Page 12

“I’ve never been to the north,” he says. “Do you think it will be cold?”

“Yes.”

“Mother is worried sick.” He laughs good-naturedly. “I assured her that I am too old to be thought of as a mere boy, but I suppose mothers are prone to worry, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Hoping to put an abrupt halt to the conversation, I add, “My mother is dead.”

The moment it’s out of my mouth, I trap in a vexed sigh.

Bartholomew’s expression falls as he murmurs, “As is my father.”

I shouldn’t have said it—and I wouldn’t have if I’d thought about it a moment more. Though the boy is burdensome, I don’t wish to hurt him purposely.

Wincing to myself, I wonder if I’m more like my father than I would like.

For a moment, I study my new squire from the corner of my eye. He has a mop of unkempt brown hair, a smattering of light, boyish freckles, and less muscle than any of the maids who carry goods to the wagons. When I was his age, I’d already risen from a drudge in the Infantry Class to a swordsman in the Soldier Class, but I’ve never even seen Bartholomew lift a sword.

Though the duke is seventeen years old, he seems younger—naïve, far too optimistic, and easily crushed. I, however, won’t be the one to destroy him—no matter how I wish I weren’t tasked with his keeping.

I turn to the boy, prepared to apologize, but he beats me to it.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Henrik,” he says solemnly.

“And I am sorry for yours,” I answer, my tone unintentionally gruff. “My words were hastily spoken.”

The smile returns to his face, and he looks back at the madness. “How may I be of assistance?”

As he says it, a woman appears at my side. She stands quietly, waiting to be acknowledged.

I turn toward the somber handmaid, startled Camellia would send for me so openly.

Clearing my throat, wishing Bartholomew wasn’t standing with me, I say, “Do you have a message for me?”

I would address her by name, but she’s never given one—not to me and not to anyone else. Behind her back, people call her Hellebore, after the cold winter flower. But the High Vale elf is too aged to be one of Camellia’s ladies, nor is she connected to wealth and stature. For a High Vale woman to serve a human, even if that human is a princess, she must have found disgrace at some time in her life.

Without a word, she offers me the folded parchment. I’m not sure she approves of our meetings, but she is mute and unable to object. Whenever she must exchange words, she writes them upon a small slate she carries in the pocket of her gown.

Though Camellia’s boldness makes me uncomfortable, I accept the note. With a bow of her head, the woman leaves the way she came. People part for her, wary of the solemn elven woman who always dresses in black.

“She gives me chills,” Bartholomew says quietly when she’s gone. “I don’t know how my cousin can spend so much time with her.”

“The woman practically raised Camellia.” I subtly shift away, making sure he won’t be able to read the note when I open it.

“Yes,” Bartholomew says. “I suppose that must be it.”

I scan the message, and then I shove the supply list into Bartholomew’s hands. “We’re nearly finished. Begin making rounds and see if anything is missing.”

Eagerly, Bartholomew accepts the list. “Really?”

Nodding, I turn to leave. Even he can handle that simple task.

* * *

Camellia waitsfor me in a private corner of the garden, a quiet place surrounded by thick, dusky evergreens and overgrown hedges that have gone from deep green to fire-red in the last week.

Already fallen amber leaves from several nearby grespit trees litter the cobblestones, and they muffle my footsteps as I walk.

“You came,” Camellia says, smiling brightly when she spots me.