Master Jakespurcia’s eyelids fluttered. ‘He asked me where you came from.’
An overwhelming bout of longing boiled up Cressyda’s throat. She had spent so long suppressing it that, for a moment, she could not speak for the sharp, keen pain of it. Finally, she said, ‘You mean my mother? He asked you who my real mother was?’
‘Yes.’
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, approaching the door. Cressyda turned to see the catch wobbling as someone lifted it to enter.
‘Who was my mother?’ she hissed at Master Jakespurcia. ‘Tell me!’
But the old Master’s eyes were closed, his face slackened into sleep. A hoarse, rattling noise puffed from his dried, scabbed lips, and his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
‘Princess?’ called a voice.
She turned to see Pataso standing in the doorway.
‘Master Jakespurcia appears to be asleep,’ he said, his dark eyes narrowed on her.
Cressyda nodded. She forced herself to step away from the bed as steadily as she could. Following Pataso, she walked out of the room into the fresher darkness of the corridor, leaving the rasping breathing of the old Master behind.
Alinore
A KNOCK ATthe door made Alinore jump. Panic seized her and she snatched open a drawer of the nearby dresser and thrust the sword she had been holding inside.
‘Come in,’ she called.
The door opened and Alinore held her breath. No one usually ventured as far as this dusty room at the back of the guest quarters. Not even the servants. Since the beginning of King Borto’s declining health, guests to the Calestran court had dwindled and these quarters had been deserted.
A tall, broad figure appeared.
‘Prince Ottone?’ said Alinore, feeling a glow of happiness. ‘What … what’re you doing here?’
His gaze dropped to her legs and his step faltered.
‘Oh, oops.’
Alinore had the skirt of her dress scooped up and tucked into her belt. She knew she ought to feel mortified being caught with her stockings revealed, but it was just Prince Ottone. He hadseen her wearing breeches the day before last. He would not be scandalized.
‘I was practising attack stances,’ she explained, pulling her skirts free. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’
Prince Ottone peered around, his cheeks flushed pink. ‘Is this your room?’ he asked.
Alinore hesitated. Then nodded.
‘You don’t stay with Cress any more?’
‘No.’ A familiar mixture of pain and sorrow twisted in her chest.
‘Why not?’
There was a long pause.
Alinore opened her mouth to explain their bitter argument and the cruel, harsh words they had said to one another. The wound that still had not healed. But words failed her and she pressed her lips firmly back together. She did not want to repeat those terrible things.
When it became clear that she was not going to answer, Prince Ottone asked instead, ‘Has that painting always been there?’ He pointed at a spot on the wall over her shoulder.
‘No, I moved it to this room. I didn’t think anyone would mind.’
‘A lady knight?’
