“This is only two weeks away.”
“Can we see this seamstress tomorrow?”
“If it doesn’t snow.” He fervently hoped it would not be snowing on Samedi.
In the end, Vaelora wore the pale gray blouse with a rose scarf, conceding that it was “acceptable.”
Quaeryt thought she looked far more than acceptable as they left their quarters.
The governor’s apartments-those formerly belonging to the Khanar-were also on the third level of the palace, but to get there, Quaeryt and Vaelora had to descend to the second level, using the staircase on the east side of the second-level gallery, then walk to the west end of the palace, where a separate staircase, which could be closed off by two sets of iron doors, if decorated and gilded, afforded the only entry.
A single ranker stood by the staircase doors. “Good evening, sir, madame. The governor is expecting you.” He gave two quick jerks to a bell-pull.
By the time Vaelora and Quaeryt reached the top of the pale gray marble steps, covered largely by a green carpet runner, Straesyr was waiting.
“Greetings! We’ll join Emra in the private sitting room.” The governor smiled cheerfully. “The salon would be overly spacious for the four of us. Also, it would take a great deal of wood or coal to heat it to be comfortable.”
If the private sitting room happened to be the smaller chamber, Quaeryt definitely understood what Straesyr meant, because the sitting room was larger than his official study as princeps.
“Do join me,” offered Emra, rising from where she had been sitting.
Quaeryt was still struck by the fact that Emra’s hair was a striking silver-gray, in contrast to her husband’s largely blond thatch.
The four of them settled into leather upholstered armchairs set in a semicircle around a low table, placed in turn before a ceramic stove that radiated a comfortable heat.
“Hot mulled wine … or red or white?” asked the governor.
“The mulled, please,” rejoined Vaelora immediately.
Straesyr left the sitting room briefly, then returned and reseated himself. Shortly, a ranker in uniform appeared with a tray on which were four mugs from each of which rose thin wisps of steam. Vaelora took her mug and immediately clasped her hands around it. Quaeryt took a small sip and almost burned his mouth. He set the mug on the table.
“I spend much of my time here,” said Emra. “It’s the most comfortable chamber. Would you believe that the master bedchamber doesn’t have a stove-just a fireplace that you have to keep fired up all the time if you want to keep the chill out?”
“It’s not quite that bad,” murmured Straesyr.
Emra raised a single eyebrow, but said nothing.
“The most comfortable room we have,” offered Quaeryt, “is the private dining chamber. The fireplace in the bedchamber smokes so much that we ended up sealing it up. Temporarily, with some timbers and rags, behind a most ornate-and useless-fire screen.”
“That works for you two. You’re young and newly wed,” replied Emra.
“How long before we stop getting snow?” asked Quaeryt, looking to Straesyr.
“Never,” said Emra quickly.
“It should start tapering off in the next week or so, but we’ve had snow as late as in Avryl, and once even in Mayas.”
“Like I said,” added Emra, “never.” Abruptly, she smiled. “I do tend to give Straesyr a great deal of grief about the chill, but I do prefer it to the heat of someplace like Thuyl. That’s where I grew up, you know. Solis is dry and cool compared to Thuyl.”
Quaeryt let himself wince.
“It’s worse than that,” Emra continued as she took in his expression. “I never worried about where we were posted because I knew it would be better than where I grew up.”
“What is your family like?” asked Vaelora quickly, still cupping her hands around the warm mug of wine.
“I suppose they’re still there, but they aren’t the kind to write. They could certainly afford the silvers for it.”
“They’re into cotton factoring,” added Straesyr. “They used to own all the warehouses in the delta. Emra married me against their wishes.” He looked to Vaelora.
“It wasn’t quite against my brother’s wishes,” she replied. “I just refused to marry anyone else.”
“She didn’t bother to inform me, either,” Quaeryt said dryly, before his voice warmed. “It was, shall we say, the greatest Year-Turn gift I’ve ever received … or ever expect to.”
“You’re very fortunate he understands that, dear,” said Emra.
“I am indeed … and for other graces that he possesses.”
“Were we ever like that?” Emra looked to Straesyr.
“In our own way, yes.”
“I suppose we were. Time does pass…” Emra paused. “I did persuade the kitchen to provide us with specially roasted game fowl. I do hope you like game fowl.…”
“Indeed,” said Quaeryt, almost simultaneously with Vaelora’s “Of course.”
Their eyes met, momentarily, and they smiled.
Quaeryt understood both the warmth and the sadness in his wife’s brown eyes, and resolved to make the evening as cheerful as possible.
6
Quaeryt felt as though he might be exceeding the bounds of his office in using a squad to escort him and Vaelora to Tilbora early on Samedi morning … but the half-staff he had obtained as a replacement for the one lost in the last battle against the hill holders was scarcely adequate by itself against brigands, and explaining imaging would have also created problems and questions better left unraised. Besides, she was Bhayar’s sister, and had she not been married, or had she been married to someone else, and had she come to Tilbor, Straesyr certainly would have provided an escort.
Quaeryt was glad that the sun was out, and that there was no wind, so that the morning was almost pleasant, at least for winter in Tilbor. It was well before eighth glass, and both Artiema and Erion were still in the sky, although neither moon was close to being full, when they rode down the cold stone lane from the palace, with two rankers before them and the rest of the squad following, all of them riding far enough away from the couple so that they could talk privately-if they kept their voices low.
He turned in the saddle. “You were wonderful at dinner last night.”
“So were you.” She paused, then added, “It’s so sad. They love each other, but…”
“Even when they talk about the very same things, they’re not talking about the same things.”
“They know it, and he still loves her, and she still loves him.” Vaelora paused, and then looked straight at Quaeryt. “If I don’t understand … talk to me until I do.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
Quaeryt almost recoiled at the intensity behind those quietly spoken words. “I promise. I will. But you must do the same.”
“I already do.” She flashed a warm smile.
“I have a question. One I should have asked earlier.”
“Oh?”
“You take after your grandmere-”
“Yes, dearest.”
“I meant … about whether you see things as she did … visions?”
“I knew what you meant. I do … not often. She didn’t, either.”
