Amari managed to clear her plate as she listened to Orval talking to the babes. One long, last drink of kavage, then she started to unlace her top to bare her breasts.
“Dalan is still sleeping,” Orval said and brought both infants into the kitchen. “But Lara’s ready.”
Lara cried again.
“More than ready,” Amari smiled as she took the swaddled baby into her arms and put her to the breast.
Orval sat down, cradling Dalan in one arm as he reached for the food. “Do they ever sleep through the night?” he asked, mumbling through a mouthful.
“Eventually.” Amari smiled, enjoying the feel as Lara suckled her nipple.
“Eventually,” Orval echoed with a sigh as he rolled his eyes. Then he grew quiet. “I claimed you as wife and now these two are considered of the Blood. Maybe we should use that token to send for the marcus. We could have you all catch fevers and die. I could become a grieving widower.” He glanced down at the babe sleeping in his arms. “Or maybe,” he said with an odd, tentative note in his voice, “maybe I could come with you.”
“Leave your books?” Amari asked in surprise.
“Well—” Orval started, but was interrupted by a ruckus of some kind on the stairs. A shrill, old voice called out.
“Orval, tell these scallywags to let me in!”
Orval rolled his eyes. “My Aunt Xydell, a terrible gossip. Nothing for it, I guess.” He rose, balancing Dalan as he opened the outer door. “Welcome, Aunt—”
Her voice entered first; she must still have been climbing the stairs. “Foolishness, guards following an old lady around, and more foolishness guarding a bookish fool who doesn’t bother to let family know he’s wed.” Her cane clicked the floor as she appeared, well wrapped against the cold, silver-haired and tall, with sharp blue eyes that peered over a scarf. “Shut the door, nephew. You’re letting out the heat.”
Orval stepped back to let the woman in. “How nice to see—”
“Doubtful,” she said as she unwrapped her scarf. “But since you are holding a babe, the rumors must be true.” Xydell fixed her gaze on Amari and her eyes narrowed. “What is this brazen hussy doing here? If you’ve hired her as a wet nurse, I’ll be having harsh words with your wife. Why would she hire a whore?”
Chapter Eleven
Queen Satia swept into her solar, irritated, nauseated, and concentrating on keeping a pleasant expression on her face.
The ladies of the Court cut off their chatter, rose from their seats, and curtseyed low as she passed. Her Bondmaidens entered behind her. Caris, Nora, and Mira took up strategic positions around the room while Avice moved to a small desk next to Satia’s seat of state.
Satia took some satisfaction that the ladies’ blue and white dresses had been replaced with garments in other colors. Given the range of styles, some of them fairly antique and faded, many had been pulled from storage.
None of the women wore mourning black, since Satia had made her displeasure clear on that point.
Except the Royal Housekeeper, Rosalind, with her black armband.
Yet another irritant.
Satia stepped to the dais and stood before her throne for a moment before taking her seat.
Once she did, the ladies rose from the floor and seated themselves, all taking up their sewing. Satia had encouraged them to start sewing baby things for the future heir, pleased to see the wives and daughters of the noble houses, ranging in age from graying to nubile, working on behalf of her unborn child.
At least Xydell was not among them, the old bat. Always ranting about her perfect dead husband, Jerrold. Her shrill voice gave Satia a headache.
They’d all best keep their voices low and their gossip to harmless matters, if they knew what was good for them.
Her stomach flipped, turning sour. “Tea,” she snapped, and Mira hurried to obey. Satia huffed out a breath and settled back, closing her eyes.
She could feel her nearby Bondmaidens, attentive, obedient, and watchful. But Iris…
Satia relaxed and focused.
Long ago, before his death, her Lord Father had explained that the bond felt like having a fish on a line, hook deep in its mouth. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it, its movements, its strength or weakness. Once in a while, perhaps glimpse a silvery figure darting through dark waters.
She wouldn’t know. She’d never been fishing.
