Page 18 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“Who, then?”

Enric took the reins and led the mare back to one of the back stalls. “Why does it even matter to you? You’re just the dead lord’s bastard.”

Nore did not let this bother her; she’d heard worse, and none of it was untrue. “Don’t you see? If Lady Anina marries the Earl of Tyning, he will probably, finally, agree to build a bridge over the Lisse for a better route between Arlowe and the capital.”

Enric snorted. “None of that impacts me.”

“Of course it does,” Nore said. “If the Duke of Arlowe gets better trade, we get paid more—my mother might actually be able to leave this place.”

“You have too many wild ideas,” Enric said, which was a funny way of telling her she used her brain too much.

Nore shook her head. She grabbed Enric’s arm. “Listen,” she said. “I have a plan, and you’d be best off if you paid attention.”

Three months later, the Duke of Arlowe’s granddaughter married the Earl of Tyning. Nore, of course, was not invited to the festivities, nor did she help with the serving. It was a lovely spring evening, and she spent it in the fields, lying on her back and looking at stars, listening to the raucous celebrations taking place on the grounds of the estate. After the ceremony, the Duke of Arlowe passed down the mantle of his title to his middle daughter.

The day after the wedding, word came to the servants’ quarters that Nore was wanted for dinner that evening. Golda pulled her into their room and prepared a bath.

“You’ve not made a nuisance of yourself, Nora Beth?” Golda asked as she sat by the bath and Nore washed her hair. “Not upset anyone? Not caught an eye you shouldn’t?”

Always prone to flushing, Nore felt the deep scarlet creeping up her chest. She dunked herself in the water, then surfaced, sputtering. “No, Mother,” she promised. She hadn’t dared to recount the incident with Lady Anina, the stable boy, and the earl. She’d hoped no gossip had made it to her mother’s ears.

Golda only sighed. She went to her own things and pulled out her finest clothes, kept for the yearly Festival of Bread. She laid out the shift and deep red gown on the bed, then frowned at it, looking between that and Nore. “It may clash with your hair…”

“It’s no worry,” Nore said. She stood from the bath, streaming water, and dried off quickly with a towel. She gathered a few pins from her mother’s dresser and laid them out with the gown. “I’ll put my hair up.”

Golda touched Nore’s cheek. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Nore laughed, twisting out of her mother’s grasp. “I haven’t done anything,” she said.

“But you will,” Golda said, handing Nore her shift. “The duchess has seen something in you. I’m sure of it.”

Neither of them spoke of the fact that the duchess was Nore’s own blood, that the only thing that really separated them was circumstance.

That night, Nore behaved as she had always been taught: she bowed low when the duchess entered, and waited until she ate. The duchess was not alone, either. She had brought a friend with her: Ms. Edith Gordon, a merchant from Nettlepool.

Nore was quiet during dinner, only speaking when spoken to. After they ate, at their invitation, Nore retired with the other two women to the parlor. Celestine and Edith had glasses of dark red wine; Nore drank the diluted cider usually given to children on the estate.

“She is small for her age,” Edith said.

“She will grow,” Celestine said loftily. “That’s what children do.”

It took Nore a halting moment to realize they were talking about her. She glanced between them, deciding if it was worth speaking up.

“And she knows her figures?”

“Elinore?” Celestine said kindly.

Nore cleared her throat, setting her glass aside. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“What is seven times thirteen?”

“Ninety-one, Your Grace.”

“Divided by four?”

“Twenty-two, with a remainder of three, Your Grace—or twenty-two and three fourths, if you prefer, Your Grace.”

“She is quick,” Edith agreed, “on simple sums.” She eyed Nore, and Nore couldn’t shake the feeling she was being deeply assessed. “What is fifty-two multiplied by three hundred and twenty-eight?”