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Mariam furrowed her brow. “Are you going to the banquet?” At Lin’s surprised look, she added, “I thought Mayesh might be bringing you to more events on the Hill—”
“No,” Lin said. She thought of the quiet ride home in the carriage from the Roverge house, Mayesh watching her with sharp eyes, clearly waiting for some sort of reaction from her, some verdict on the party. But she had said nothing until they reached the Sault. Standing in the shadow of the gates, she had said, “I will tell you if I think there is a point in my returning to the Hill.”
He had not asked questions, only nodded and let her go.
“I won’t be at the banquet, don’t worry,” said Lin. “It’s the same night as Tevath.”
“It’s all right. If you’d rather go to the party.”
“Mari,” Lin said sternly. “I’d rather be at the Goddess Festival, with you. It’s our last year.”
“I just feel as though you’ve gone off into a wonderful story,” Mariam said, with a smile that held a wisp of sadness. “A party with the Charter Families. The Prince himself there. In a Story-Spinner tale, you’d already be secretly engaged to him.”
Instead, he kissed me, then flung me away and said he must have been drunk,Lin thought.Ever so romantic.
“In a Story-Spinner tale, that would mean I’d be about to be kidnapped by pirates so he could save me,” Lin said, crossly. “Mari. The Prince is of themalbushim.Even if he weren’t the Prince, I couldn’t—he is not like us. You must notice,” she added, “that none of the girls in the Story-Spinner tales, even if they are peasants, are Ashkar.”
The hectic color in Mariam’s cheeks bloomed, and Lin felt suddenly guilty. What on earth was the point of telling Mariam to face reality when dreams and hopes of some grand event were what she had to sustain her?
“Mari, I’m sorry—”
There was a knock on Lin’s door. The two women exchanged a startled look. “It’s likely Mayesh,” Lin said, rising to her feet; she padded barefoot to the door and threw it open.
On the threshold stood Oren Kandel, looking as if he were attending his own funeral. With him were two Castelguards, in red livery, both squinting against the bright sun. And between them was Prince Conor Aurelian, all in black velvet, wearing a gold coronet.
Lin’s mouth opened in shock, but no sound came out. She had only just seen the Prince last night, but he had been in his own world, his own element, among the people of the Hill. She thought of his cloak of white-and-gold brocade, and the metallic ink around his eyes. He was more quietly dressed now, it was true, but that still meant many flashing rings, gold paint on his nails—and thatcrown.For him to be here in the Sault, looking up at her calmly from her own front steps, was for reality to have folded itself in half. She could make no sense of it.
“Oren?” she whispered, almost regretfully; it was a dark day indeed when she had to ask Oren Kandel to explain what she was looking at with her own eyes.
“The Prince of Castellane is here to see you,” mumbled Oren.
This, Lin thought, was the least helpful thing he could have said. From behind her, she heard a squeak. Of course; Mariam was watching from the doorway of her room.
In fact, it was not just Mariam. Lin’s neighbors had begun to pour out into the street, and were staring in the direction of her house. Mez and Rahel, hand in hand, were gaping from their doorstep, and Kuna Malke, her baby girl balanced on her hip, was on tiptoe on her porch in order to see better.
For the first time, Lin locked eyes with the Prince. His were the shade of clouds, unreadable. She said, “If you seek my grandfather, Counselor Bensimon, he is not here, my lord.”
Before Prince Conor could answer, there was a patter of quick steps. Mariam appeared at Lin’s side, her cheeks bright red. “Monseigneur,” she exclaimed. “I am Mariam Duhary, and it would be the honor of my life to sew a cloak for you—”
“You’re the one who made Lin’s dress last night?” Prince Conor spoke for the first time. Something in Lin’s chest jumped when he said her name like that:Lin,notDomna Caster.It was familiar; too much so. She saw Oren notice it, too, and scowl. “Kel told me. Lin’s friend with the needle.”
Mariam glowed. “Lin spoke of me to him?”
“Of course she did. You’re very skilled.” There was real warmth in his tone, and though Lin knew it had been trained into him, it remained affecting. “I would like to speak to Lin for a moment alone. It is a matter of state.”
He managed to say it as if he were asking Mariam’s permission. She glowed brighter, and nodded. “Of course, of course,” she said, bolting down the stairs of Lin’s house and nearly knocking into Oren at the bottom.
“We will keep watch, Monseigneur,” said Benaset. He, too, descended the steps, where the guards had set about shooing off Oren. Oren seemed to have decided that the better part of valor was to pretend that he had always planned to escort Mariam back to theWomen’s House. Fortunately for him, Mariam was in too good a humor to wave him off.
Rahel and Mez were both waving energetically at Lin, but she had no chance to wave back, had she been so inclined. The moment Benaset was gone, the Prince had closed the door of Lin’s house behind him, plunging the room into dimness. Lin wondered if she ought to go and pull the curtains closed over the windows, but no—that would simply set tongues to wagging even further, and it wasn’t as if one could easily see in without coming straight up to her house and pressing one’s face against the glass.
“That man who guided us to your house,” the Prince remarked, his gaze sweeping lazily over her living room, “has he a dog?”
“Oren?” Lin wanted to wrap her arms around herself. She felt oddly exposed, as if the Prince could see all of her: It was close enough, in a way. Here were her remaining books, her crumpled dress over the back of a chair, her breakfast plate still on the table. Open to his gaze, like a corpse on an anatomy table. “Adog? No, why?”
“I was wondering if it had died recently. He seems the most depressing person I have ever met.”
Lin was not sure if she should sit down or stand up. She settled for leaning against the wall. She was abnormally conscious of her bare feet, of the plainness of her dress, of her unbraided hair. Loose, the copper curls fell to the middle of her back. “That’s Oren. He’s just like that, always has been. What are youdoinghere, Monseigneur?”
