head bowed in meditation.
The Royal Palace borders the Seelie Grove to the east and south; opposite the palace the Boulevard Laurwelana runs the length of the grove's wall, its sidewalks glowing with high silver witchlights. Rising above the Boulevard are the town homes of Fae lords and the Aldermen of the prominent guilds, their wide windows overlooking the Seelie Grove and the palace beyond. It is the most exclusive street in the most exclusive city in all the known world.
During Midwinter, it is customary for the Forthel, the Guild of the Magi, to decorate Laurwelana with streamers of illusory fire and spiraling glamoured hawks that circle overhead and sing, in harmony, praises to Her Majesty Regina Titania. The Lady Anne watched them idly from her window three stories up, waiting for the mail. It was her daily ritual; she curled in the window seat of the parlor, watching the snow fall and waiting. She longed for the gaily-decorated invitations that no longer came, the letters from her friends at court that slowed to a trickle when Mauritane was arrested and stopped completely when he was sentenced to life at Crete Sulace. It was as though she had vanished; it was as though she'd become a ghost haunting her own home, invisible to the outside world.
Though no one came to call on her, she was dressed and glamoured for visitors, her hair delicately balanced in a fashionable scooped bun, her makeup and jewelry perfect. Though there was no one but her to drink it, she had the servants prepare tea in the kitchen every afternoon at teatime. The furniture in the parlor was dusted and polished to a shine, the pillows plumped and fluffed, the flowers arranged artfully in crystal vases throughout the room. When night fell, the servants would pour the tea down the drain, drape the tote-a-tete in its silk cover, and throw the flowers in the trash. It had become almost normal, happening as it had every day for the past two years, without exception. Almost.
The postman appeared on the street walking from the south as he always did, his bag stuffed with tiny parcels and brightly colored envelopes, his cloak pulled tight against the cold. He entered the first building on the block, number fourteen, and disappeared from her sight.
She sighed and thought of her husband. If the postman brought a letter, it would no doubt be one of his. They were all the same, written in his tightly scripted hand on cheap paper borrowed from the prison office, filled with awkward, distant affirmations of love and hope. She had stopped reading them months ago; they only depressed her. When maid brought them to her on her silver tray, she simply picked them up between gloved thumb and forefinger and dropped them in the fire, watching them burn with a dim satisfaction.
The postman reappeared at the door of number fourteen, his bag only slightly less full. Despite herself, she eyed the bright envelopes he carried and felt a pang of desire that one of them might be hers. He checked his inventory, skipped number twelve altogether, and went for number ten instead.
How had things gone so wrong?
When her father had insisted that she marry a man whose only rank was military, she'd balked. Mauritane came to Nyfaesa to court her and she'd run away from home in the middle of the night, not knowing where she was going, only away. Mauritane had ridden after her on his white stallion, finding her at dawn at the edge of a stream, her feet in the water. It was a warm summer morning and it felt good standing there with him watching over her. She'd realized with a start that he was handsome, that he was not crude or base, and that he truly desired her company. In those days there had been a gentleness in his eyes, a smile that he carried with him wherever he went. She'd fallen in love with him then. After a fashion.
It was his marriage to her that catapulted him to the captaincy of the Royal Guard. Well liked and well regarded by the Queen's cabinet, he'd lacked only noble blood to bring him so high, and he'd found it in her. For a short time, things were happy for them. They'd moved here to Laurwelana, and Mauritane had presented her with the gift of a great mahogany fourposter bed. He'd carved it himself at his father's home in distant Nest Ce'Ana. They'd made love on the bed that night; it was the last time she remembered being happy.
When the Beleriand uprisings began, Mauritane was called away more and more often to lead peacekeeping forays into the Western Valley. Mauritane called them 'buggane hunts,' scowling every time the Seelie Army asked him to provide troops and weapons to assist in the fighting.
'These people have done nothing wrong,' he said, again and again. 'They wish only to be left alone.'
She responded the only way a lady could, by making a joke and scolding him for bringing his work home with him. The first time he laughed with her, shaking his head and holding her tight. The second time he laughed at her, then asked her to be serious. He stopped laughing after that. With each mission he grew more distant, and for the six months leading up to his arrest, they hardly spoke at all. He came in late, if at all, and spent his suppers poring over charts and ship manifests and all sorts of dreary things. The Lady Anne was not accustomed to being ignored, and she let him know in no uncertain terms over a late dinner that had grown cold in his absence. Her mother had told her years before that men need to be whipped sometimes, like horses, and that afterward they would show respect, however fleeting. But mother's advice did not apply to Mauritane. He simply stopped coming home at night, sleeping instead on a cot in his palace office.
Then everything had gone wrong. He killed the other officer, the son of some powerful and well-connected lord. The crown had spared no time, nor any of the Lady Anne's dignity, in bringing Mauritane down. The trial had been long, sensational, and worst of all, public. She'd hidden from it all as much as she'd been able. She shuddered now to think of those days.
The postman appeared again and walked to the door of the Lady Anne's building, passing beneath the veranda. A few seconds later, she heard the bell ring downstairs. Like it did each time the postman rang, Anne's heart leapt into her throat. It was best not to hope, because hope only bred disappointment. This would be another of her husband's letters, and she would drop it in the fire like all the others. Perhaps she would tear this one up first. Yes, that would be the thing for it.
Maid entered, carrying the silver tray. Anne blinked and looked again. Could she be imagining things?
No, it was no illusion. Resting there on the silver tray was a bright blue party invitation, handmade paper folded in the shape of a swan, perfectly preserved by the postman, who'd no doubt been bribed heavily to keep these works of art intact. With trembling fingers she reached for the invitation and snatched it off the tray as though it might disappear if she were not quick enough.
She unfolded the swan gently, careful not to rip the paper or dislodge one of the bright ribbons affixed to its wings. The invitation fell neatly into a flat shape and, somehow, the unfolded paper was still swan shaped.
She read aloud. 'The presence of the honorable Lady Anne is requested at the homecoming fete of a commander returned home from the far northeast. The gracious lady shall be serenaded by musicians and delighted by glamourists from parts east. The location shall be the city home of Commander Purane-Es, of Her Majesty's Royal Guard. The date shall be Third Stag. Dress and glamour shall be formal.'
An answer to a prayer. She read it to herself three more times.
Who, though, was this Purane-Es? The name sounded familiar. Perhaps he was an old friend of her father's? Yes, that was it. The gala had been arranged as her reintroduction to Fae society, signaling her return to life at court and the end of her mourning and exile. It was everything she could have hoped for.
The Lady Anne held the invitation to her breast, caressing it beneath her fingers.
'Maid,' she said, biting down a smile. 'Have driver make ready my carriage. I'm going to need a new dress and a fresh glamour. And bring my stationery at once; I must write my reply!'
Chapter 12
After nearly another full day of riding, the River Ebe gave itself up to them and began to grow nearer. The road wound down a broad slope and terminated at an abandoned ferry landing, its icebound wooden struts overgrown with brown, dead weeds. Another half hour's ride would bring them there, giving them a few hours of daylight beyond.
Mauritane cautioned them about riding across the river. 'These shoes are designed for footing on rock and snow, not ice. When we cross the river, ride no faster than a trot if you value your neck. I'll take the lead and let
