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My eyes narrow when he says no more. “Do you know where he is? I’d like to speak to him.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Not possible?” I say, the volume of my voice creeping up. I can’t believe he’d slink away before I woke. “How very convenient for him.”
Ion steps closer as if to corral me back into the room. “My a’deve, I –”
“Unless you’re going to tell me exactly where I can find the insufferable manormy clothing, I suggest you stop talking.”Ugh, I’m such a fool!I thought things had changed between us. I guessyou’re minewas meant in the literal sense. Mine to rule over, deciding where I go, what I eat, what I wear, who I talk to. Maybe I could accept that if he hadn’t left me to do all of italone.But after yesterday, I can’t and won’t stand the solitude anymore.
With barely a glance down at the night rail which only comes to my knees, I make for the stairs, but Ion steps in my path and my toes barely escape being crushed by his boots. “Where are you going?”
I glare up at him. “Get out of my way.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
The difference appears lost on him. Either way, he’s not budging. My desperate anger boils over. “Luka!” I yell, hoping my voice carries all the way down to the hall. Before Ion can react, a door down the hall opens.
Turning, I see an older woman in a doorway. “Your ladyship, princess of D’heilar,” she says, respectfully inclining her head. “My mistress would like to invite you for refreshments.” She steps further out into the hall and lifts her arm as if welcoming me into the room.
Ion all but sputters, “I can’t allow that.”
“I was not asking your permission Ion Welltorn,” this new mystery woman says evenly.
Giving Ion a triumphant little smirk, I turn on my heel and cover the distance before he can think of how to prevent me. It seems not everyone bows and scrapes at the warriors’ feet. “Thank you,” I say primly to the woman as I pass her only to stall out right inside the door. It’s like entering another world.
“Welcome.”
My slack jaw closes at the greeting from a woman who sits next to a roaring fire. She puts her needlepoint aside and stands to incline her head.
“Oh, please don’t stand for me,” I say a bit stupidly, still thrown by the grandeur of the room. The stone walls have been covered with thick tapestries of colorful images and there are bouquets of winterberry holly sitting on ornate pieces of furniture throughout the large room.
“Please, have a seat,” she says softly, re-taking her own. “Madeleine will pour us some tea.”
I don’t know who these women are, but tea sounds wonderful. “Thank you so much.” I offer her the traditional southern gesture of pressing my palms to my heart, and then want to kick myself. Reminding people I’m a foreigner is foolish, but she only smiles kindly as I take the chair across from her. The heat coming off of the fire and the luxurious sheepskin rug beneath my feet are more than welcome.
“Your room is lovely,” I tell her, trying not to gawk at an incredibly elaborate candelabra that sits on a nearby table. It doesn’t resemble anything I’ve ever seen.
“Yes, my life has improved considerably since my son took power.”
My head whips around.Her son?I study the woman more closely. She’s older, maybe fifty or so and there’s an air of fragility about her. Worry lines bracket her mouth and her light-brown hair – though artfully braided into a crown about her head – is noticeably streaked with gray.
“You’re Luka’s mother?” I blurt, immediately getting to my feet to incline my head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” She brushes the civility away with a casual wave as I sink back down into my chair. “I thought maybe you were a priestess.”
This amuses her, making her appear years younger. “No, not a priestess. Not even close. My name is Niri.”
I feel a genuine smile come on. “I’m Rina.”
The other woman, Madeleine, brings Niri her tea in a true southern tea bowl made of ceramic and my smile widens. Once I have my own bowl cupped in my hands, I shiver with delight at its warmth.
Niri says, “I must admit I’ve never hosted a Southerner before. I hope the tea’s flavor will meet with your approval.”
Not caring if it tastes like mud, I dutifully take a sip. “Oh,” slips out of me and I’m pleased I don’t have to lie. “It’s wonderful. It reminds me of home.”
“And where is that for you, Rina?”
My stomach clenches. “Home?”
