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Jayla found herself less concerned withwho.What puzzled her most waswhy.
What worried her most waswhen.
Chapter Fourteen:
Madeleine
Everyone thought she should go straight home, but Madeleine refused. “I’m staying,” she said to Tivol, to her friends, even to Harlo when he pushed through the party-goers to find her in a corner of the crowded hall.
“But my dear,” Harlo said, taking her hands and surveying her with concern. She hadn’t realized how cold her hands were until she felt the warmth of his. “You must be so shaken up! Youthinkyou’re fine, but in an hour, suddenly you may find yourself trembling and incoherent.”
“Well, if that happens, then in an hour I’ll go home,” she said.
“I just think your father will consider me most remiss if I do not insist that you depart at once.”
She actually managed to laugh. “My father would think me very poor-spirited if I ran home merely because someonetriedto hurt me but didn’t even manage to tear my dress. If someone had attackedhim,he would have just grunted—” She made the appropriate sound. “And kept walking.”
“Nevertheless—”
“I think she is determined to prove how brave she is, and it does us no good to argue,” Tivol interrupted.
Harlo squeezed her hands and let them fall. “I’ll make sure the guards know you should never be out of their sight.”
“Thank you,” Madeleine said. She didn’t even try to be surreptitious about it—she deliberately turned her head so she could make eye contact with Jayla, discreetly standing a few feet behind her. If no one else here realized why she had survived the night, Madeleine did. “Thank you,” she said again.
“I must attend to my guests,” Harlo said. “If youdodecide to leave early, let me know. Otherwise, I will worry when you are missing.”
He swept away with his usual grace. Madeleine turned to Tivol. “And it’s not that I’m trying to be brave,” she said. “It’s that I’m soangry.Someone wants me to be afraid—someone wants medead.I am filled with such rage that I want to hit that person in the face. But instead, I’ll attend a party.”
Tivol sighed and kissed the top of her head. “Then let’s go make merry.”
They stepped out of the corner and into the mass of revelers, where they were instantly enveloped in a circle of well-wishers. For the next hour, the same scenario played out over and over. A few of Madeleine’s particular friends would spot her and come running over, emitting little shrieks and drawing her into quick embraces. They would demand to know what had happened, how she felt, what she was going to do next. She held her head high and answered steadily.It was terrifying. Yes, I am a little frightened, but I know I am well-protected. I imagine Harlo and my father will have the assailant interrogated, and we will learn the reasons behind the attack.
And then she would change the subject.I love your necklace! Is that a new perfume you’re wearing? Oh, I hope your mother is coming to town soon.It always worked. People invariably were more interested in talking about themselves than about anything else.
Despite her defiant words to Tivol, she didn’t feel brave at all. In fact, she wanted to cower under his arm for the entire night. If he was standing on one side of her, then danger couldn’t come from that direction, and she could watch the other side. She continually glanced behind her to make sure Jayla was nearby and was always immensely comforted to find the guard only a few feet away, ceaselessly scanning the crowd.
She wanted to protest when Tivol eventually dropped his arm and joined an animated conversation with some of his friends; she wanted to wail out loud when he moved off with them to explore something on the far end of the room. But she didn’t. She drew herself taller and smiled brightly at her father’s cousin and asked her neighbor’s daughter when the baby was due.
It was a staggering effort. Someone wanted her dead, and it made no sense, and it filled her with an uncontrollable, uncontainable sense of panic. This was worse than grief, in a way, because grief was so real and implacable and incontestable. This—this—formless, inchoate fear didn’t quite settle in her lungs, in the base of her throat. It shrouded her like a wispy fog, made it harder to see the world around her, uncertain of where to set her foot—uncertain, even, if there was a stable surface for her to set her foot upon.
But she was too proud and too stubborn to turn back. She was too angry to give in. She smiled, and she chattered, and she tilted her head to listen to her friends. And—always mindful that she might be at the edge of a precipice—she continued to move forward across the room, step by measured step.
Harlo came back to check on her twice, accompanied the second time by Benito, a junior priest who was widely rumored to be his lover. Benito’s dark complexion, silk-black hair, and vivid green eyes bespoke a mixed heritage that had yielded exquisite results. He was, in fact, one of the most beautiful men Madeleine had ever seen. A number of her friends often sighed over the fact that the bracelet on his right hand was solid gold without a thread of silver.
“Madeleine,” Benito said in his sweet voice, laying his cheek briefly against hers. “What must we do to keep you safe? Shall Harlo assign a handful of temple soldiers to follow you any time you set foot out of your house?”
She laughed shakily. “My father has already hired a personal guard for me, and she does indeed follow me everywhere!” she replied. “In fact, she is the one who stopped the attacker tonight. I had been somewhat annoyed to have the constant shadow, but tonight I was most grateful.”
“But maybe Benito is right,” Harlo said with a frown. “Maybe one guard is not enough. Perhaps you need a pair.”
“A troop. A contingent!” Benito suggested with a smile.
“Certainly not! I can barely tolerate one. But maybe this will be the last time I am in any danger.”
“I certainly hope so, but why do you think that?” Benito asked.
She gestured vaguely toward the door. “This time they captured the attacker, didn’t they? I saw the temple guards haul him off—haulheroff. Once she’s been questioned, maybe we’ll find out—” It was surprisingly hard to say the words. “Why anyone would want to murder me.”
