby about it.
“No, thank you.”
Ophele was beginning to suspect, based on certain patterns observed over time, that wounded men did not want to feel better. They just wanted to complain about being wounded.
“Or I could write for you, if you like. My handwriting is getting better,” she offered a little desperately. She knew he wasn’t angry with her, but it made her very uncomfortable to hear that edge in his voice.
“No, thank you,” he repeated, and then sighed and bowed his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I am out of sorts. I have always said my left arm is largely decorative.”
“Let me help then, please,” she said, rising to put the kettle on anyway. She might like a little of Genon’s medicine herself. “Are you writing down what I’m saying? I can do that much.”
“It would be inappropriate for the Duchess of Andelin to be a secretary. But I will take a cup of tea,” he said. “With a little of Genon’s medicine in it. I assume you were planning to dose me.”
“It must hurt a great deal,” she said sympathetically. “Your shoulder. I never thought joints might just pop out of place.”
“It does not often happen spontaneously,” he replied. “If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps Lady Verr will share her observations. Do not worry overmuch, my lady. This is a very…low-stakes game you are playing, at present.”
“It is?” Ophele’s eyes flicked the request to Davi, who nodded and slipped out the door to call for Mionet.
“Yes. The town is small and fairly uniform in its purpose. But you ceded a great deal of power to Amise Conbour when you allowed her to choose who to invite into your home. How do you know there is not anyone she chose to exclude? Or if she might have chosen certain individuals to attend with some purpose in mind?”
“I told her I didn’t want anyone left out,” Ophele said, her eyebrows drawing together.
“How would you know if she did?” Justenin asked ruthlessly. “That is not to say that she did, my lady. Shemighthave. You must be careful not to allow others to control access to you. No matter who they may be,” he added, with a pointed look at the doorway, where Mionet’s voice was audible as she approached.
It was a warning. Ophele offered a distracted greeting and went to examine the kettle, which was not yet boiling. She did not like to think of these things, suspecting people she liked of selfish designs. All of it was enough to makeherfeel cranky, dull and headachy and her belly had been troubling her all day.
“We are discussing yesterday’s gathering, Lady Verr,” Justenin explained, and Ophele wondered what it meant that he was so polite when he was talking to Mionet. Maybe it was some sort of perverse compliment that he felt comfortable being grumpy at Ophele.
“I will be pleased to help.” Mionet sat, smoothing her skirts. “Is there anything in particular?”
“No, we would like your observations in general,” he replied.
“Did Amise really invite everyone who wanted to come, or did someone get left out?” Ophele burst out. This question bothered her extremely.
“Ah,” Mionet said, her auburn brows lifting. “As far as I can tell, she did, my lady. That is a good question.”
“I didn’t think of it.” Ophele thumped into her seat, wishing the kettle would boil faster. “Sir Justenin warned me about it. How would I know if she did?”
“It is something I would look for over time,” Mionet replied. “There are…currents, in society. They are subtle, but if you watch, you will notice who often attends, and who often makes excuses. Who speaks, and who doesnotspeak. And also, if there is anyone who is prevented from speaking, or excluded.”
“Oh,” Ophele said, blinking. Those were patterns. She hadn’t thought to look for them here. The sewing circle had met four times so far, and she had thought each visit was very pleasant. “But I thought it was going so well,” she said, dejected. “I don’t remember anything bad happening, everyone was so nice and helpful, teaching each other…”
