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And only then did she meet my eye, stepping off the low stage in the numb, tense silence.Therewas the emotion, finally, every feeling her words had lacked; her eyes gleamed with age-old hurt, with regret and apologies, with a plea I felt down to the tips of my toes.

‘Please.’ She mouthed the word as she passed me, one hand brushing over my upper arm in a gentle, hesitant nudge. ‘Come.’

Heart trumped duty again.

I turned mechanically, marvelling at the way my knees held steady, the way my feet carried me after her and towards the doors without crumbling beneath me. I half expected the gaping masses at the exit to block our way out, but they parted as if by command as Rosalind approached, letting us pass in palpable silence.

In the hall behind me, the first whispers picked up.

I could no longer care. I pushed the failures and consequences away, blocked every muttering voice from my mind, as I followed Rosalind up the stairs—

No.

Zera help me – as I followed mymotherup the stairs.

Chapter 23

Following her through themaze of corridors felt like walking deeper and deeper into a dream – the situation growing more surreal by the step, somehow, even as the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place.

Emelin of Agenor’s house, she’d said.

And she would know, wouldn’t she?

I could tell myself it made sense, yet it didn’t – that this was the same woman whose hand had scribbled those notes in Agenor’s books, the woman whose wrist had once borne the other half of that bargain mark he still carried. The woman whose nameless face I’d dreamed of for months on end, now suddenlyhereandtangibleand so very much a person it made me feel dizzy with disbelief.

Had it been just as overwhelming for her, to watch me step out of that chaise from her vantage point behind the window?

I might have asked her if I’d had the faintest idea how to address her now.

But I did not, and she did not turn around, striding up the stairs and down the corridors as if she’d never move again if she made the mistake of faltering for even a moment. So I drifted after her in silence, unable to stop turning every word she’d spoken over and over in my thoughts …

Is this one of your father’s ideas?

Just a little too much intimate knowledge of Agenor’s mind – like an inside joke, almost. Sheknewthose ideas. She knew them becauseshewas the one who’d punched him from his lethargic state of existence twenty-two years ago and made him see—

‘Here we are,’ she said quietly.

That was enough to yank me back into the here and now.

The door she opened led into a light, spacious room, decorated with little more than a few potted plants and a host of knitted pillows. Most of the available space was taken up by piles and piles of parchment – books and letters and maps and scrolls, all stacked haphazardly on every available surface, cluttering shelves and chairs and three quarters of the dining table. Two packed bags stood next to the couch, partially buried beneath more documents. They must have stood there for a while, then, my remaining sensible thoughts deducted; she must have been prepared to leave.

Had she known this would likely be the outcome of our meeting? Or would she have resigned her post no matter what had happened?

My daughter. My daughter. My daughter.

‘Tea?’ Rosalind said, closing the door behind me and brushing past me to head for the kitchen.

‘Yes,’ I said blankly and then hastily added, ‘Please,’ because it seemed proper to show some manners when meeting your mother for the first time.

The sound of a running tap emerged from around the corner, followed by the thud of a kettle onto a stove. I stood and waited, trying to make myself say something and failing miserably – how in the world would I make the unfurling chaos of my thoughts fit into something as small as words? She’d been so easy to talk to, a mere twenty-four hours ago. Now every secret, every lie and expectation, lay like lead on my tongue – what did you say to the stranger who’d held you in her arms before anyone else in the world?

‘Milk?’ she yelled from the kitchen. ‘Honey?’

I swallowed. ‘No, thank you.’

Rosalind returned to the living room the next moment, a steaming teapot in one hand, two mugs in the other, a look of cautious apology in her eyes. They were nothing like mine, those eyes – I couldn’t help but notice. Her nose, though … Vaguely familiar, perhaps. The colour of her hair. Those thin wrists. My gaze had become a scavenger, hunting for clues – for certainty, for facts that could not be masked or twisted by lies.

‘So,’ she said, voice tired. ‘Apologies, first of all. Not how I was planning to tell you – I got a little carried away. Bastards.’