'Consider it, that's all,' he said. 'I must go. Your brother, Lord Jorani, and I are going to discuss how to deal with the outlaws near the Sundell border.
Shall we walk back?'
'No, I'd like to stay here for a little while. The calm helps me think.'
Ilsabet was astonished at how sweetly she could smile when all she felt was triumph. She paced along the riverbank, considering the implications: Had he actually suggested that they marry? She'd wanted him to feel some passion for her, for lust would blind him to the truth of what she'd done. But marriage?
Mihael had thought of it. She'd seen Jorani standing on the edge of the crowd. He'd considered it as well. The idea had struck her as ludicrous until now.
She had kissed his feet. She could as easily kiss his lips. As for the other, well he might have her body but never her soul. And when the time was right, when Mihael had stopped his constant tasting of Peto's food, she would act, and he would die. Mihael would rule Kislova. She would rule Sundell in the name of Peto's heir.
In the meantime, she would learn everything she needed to know. Whatever poison she chose would be slow, painful, perfect for revenge. She looked across the cold, placid water toward the forest.
Kislova. Obour lands once; Obour lands again.
Though she did not intend to do so, she raised her eyes toward the hilltop and Marishka's tomb. She could not see it from this angle but sensed her sister's presence there, and was thankful that no figure in white and no silver wolf stood there to reproach her.
She stared at the land a few moments longer, then turned and walked quickly to her castle, her room.
As she opened the door, she saw Greta standing in front of her cupboard, Janosk's bloodstained garments in her hand.
FIFTEEN
'What are you doing?' Ilsabet demanded.
Greta whirled. 'I heard something rustling in the cupboard. I thought it might be a rat, and considering what happened before, I looked.' She held out the stained fabric and showed Ilsabet the ragged hole in it. 'There was a rat. It was gnawing on this.'
The poisoned kerchief fell from inside the folded fabric. As it hit the ground it opened. 'What is this?' Greta asked, bending down to pick it up.
'No! Leave it alone!' Ilsabet cried.
With her hand almost brushing the lace hem, Greta looked up at Ilsabet and saw the fear in her expression. She glanced down at the tarry ball in the kerchief, then pulled herself upright.
Ilsabet expected to be questioned, interrogated as if she were Greta's child. Instead Greta said nothing and looked away.
She couldn't possibly know what the substance was, Ilsabet decided. But she must have heard the rumors of why Ilsabet had been sent to Argentine, and like every servant in Nimbus Castle, she knew what skills Jorani could teach.
Ilsabet took a deep breath and steeled herself for what must be done. She picked up the kerchief by the lace hem, set it on the table and began, 'Have you noticed a change in me, Greta?'
The woman looked at her, frowned, nodded. 'You've become so beautiful,' she said. 'Not that you weren't beautiful to me before, but now there is an added quality. The whole castle speaks of it and how Baron Peto cannot keep his eyes off you.' She spoke quickly, as if the compliments could somehow make Ilsabet forget what she had discovered.
'At Argentine, I spent much of my time in Lord Jorani's library reading the books and journals of his work. One of them contained the recipe for this ugly mass. If you take a small bit of it and swallow it, it spreads through your body, taking plain features such as mine and making them beautiful. In older people, it takes away the signs of age. I talked to Rilca the cook about that. Do you know her?'
'I met her once when we traveled to Argentine, but that was years ago.'
'Do you know that she looks younger than when you or I saw her last?'
'She must be nearing seventy,' Greta said, staring at her mistresses face. Greta believed Ilsabet if only because of what her own two eyes had revealed.
'And looks a decade younger,' Ilsabet went on. 'She says she may even wed again for the fifth time.'
'I see.' Greta glanced at the kerchief, thinking no doubt of her own suitor, and how she had never been married even once.
'On her deathbed, Marishka asked me to wed Baron Peto,' Ilsabet went on. 'Such an alliance would be for the good of our people. But he had never looked me with any interest, so I used what I learned. It succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.
'You must promise to tell no one,' she continued. 'I would not want Peto to hear any rumors about how I caught his eye. He has a temper. I'd prefer he not have reason to lose it.'
'I understand,' Greta said. 'I won't say a word.'
She watched carefully as Ilsabet wrapped the kerchief around the tarry mass.
Ilsabet settled for the truth about the clothes. 'After Father was killed, I took this to remember how he died, and how I hated those who killed him. Now I keep it because his scent is on it-his blood, his body. I loved him and I will not give it up.'
'If anyone found it, they might not understand why you chose such a memento,' Greta replied evenly.
'Do you?'
Greta hesitated, then nodded. 'But you should protect it better if you wish to keep it,' Greta said. 'I saw a beautiful carved wooden box for sale last time I visited Pirie. It has a lock and key to keep your treasure safe from prying eyes as well as vermin. Perhaps you'd like me to buy it for you?'
'I'm so glad you understand.' Ilsabet hugged her, then took the clothing, folded it carefully around the kerchief, and returned them both to their hiding place.
'Should I go?' Greta asked.
'Not yet. Come and unhook this gown. It's getting so much warmer in the afternoon, I want to put on something lighter.' When Greta had, Ilsabet pushed it to the floor and stepped out of it. She sat at her dressing table and unpinned her hair. It fell in a silky mass over her bare shoulders and the ivory lace chemise. Greta picked up a silver hairbrush and began running it through Ilsabet's hair, watching her face in the mirror all the while.
Ilsabet noted the way Greta looked at her eyes, her lips, her skin, and she knew the old woman accepted her story completely. 'The peach-color gown has a looser cut. It would be cooler,' Greta suggested when she'd finished.
'Not yet,' Ilsabet said. 'I think I'll lie down until dinner.'
'Then I'll leave you.' Greta retreated, looking pleased to be dismissed.
Perhaps the story Ilsabet had invented would keep Greta quiet, but only for a while. How long before she spoke of this? How long before Jorani and Peto heard the gossip and came to question her? She knew of no potion or electuary that would do what she told Greta the black nettle tar would do. And she could think of no lie to explain the one she'd already told.
If she wished to ever have her vengeance, to ever sit in the ruler's chair of Kislova or even live to see another spring, she had to act quickly. And she was thankful: acting quickly would keep her from brooding on what she had to do. Moments later, she wrapped a black robe around her body and disappeared into the secret passage leading to Jorani's hidden room.
She used a single cased candle to light her way. Rats scurried through the tunnel, fleeing the light. One moved too slowly, and she kicked it away, pleased to hear its pained squeal. Once she reached the hidden chamber, Ilsabet went directly to the hanging glass globe that held Jorani's precious spider.
At first it seemed Jorani had been ignoring the creature. It was curled into a tight gray ball in the center of its cloudlike web. When Ilsabet moved too close to it, it uncurled and charged her, its gray-and-white legs beating against the glass.
