“The Wellmother sent me to fetch you, Hanne,” said the novitiate. “Your father is here.”
Hanne’s whole body seemed to crumple like a flower wilting in a sudden frost. Nina had seen her scared, angry, but this was something new and unwelcome, as if all the fire that animated her had suddenly and abruptly banked.
Even Kori looked worried as she said, “Go on, then,” to Hanne.
Hanne closed her workbook and rose. Nina knew she shouldn’t, but as Hanne walked past, she grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. Hanne glanced at the Springmaiden, who was watching them with narrowed eyes, then squeezed back.
“It will be all right,” whispered Nina. “Adawe.” The first verb she’d taught Hanne. Fight.
Hanne’s spine straightened slightly. She released Nina’s hand, but the novitiate added, “He wishes to meet you too, Enke Jandersdat.”
Good. If Hanne’s father wanted to meet his daughter’s teacher, she would do her best to handle and pacify him. Maybe she could help Hanne weather this storm. She rose.
“Adawesi,” Hanne said, full lips quirking in a smile. We fight.
When they reached the chapel, the novitiate led them down a long hall, and Nina realized they were headed to the same office where she and Hanne had met with the Wellmother to discuss language classes.
The Wellmother waited at her desk, just as she had before, and a tall man of military bearing stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back. A thick red scar ran along the base of his pale skull. Nina felt something cold unfurl in her belly.
“Wellmother,” said Hanne, curtsying deeply. “Min fadder.”
Nina knew who it would be before he turned. But there was nothing she could do to stop the terror that seized her as she looked once more into Jarl Brum’s cold blue eyes.
The last time Nina had encountered Jarl Brum, he’d tried to imprison and enslave her. She’d been deep in the grips of her first and only dose of jurda parem when she’d faced him and his drüskelle in the Djerholm harbor. She’d wanted to murder him, and she could have with barely a thought. But Matthias had begged her to show mercy, and she had. She’d left Brum and his men alive, though in a last petty act, she’d torn the scalp from his head. Someone had apparently sewn it back on.
Nina sank into a low curtsy, training her eyes on the floor, trying to steal a moment to gather her wits and hide her fear. Get yourself together, Zenik, she ordered herself. Brum had seen through her clumsy disguise when she’d met him in the Ice Court, but now she’d been tailored by the master, Genya Safin. Her very bones and body had been altered, and she knew her command of the Fjerdan language was pristine. She remembered what she’d said to Hanne, that performance began in the body, and right now Nina needed to give the performance of her life. Instead of hiding her fear, she would use it. It was her loathing she needed to bury.
When she rose from her curtsy, she was not Nina Zenik; she was Mila Jandersdat, a girl whose livelihood might very well depend on the favor of Jarl Brum.
But Brum’s focus was on Hanne. His face softened when he looked at his daughter.
“Hanne,” he said, stepping forward and embracing her. “You’re looking … hearty.”
Hanne hunched a little more. “Thank you, Papa.”
“Your form would soften if you would leave off riding so much.”
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
He sighed. “I know you are.” His gaze shifted to Nina, who bowed her head and turned her eyes to the floor demurely. “And this is your new teacher? She’s young enough to be a student here.”
“She’s serving as a guide to the Zemeni tradesmen who arrived last week,” said Hanne.
“So the Wellmother tells me,” said Brum, stalking toward Nina. “A stranger arrives with two foreigners, and only days later the security at the factory is breached. An unlikely coincidence.”
Nina looked at him with what she hoped was bewildered dismay. Brum snatched the tip of her chin and tilted her face up.
Whoever had sewn the skin back onto his head had done so with considerable skill, but his golden hair was gone and there was no hiding the scar that circled his skull like the fat pink tail of a rat. A Grisha Healer or Tailor could have faded it, but of course then he’d have had to let one of them near his head. Nina wanted to meet his incisive gaze with a glare of her own. Instead she allowed her eyes to fill with tears.
Brum frowned. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“You were widowed young.”
“I have been unlucky.”
His lip curled slightly. “Why do you tremble so?”
“I have had little cause to be in the presence of great men.”
Brum’s brows rose, but she didn’t miss the flash of satisfaction in his eyes. So this was what Commander Brum liked—flattery, timidity, fear. When she’d met him last, she’d been bold and flirtatious. Now she understood her mistake.
“Where did you learn Zemeni?” he asked.
“My husband ran a small business shipping frozen goods and fish. He traded frequently with the Zemeni. I had a talent for it and took over the communications.”
“And how did he die?”
“Lost to the waters.” A tear rolled down her cheek. Nina could not have asked for better timing.
Brum’s eyes tracked its progress almost hungrily. “A shame.” He released Nina’s chin and stepped back. “I’ll want to question the Zemeni traders,” he told the Wellmother.
“What about my lessons, Papa?” Hanne asked.
“Your lessons,” Brum said thoughtfully. “Yes, I think the influence of a girl with country manners might be good for you, Hanne. You may continue.”
Nina sank into another curtsy. “Thank you, sir,” she said, looking up at him through wet lashes. “It is an honor.”
As Brum and Hanne left the room to chat privately, Nina curtsied to the Wellmother and turned to go.
“I know what you’re up to,” said the Wellmother.
Nina froze with her hand on the doorknob. “What do you mean?”
“Commander Brum is happily married to a woman of noble birth.”
Nina blinked and almost burst out laughing. “Why would that concern me?”
The Wellmother’s eyes slitted. “I doubt it would concern you at all. I knew there was more to your motives than a simple teaching position.”
“I only wish to make a living.”
The Wellmother clucked in disbelief. “You aim to land a wealthy provider. You may have the good commander fooled with your wide eyes and wobbly lip, but you are no honest woman.”
And you are the worst kind of hypocrite, Nina thought, anger flaring. This woman had dosed young girls and women with parem—or some equivalent. She’d put on her pious little pinafore and walked the halls of that factory with her cursed drug, helping soldiers make slaves. When those girls go missing, I’m going to make sure Jarl Brum blames you. Then we’ll see how you enjoy the good commander’s attentions.
But all she said was “Commander Brum is old enough to be my father.”
“And wise enough to resist your clumsy allure, I’ll warrant. But I will be watching.”
Nina shook her head with false concern. “You have been cloistered here too long, Wellmother, if your thoughts turn so readily to sin.”