Arjuro’s beard.’
She laughed. ‘Fool.’
He kissed her dimpled chin. ‘Let’s not worry about having to explain the past. If the palace does the right thing by the people, they won’t care who our children resemble.’
‘It’s still a worry, isn’t it? All this talk about balance of power and neutral consorts and neutral regents and there’s nothing neutral about this household at all.’
‘Everything’s a worry if you let it be, Quintana.’
‘But what will you do today when the Nebian Ambassador’s wife asks you if her garden is better than Lirah’s? Will you choose hers over your mother’s?’
He was trying not to think of that.
‘How did I get to be the judge?’ he asked, suddenly worried.
‘Your Lord August was speaking to the Nebian Ambassador’s wife about your skills in the garden when he was here and one thing led to the other.’
The cry sounded from Tariq’s chamber.
‘I’ll go,’ Froi said. ‘He may shine light on the matter.’
‘He’d choose Lirah.’
* * * Froi stepped out into the cold morning air with Tariq in his arms. Gargarin was already on the balconette beside theirs and the palace was beginning to stir.
‘My lord,’ Froi heard Dorcas call out from the battlement above.
‘Yes, Dorcas.’
‘You’re going to have to cover his head. He’ll catch a chill. Fekra made him a cap.’
‘Thank you, Dorcas.’
Gargarin laughed softly.
Quintana joined Froi soon after, placing a thick woollen cap on Tariq’s head and then she took him and wrapped him in a blanket against her, murmuring to their son. Sometimes when she spoke to Tariq she sounded like the Reginita.
‘Good morning, Gargarin,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Quintana.’
She looked above to the battlements. ‘Good morning, Dorcas,’ she called out.
‘Good morning, Your Highness.’
‘Good morning, Fekra. The little King loves his cap.’
‘Good to hear, Your Highness.’
Froi wrapped all three of them in his fleece and they watched Lirah and Arjuro step onto the balconette across the gravina. Today Rafuel was there, leaning on them both. But he was standing and that was enough for now.
Little steps led to big achievements, the Priestking would always say, and sometimes Froi had to remind himself of that. The days here were long and full of work to be done and worries to be had. Today, no less than any other. There were talks with Osterians about a cotton crop, and arranging with Perabo and Hamlyn about the arrival of Serker horses from Lumatere, and the first planting of maize across the bridge, and helping Scarpo train the riders, and scribing for Gargarin’s well project, and Provincari demands, and merchants to be placated. And of course, the impending births. They frightened and thrilled people at the same time. And then soon they would take Tariq into Charyn’s provinces. Quintana wanted to meet the men and women who had lost their babes on the day of weeping. She wanted to introduce Tariq to them because she believed he would bring the living some sort of peace. They would also visit Serker. After months and months, Lirah had recorded as many of the names found in the journals Perabo gave her that night in her province as she could. Arjuro had promised to sing those names home.
‘Why are you smiling?’ Gargarin asked Froi, from across the balconette. ‘When you’re going to have to learn a lesson in diplomacy today and choose between the gardens of two women?’
Froi laughed, his chin resting on Quintana’s head, his eyes taking in the joy of their son, despite the ridiculous cap that covered the babe’s eyes. He looked across at Lirah and Arjuro and Rafuel, and then back to Gargarin who was smiling himself, because he knew the answer to his own question.
‘Because today, I think I’m leaning on the side of wonder.’
Firstly, a big thank you to my readership for the passion you’ve shown for this trilogy. I may not respond to all the letters, but I read every one of them and your words become part of the space I work in.
Thank you to my editor Amy Thomas and my publisher Laura Harris and designer Marina Messiha, and my US editor Deb Wayshak at Candlewick. Also to my agents Sophie Hamley, Jill Grinberg, Cheryl Pientka and Jennifer Naughton.
For everyone who has been in my creative world in some shape or form during the past year or so, especially Cathy Randall, Joanna Werner, Samantha Strauss and Sue Taylor.
For Kristin Cashore, who is as enthused about catacombs and underground cities and medieval ruins in Italy as I am. Thank you to Olivia Stewart for your warm hospitality in the Roman hills.
Thanks Kirsty Eagar for the late-night telephone angst. Much appreciation to Anthony Catanzariti and Barbara Barclay for feedback on the manuscript. And thanks to Anna, Barbara, Brenda, Janet, Liz, Maria, Pelissa and Philippa, who I’d take into the cave with me.
