Beryl gave up all pretense of bravery now, picking up her skirts in her left hand and running down the passage, her right hand skimming the stones for bearing. The archway to the courtyard near the stables was open, and even though it was fully night, there was enough ambient light from the torches around the barracks for Beryl to reorient herself. She heard the laughter and conversation of the soldiers outside, but she didn’t pause to look through the doorway—in fact she ran faster past the opening, praying that she wouldn’t be seen.
Stone; wood. Stone; wood. Her fingertips read the corridor like a map. Here, the wall curved into emptiness to the right; to the left was her own passage. Stone, going on forever it seemed, and then, finally, wood again. Beryl threw herself against the door, fumbling with the latch until her trembling fingers could make it work, and then she was at last inside, gasping, her back against the door. She grasped blindly with her left hand, sliding the bolt into place.
The chamber was black, cold, silent. No one had come to lay her fire, as usual. And still she stood there for another pair of moments, giving her heart time to slow, listening to the darkness. She blew out a long, relieved breath, in control of herself once more, and then pushed herself away from the door, shaking off the weak feeling in her limbs.
It took her several moments to build a fire in the tiny alcove. It wouldn’t give off very much heat, but the chamber was small enough that it was sufficient. She lit a pair of candles and set one on the little wooden table near her shallow cot and the other in the long, narrow stone inset of what could laughably be referred to as a window. It had at one time been an arrow slit in the exterior side of Darlyrede House’s original curtain wall, whose wide, inner corridor had been made over into a wing of tiny servant cells many years ago. The opening was now covered over with a sheet of horn scraped thin and set in a wooden frame, and although it admitted little light, Beryl appreciated being able to open the small portal on nice days to let some of the chill out. It was far too small to ever admit a person. But…
The familiar, scalp-tingling scrape of claw on the bone glazing sounded in the next moment, and Beryl returned to the window, removing the candle and holding it aloft while turning the crude closure and swinging the frame inward. A slithering white stream poured itself through the opening and leaped gracefully to the floor.
“You nearly had me in the muck today.” Beryl quickly closed the window and replaced the candle. “How many times must I tell you to keep out of the kitchens?”
“Meow.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, looking regal, as always.
She crossed the floor and bent to frame his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. “It’s not as if I don’t feed you like a prince, Satin.”
He pulled out of her hands and stretched out his neck to sniff at the waist of her apron.
“Not even a proper hello. Oh, all right.” She took up the candle from her small table and moved to the foot of her bed, squatting to pry at the wooden panel that made up her wall. It came loose easily now, after so many times being removed. She slid it aside and reached into the blackness, finding at once the small, dinged metal dish she kept hidden.
Beryl placed the container on the stingy rug covering the stones and then rose up to fetch the pitcher of water on the table, pouring a little into the flat bowl. She unwrapped the stolen piece of cheese laid in pointless anticipation of a vanished girl’s repast and then squatted once more to the floor, placing the cheese near the bowl. The cat plopped to the floor gracefully and reseated himself, nibbling at once on the pale cheese.
Beryl left him to his meal while she replaced the pitcher and then returned to the secret compartment behind the paneling, reaching inside to retrieve the thick, square leather packet and then the smaller linen sack. She placed her belongings on the mattress and then returned the candle to the table before feeding the fire that was now crackling comfortingly. At last she was crawling upon the cot to rest her back against the wall.
She sighed, her hands in her lap for a moment, her gaze turned up to the low ceiling. Satin’s lapping at the water out of sight on the floor soothed her. The night had been a complete disaster, but at least here, she could be herself.
She pulled the heavy leather packet onto her lap and unwound the leather thong holding it closed. Once open, the day’s events began to recede into a more orderly fashion, the emotion of it falling away as she sifted through the pages gathered together inside the portfolio. Handwritten journals, calendars, sketches of chambers and wings of Darlyrede and other holds in the area of Northumberland, and even beyond.
She came to the most recent entry of her notes and then reached for the linen bag, removing her small pot of ink and pen. She sharpened the tip and opened the pot,
