Page 104 of Crown of the Courtesan

Farther on, the shadow hounds reappear where the trail forks. They give a rare, high-pitched howl like a banshee. I leap and pull myself back into the saddle, urging Salt into a racing gallop.

Forty-Six

Meeting me on the staircase, Beatrix says, “I invited Prince Rett to dine with us, if that’s okay with you. Madame Phyrne would flay me alive if she ever learned I left a royal to eat in the stables.”

“We don’t need to follow her rules anymore, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate it all the same,” I counter with a small, forced smile.

From the entrance foyer, we head into the dining room, which is both lavish and cozy at the same time. The table is almost too large for the space, and we have to squeeze around it. Silver candelabras flicker, and the clean walls reflect light from the marble fireplace, where fresh logs chirp merrily. A lace tablecloth, paired with blue porcelain bowls and cutlery wrapped in fine linen, adorns each place setting on the tabletop. My heart hurts when I think about the other instructors, gone—stolen from their home and dinner.

Beatrix wavers. “There’s something you should know about this room.”

But my eyes are already drawn to it.

Above the cherry wood mantel hangs an oil painting of a beautiful girl with gray eyes, delicate features, and soft waves of auburn hair. The painting reminds me of the portrait hanging at Alexandria Castle, but it’s different. Theodora is much younger—a girl of eighteen years portrayed here. I recognize it as the commissioned portrait every debutante receives before her first Bidding Ceremony.

“She grew up at Borealla Academie.”

But it isn’t Beatrix’s voice that comes from behind me. The manor’s elderly cook holds another pot of the same simmering stew that went out to the orcs in the stables. She places it beside the heaping pile of cut bread and butter. Her hair is slicked back in a low white knot, and her service uniform and apron are spotless. “I knew Theodora well and her mother before her.”

Surprise jolts me so hard that I grip the back of the chair.

A grandmother?

Beatrix touches my shoulder as the whispers fill my ears with their incoherent chants.

I may never get this chance again.

“Could you tell me about her?” I ask, hesitating only for a second. “My version is so muddled by rumors that I’m unsure of the truth—and I know even less about her early years.”

After checking the ticking clock on the mantel, Beatrix urges the cook to rest for a moment and they both sit down. I find a chair across from them and watch the cook’s bright eyes glaze over. Her scratchy voice explains, “I cannot tell you of your mother’s story unless I first tell you about your mother’s mother—Matilda. One does not exist without the other. As all who come before us.”

I nod, encouraging her along, even with the gnawing discomfort burying itself in my chest.

“Matilda was a newly appointed instructor when I came to work here as a scullery maid.” She takes a long breath and glances up. “So young and full of life, despite the war raging over the border.”

I lean forward, trying to catch every word. After everything Ashland told me at the hot springs, I’m growing desperate to learn more of the truth.

She folds her weathered hands in her lap. “The instructors disliked her because the young’uns sought her out to sort their squabbles, usually because she wasn’t harsh in her methods.”

The cook hesitates, eyes flicking to the doorway. Girlish chatter echoes down the hall, and I can hear Rett’s deep laughter. She lowers her voice. “They would send her to pick wild onions at the border to keep her out of the way. That’s where she would meet her best friend and most passionate lover—an enemy knight from the Kingdom of Ashland.”

I blink furiously, my mind weaving the story together. The rustling of gowns and muffled footsteps grow louder in the hallway. The cook’s eyes move beyond me, and I twist in my seat to find Rett standing behind me.

How much did he hear?

I don’t have time to wonder as the other girls push past, eager for their steaming portion of stew. Behind the group of pupils, Alisse and a young man, whom I believe to be Robert, hold hands before finding their seats. Even through all the turmoil, she has found her happily ever after in this broken world. I blink at the irony of it all.

Beatrix scolds the girls for their poor manners, and they slow to a glide before taking their places around the table. The older girl, with sea-moss eyes and onyx braids, sits next to Beatrix, both of them competing over who looks the most tired.

The cook rises to leave. I escort her to the empty hallway, wishing our conversation hadn’t been interrupted. She pats my arm and murmurs, “After the girls are asleep, come find me in the kitchen, and I’ll tell you the rest.”

Before she steps away, I stop her. “Thank you. I wouldn’t know any of this without you.” Then I ask before she’s out of earshot, “What’s your name?”

“Verity.” A wide smile spreads across her wrinkled, papery face.

As I return, the din of noise brings me back to where I should be. Around the crowded table, the air buzzes with voices.

Still glowing from the Rite, Alisse leans into Robert, their fingers intertwined. He bends his golden-blond head down and whispers in her ear as her dark, coiled hair spills over her shoulder. She gazes at him, her eyes shining with amusement.