One of the sages leaned over and whispered something to Henrik, and Penryn could feel his eyes on her. She looked purposefully elsewhere, not wishing to hold his attention any longer than necessary.
But she felt a knot of dread when he stood, and it grew even worse when it became obvious he was approaching her.
Had he seen?
Panic fluttered, urging her to rise, to run, to avoid a confrontation she was not prepared to have, but there was nowhere to go. Not yet. So she forced herself to stillness as he approached, coming and leaning over her, his voice low. “The food is not to your liking?” he asked, his voice low, and to her surprise, concerned.
She released a ragged breath, and she had to work on her composure lest she make it even more obvious that something was amiss. She did not know how to answer him, not in a way that would also be in keeping with the faultless, flawless figure that was more myth than woman. So perhaps it was better to allow him to feel he had extracted a confession, allow him to feel she had confided in him.
The better to hide what was far more important.
“I am nervous,” she confided, glancing at him with a small smile. “It makes it difficult to eat.” Again, that look that suggested if she was anyone else, she would have received a comforting pat and a friendly word. That, at least, Henrik seemed determined to offer even if his station did not permit it.
“There is no need to be,” he soothed with a nod of his head. “Everyone is so grateful for your cooperation, and they wish only to thank you. You will not find dissenters here today, so try to be at ease and enjoy yourself as much as possible.”
She tried to smile, but she feared it came as more of a wince. It did not escape her that he did not claim there were no dissenters at all, only that they would not be at the celebration. Was that a mounting problem for his people? Did people tire of the traditions, the half-truths, a history crafted into their very walls but that had slipped from memory to fable?
That was not her worry to carry.
It was Henrik’s.
And for a moment, she pitied him for it. Her task was simple, if burdensome. His was ongoing, a daily toil to ensure that all believed just enough to carry it to the subsequent generation.
“I will do my best,” she informed him when he did not appear satisfied with her failed attempt at a placating look, and he gave another nod.
“Good. If you have need of anything,” he glanced to where Respie was meant to have been stationed, and looked down the line to her see her settled with her family.
“I sent her,” Penryn cut in quickly, lest he think Respie had been derelict in her duties. “Everyone else was with their kin, and it seemed—” she stopped short of saying cruel, but struggled to find a proper supplement. “I did not have need of her, truly,” she said instead.
Henrik glanced back to Penryn, his expression thoughtful. “You are a compassionate soul,” he mused, more himself than to her. “I do not know who I expected to come, but it was not you.” He gave a quick bow before returning to his brethren, leaving Penryn to wonder at his words. Had it been intended as a compliment? She could not be certain, but she was not certain that a capacity for compassion was ever truly an insult.
Her hands were near to shaking, and she picked up another crumb of bread and ate it, waiting for some rebellion in her stomach but found none. This was her final task for these people, to accept their thanks and appear to enjoy their company, and she had done a poor job thus far. Another bite, another sip of the wine, and when another approached her table, she was able to smile and nod to them as was expected of her.
And her anticipation grew when the day drew on, long shadows coming and covering the celebration in a sudden chill. Women came to mother over their children, bringing brightly coloured shawls to wrap about slim shoulders, tutting and fussing and wondering if it would be better simply to return home. Babies were hardly seen at all, so wrapped up in their blankets as they were held close. Yet still, the dancing wore on.
It would go late into the night, Penryn was sure. Some would begin to take turns, even the musicians beginning to bring in new players as others gave out from the strain upon their fingers.
The torches gave an eerie glow as dusk came. Most seemed to have forgotten she was there at all, and that suited her well enough. She found herself paying little attention to the festivities, too preoccupied in seeing if she could catch a glimpse of Grimult, yet she did not succeed.
She told herself that was for the best, that if she could not find him, then none else would either. But the trickles of doubt insisted that she had imagined the entire encounter, that her desperation to not be alone had concocted such a fantasy because she could not bear the truth.
She bit her lip, looking desperately toward Henrik. She wanted to leave but did not know how to prompt such an occurrence without causing great offence. He had told her to enjoy herself but she had not quite decided how to do so. Would others before her have ventured out, mingling with the common-folk, learning
