Thoughts of scars and murders gave way to the working of Leonhardt’s pondering. He was there—they were both there, Rillion and Father. They saw the seven and the demon and never mentioned anything! Another revelation struck her, cold as the ice outside the windows: opaque, white, reaching high above her head. Why doesn’t the story ever mention them? And why were members of the Temple Guard so far from the Saint? Where was the Cross? Surely they would have been sent. Out of instinct, she turned to Trey for answers. He’d been the only one to warn her what life would be like as the saint’s sworn sword. She could trust no one else. So she sat shivering next to him, waiting for the chance to snatch his attention from his aunt when she felt a finger swipe the nape of her neck.
“Ooh, Gooseflesh. Still not used to the cold, are you? So it must be true. They really do suck out your northern blood in the capital.”
Jael twisted on the bench and spoke over her shoulder, her body facing Trey, smiling for the sake of politeness. “It’s warmer here than home was in Herbstfield, with all these fires going. I’m just used to more clothes.”
Sofiya Stoltz looked her up and down. “Wool and linen, yes I know. You’ve been telling me all evening. What I want to know is if you feel any differently about your gown?”
This again, thought Leonhardt. The duchess’s daughter would not leave it alone. The dress had been of Sofiya’s design, after all, a variation of the matching black and gold gowns that adorned she and her mother. Theirs were gold satin slashed with layers of black underneath, at the breast and bottom center gold-thread lions embroidered rearing there and on the inside of shoulderless sleeves where they flared, forearm to wrist. They fit beautifully the blonde, fair, emerald eyed Ladies Stoltz, identical but for age their heart-shaped faces, rosy cheeks, lips, and noses. Of course, Jael’s was just as gorgeous—where gold was crimson and black was gold; and her own rearing lions bore the cross in their mouths—a courteous touch. Wasted, she thought, and said as much to Sofiya. “The gown is wonderful, but no matter the barding, a horse is still a horse.”
“Come again, sirrah?” cut a lady’s voice. Leonhardt’s neck uncoiled, as did every head at the high table turn toward the duchess—everyone, save for her husband and nephew who smiled politely into their laps. Lady Ariel didn’t seem to notice them, nor did she seem to notice anyone as she spoke, peering down her upturned nose. The force was enough to unhorse a knight from his charger. “I could have sworn I heard you disparaging our mounts.”
“Mounts?” Jael echoed.
Sofiya hid behind her hands. “Not in front of everyone. Mother, please.”
“Horses,” the duchess continued, “and don’t you dare try playing the fool. A northern lady should know better. To suggest a Blundanburgh destrier or an East Aestas courser could be anything but beautiful is a sin against your own blood.”
“But I only meant that—that even in this dress, I’m not—” Leonhardt started.
The duchess cut her off, “So it’s the gown that’s the problem? The best couturier north of the capital isn’t good enough for Little Red Cloak, I see. Forget my husband’s liberal whinging. My nephew has spoiled you.”
Jael stared agape like a statue of clay: her inner-self hollowed, embodied in Sofiya shrinking pink-faced behind her; her voice a reverberation of the strange epithet, “Red Cloak?”
“Little Red Cloak,” Trey explained, “The original is meant to be your father. I’d forgotten that old grudge. Would have thought it had died with Lord Gildmane and his sons, but it seems it’s haunts these halls like a ghost.”
Lady Ariel drained her goblet, and the rest at the table did the same. “God save me,” she started. Askew in her seat, she leaned to face her nephew. “The only ghost around here is you, Gildmane. That tongue of yours is just like your mother’s. It’s bound to bring trouble. It always has.”
Trey grinned sidelong, “I’m counting on it.” Leonhardt felt his arm serpentine her waist, pull her closer on the bench. “And please, tell my squire you were only playing. I don’t want her to think she’s earned your distaste.”
“No, it’s quite alright,” Jael replied. “I’ll take the title gladly. It’s after my father, after all.”
The corners of the duchess’s mouth sagged, and her smooth cheeks became aged jowls. Wrinkles formed on her high forehead, and the lines about her eyes grew dark and deepened. “Not if you knew,” she muttered, hardly louder than a whisper.
Knew what? wondered Leonhardt, but such a question was too imprudent to ask. So instead she responded, “Oh, no, you flatter me, my lady. It’s a squire’s highest honour to be compared with such a legendary knight—and to receive such a lovely gown…” She swallowed the memories mounding in her throat. “I always wanted one when I was a girl, but—”
“But instead you were confined to iron clothes, like a prisoner in your own home?” Ariel’s eyes bored under the squire’s skin, a pair of green, gleaming beetles. “No? Perhaps a captive
