“Kania?” she croaked. “Have they said anything about Kania?” She snatched up her cloak and grabbed Bonedog’s leash. It’s not as if they’d send out criers if they weren’t sure. The babe must be expected to live. But Kania—how is Kania? How is my sister?
They were halfway down the corridor when the innkeeper stepped in front of Marra. She gestured to the outside and rasped, “Have you heard? The queen … the queen—” Her eyes were wide with delight. The puppet on her shoulder chattered its jaw and glared. “A boy, they say. A b—” The puppet decided that this was enough words and yanked the cord. Miss Margaret hung her head, but her eyes still danced.
“We heard,” said Marra. “Going to get more details.”
“It’s so exciting!” bubbled Agnes. “A royal baby!”
Miss Margaret got her finger under the puppet’s leash and pulled a little slack. “And after … after the last…” She beamed.
Marra considered screaming but settled for turning sideways to pass the innkeeper and her rider.
“Relax,” said Agnes, as they emerged into the alley. “It’s normal. Gossip about the royal family is the only real benefit to having one. You have to let people enjoy it.”
“They’re gossiping about my sister,” grated Marra. “And my niece. My dead niece.”
“Who is also my great-great-niece,” said Agnes calmly. “But it doesn’t feel that way to them. And if you go around listening to this news with a face like thunder, people will think you’re not happy, and that will seem suspicious.”
Marra took a deep breath. That much, at least, was true. She schooled her expression to one of polite interest and followed Agnes through the alley, Bonedog tugging on the leash.
“This is hopeless,” said Marra, after ten minutes and as many stories. The queen was dead. The queen was alive but dying. The queen had died and her dying wish was that the prince take religious orders. The queen was alive but the baby was drinking her blood mixed with breast milk and would not survive. The queen was fine but tired. The baby was alive. The baby was dead. There were two babies. There was one baby. The queen had given birth to a school of fish.
At last, they found a crier in the market, surrounded by a crowd. The crier wore the livery of the palace and shouted, “Rejoice! Rejoice for the heir is born! The queen has borne an heir to the throne!”
“And the queen?” called Marra, jostling through the crowd. “How does the queen fare?”
“She has borne an heir,” bellowed the crier. “A son to take the Northern throne!” Scattered cheers erupted from the crowd.
“But is she alive? Is she well?” The crowd surged and Marra could not be certain that the crier had even heard her. He didn’t answer. She looked around at the crowd and saw only mouths, opening and closing, as if they were biting off pieces of her sister’s story and devouring it.
You have to let people enjoy it, Agnes had said. This did not feel like enjoyment. This felt wicked and terrible and strange.
She started to push forward again, but Agnes took her arm. “Let it lie,” the godmother said. “We’ll find out soon enough. There’s nothing we can do either way.”
“I can fret,” snapped Marra. “And I intend to!”
“And I won’t stop you.” Agnes patted her arm. “A good fret is balm for the soul. Just don’t overdo it.”
Marra ground her teeth. If I go to the palace and demand to see the queen … No, no, I can’t. My mother might be here, and if she’s here, she’ll see me. And this is all far too much to explain. She took a deep breath and let it out again. She walked back to the boardinghouse, with the woman who had a puppet at her throat and the girl sitting on the steps who missed more meals than she ate and who was crowing about babies that weren’t quite right.
You have to let people enjoy it.
This is not right. This is not fair.
And what is fair? Marra snarled to herself. How is it fair that you grew up and ate meat at every meal and were never expected to shovel a stable because your mother married a king? How is it fair that Vorling cannot be brought to justice? How is it fair that some women wear themselves out in bearing and others cannot have a child? How is it fair that Fenris can never go home again because he killed a terrible man? How is it fair that gods punish starving people in the blistered land?
Nothing is fair. Nothing is right.
She took a deep breath and stared at the wall, dry-eyed. Agnes touched her arm, concerned.