“You don’t know that,” Lin had said. “She might be interesting, the Princess.”
“She’s from Sarthe. They’re all dull, or dishonest, or both,” Zofia had said firmly, and her opinion seemed shared by the general populace. Some of Lin’s patients had complained that the marriage would give Sarthe too firm a toehold in Castellane; that they would take advantage of access to the harbor, that they would insist everyone take up their fashions and wear uncomfortable hats.
Lin had listened, and nodded absently, and thought of the Prince. You should not feel sorry for me, you know. Feel sorry for the one who has to marry me.
And she did feel sorry, a little, for Princess Aimada d’Eon. But she felt more sorry for Conor Aurelian, which was uncomfortable, to say the least. She had always thought she would not feel sorry for him if he fell down a well and got stuck there, and now, here she was, feeling a regretful twinge every time she thought of him, which was too often.
She had heard not a word from the Palace since the morning when Kel had woken her and they had both seen Prince Conor whole and unscarred. Kel had sent a note a few days later thanking her, and a book about Sunderglass that she was reading now. He had told her that Queen Lilibet had been pleased with her handiwork and that Prince Conor was healing as might be expected.
This, she knew, was a bit of code. Lin had waited anxiously to see if either Mayesh or Andreyen would mention Conor’s miraculous healing to her. When neither did, she had been forced to admit that it seemed their plan had worked: The few who knew the Prince had been whipped at all did not know he had recovered from the effects overnight. And as the days went by since that strangest of events, she began to feel more and more as if that night had been cut out of the unbroken line of the rest of her days. It lay somehow beside or athwart them, as if they were memories from someone else’s life that she was somehow able to examine.
It seemed almost impossible to her that she now shared a secret with the Crown Prince and his Sword Catcher that no one but the three of them knew. Mari was aware Lin had been summoned to the Palace, of course, as was Chana, but Lin had said that it was only to treat a servant’s burned hand, and if Mariam did not believe her, she did not show it. She had not told a soul of the whipping, of the strangeness of that whole night. Listening to the Prince talk, telling him secrets of her own, even touching him—as a healer, of course, but still, with gestures of startling intimacy—that she had brushed her thumb across his mouth . . .
She caught her breath at the memory, just as Merren looked up: The Ragpicker King had come into the room. He really did move with a catlike silence, as if the soles of his shoes were padded. Lin had begun to get used to him gliding about the Black Mansion, often coming in and out of the workroom to see what she and Merren were doing. He never badgered them about it—he seemed more interested in simply satisfying his curiosity than seeking results of any particular sort.
He looked rather haggard today, however, his face white and strained between his black curtain of hair and the starker blackness of his jacket. （As always, the same: black frock coat, narrow black trousers, gleaming onyx boots.） He was followed by Ji-An, who was tugging on a pale flower petal that had become snagged in her hair. She hopped up on the stool beside Lin’s. “I saw our mutual friend in the square today.”
Merren glanced up. “Kel?”
Ji-An twisted around to look at him. “Yes, and half the Charter Families, and of course, the Aurelians. All there to welcome the Sarthian Princess who will be Castellane’s next queen.”
Ji-An was grinning like someone who knew a secret. Lin said, “Ji-An, did something happen?”
“Another loveless marriage between heartless monarchists consolidating power,” said Merren cheerfully. “Was she pretty, at least? The populace will respond better to this whole mess if they’re assured of a glamorous queen.”
Lin braced herself. There was some part of her that did not want to hear how beautiful Aimada d’Eon was, how alluring, how elegant—
“She’s a child,” said Ji-An, with glee.
Merren looked puzzled. “The Prince agreed to marry a child?”
“He agreed to marry a Princess of Sarthe,” said Andreyen. “Who was, it seemed all agreed, to be Aimada. But—”
“But it wasn’t her,” interrupted Ji-An. “They sent her younger sister instead. All of eleven or twelve years old. The looks on their faces—the noble families, the Aurelians—was priceless.”
Lin reached into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the stone in its setting. She had found that holding the cool, heavy weight in her hand was soothing. “The Prince,” she said. “What did he do?”
“The only thing he could,” said Ji-An. “Went along with it. But he stood there stiff as a plank for ages first. Kel had to shake him out of it. Then he behaved himself well enough.”
“Clever Kel,” Andreyen murmured. “That was, indeed, the only thing that could be done. An interesting move from Sarthe. Whether they will do more to signal their fury remains to be seen.”
“Rather hard on the Prince.” Merren frowned. “That heartless monarchial bastard,” he added.
“My grandfather,” Lin said, slowly. “He was there, wasn’t he?”
“The Counselor?” said Ji-An. “Yes, indeed. Didn’t look too pleased, either. I imagine the Palace has quite a day of diplomatic antics ahead of it.”
“They’ll manage something. They always do,” Merren said, lifting his pipette out of the dark liquid. He eyed it a moment before licking it thoughtfully.
“Merren,” shrieked Ji-An. “What are you doing?”
He looked up, blue eyes wide. “What? It’s chocolate,” he said. “I was hungry.” He held the pipette out. “Would you like to try it?”
“Certainly not,” said Andreyen. “It smells of wet weeds.” He frowned. “Lin. Walk with me. I wish to speak to you.”
Both Merren and Ji-An watched curiously as Lin, trying to hide her surprise at being summoned—because it was a summons, however politely phrased—rose to confer with the Ragpicker King.
He waited for them to be out of earshot of the workroom before he spoke. Lin listened to the hushed thump of his cane on the Marakandi rugs as they walked. She found it soothing.
“There are murmurs that someone else in Castellane is searching for the Qasmuna book,” he said. “With great dedication, I hear.”
“Just now?” Lin said. “Since I’ve started looking for it?”
He nodded. “Rumor has it they’re offering a pretty penny.”
“I’m sorry,” Lin said. “If I’ve been looking for it too clumsily, if I’ve stirred up interest that shouldn’t have been stirred up—”
“Not at all.” Andreyen dismissed her concerns with a gesture. “In my experience, it is often useful to stir things up. Perhaps whoever is looking for the book currently has been made nervous by hearing about your search. Perhaps these nerves will lead them to reveal themselves or what they know.”
The smile he fashioned filled Lin with relief that she was not on the Ragpicker King’s bad side, or standing between him and what he wanted.