Margery tipped her head toward Maris at the door and whispered, “You rated a queen’s protector?”
Glancing sidelong at Maris’s waiting back, Nim mouthed, “She’s a lady’s maid.”
Margery smirked and strode forward past a gaping Nim to follow Maris from the study. When they reached Nim’s suite and Maris left to fetch their dinner, Margery pursed her lips in a silent whistle, leisurely examining the room. “Someone holds you in high regard. You do have him, hooked, don’t you?” she murmured with a chuckle.
Nim crossed to her writing desk to scratch out a quick message. As Margery examined a vase and sculpture atop the mantel, Nim returned the quill to its spot and dusted the ink. By the time Maris returned with their dinner, Nim had the request for inquiry into Lord Preston folded, sealed, and ready to be delivered via Wesley. Wes would have informed Warrick that Margery was with Nim, and she was fairly certain that was the only reason the seneschal had not tracked her down as soon as he’d discovered she’d escaped his rooms. Maris or Wesley would also have reported that Margery intended to stay the night. She forced her gaze away from the wall that hid the secret corridor to Warrick’s room.
“Keep worrying your lip like that, and you’re likely to make it bleed.”
Nim gave Margery a look, but she only shrugged and gestured at the table. “You’ve been sent a feast. Might as well enjoy.”
“Because I could be hanged by morning?”
Margery frowned. “Well, yes, not the most preferable. But fates take it all, I suppose that it might be our last is as good a reason as any to relish a meal.”
Running hand over her face, Nim flopped onto the settee beside the table. “No, Margery, I’ll not let you share in this. If I’m to be hanged, I insist I go it alone.”
“Come now,” Margery said. “A good biscuit can solve anything. We’ll sort it out. Fill your stomach.” She handed Nim a plate and settled beside her with a dish of her own. “I have to say it, love. Aside from being an enemy of the king, your setup here is quite agreeable. You’ve been given the best accommodations and staff, you’re allowed free rein to follow your interests, and the work suits you, always engaging with just enough potential for risk. And I suspect it satisfies your penchant for cracking down on poor morals.”
Nim snorted. “Who am I to judge morals? I’m a criminal. Enemy to the kingdom.”
“Only on paper, dear.”
“Paper is what matters.”
Margery’s lips tweaked into a smile as she eyed her plate. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Her tone was light, but underneath, Nim felt the reminder that paper could be torn up. Contracts could be rewritten.
Chapter 13
Nim did not recall having fallen asleep but awoke in her bed, her hair unbound and boots removed, the blankets a tangle around her bare legs. She blinked, narrowing her bleary eyes across the room to where Margery and Maris were seated in the sunlight streaming through the window, deep in low-spoken conversation and surrounded by plates of half-eaten cake. Nim groaned.
“Oh good,” Margery called over her shoulder. “You’ve awakened before midday.”
Nim sat up in time to see Maris tighten her lips in a suppressed smile. “What are you two about?”
Margery waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder. “Planning, dear. It’s all resolved. Have a bath and a bite to eat, and we’ll be dressed in time for a stroll through the garden before you’re due.”
She set her bare feet on the cool wood floor. “Due for what?”
Maris’s shoulders straightened. “A royal gathering, my lady.”
Nim’s head fell back to stare at the canopy above her bed. “Must we?”
“Yes,” the two women said in unison.
And so it was that by late afternoon, Nim’s person had been powdered, perfumed, and coiffed into a state beyond any it had ever experienced. Margery had stood across the room, taking her in with a narrowed eye then giving her nod of approval before she became distracted by her own preparations. As Nim waited for their departure, Maris fiddled with the beads at Nim’s neck, her dark eyes skirting the disconcertingly low slit on the front of the gown.
“Maris,” Nim whispered, “I was told you were a lady’s maid.”
Maris’s expression did not change, and her gaze never moved from her work. “Aye, my lady.”
There was something final in the lie, a tone that intended to close the conversation. Nim snatched the quill from the table beside them then drove it fast and hard toward Maris, whose wrist moved with such force that the quill flew out of Nim’s hand to clatter onto the floor across the room. Margery snorted a laugh.
Maris gave Nim a level look, her mouth turned down in something that might have been disappointment and might have been annoyance.
“You planned to bring me tea and braid my hair to eternity and never mention this?”
Maris straightened. “I did. And I do.”
Nim crossed her arms.
“My duty is to protect and provide, my lady, by order of the seneschal. I can protect you no better than while I am near, and I am serving the kingdom should that duty call for me to pour your tea or use my sword.”
Nim let her gaze rake over the maid, swordless as she was.
Maris rolled her eyes. “I would be remiss in my duty if I allowed everyone to see that I was a threat. Would you not agree?”
“So you hid it from me because I’m a threat?”
Margery let go another pointed sound of amusement, and Nim snapped her mouth shut. There was a press to Maris’s lips that said well enough that no one was more a threat to Nim than herself. “Fine,” she said. “But no more secrets.”
Maris’s lips twitched, implying that she was aware Nim had a few more secrets than her maid, but she only curtsied before she backed away. “Aye, my lady. Now you know my secret. Let us hope you never again need it.”
The word “again” drew Nim up short, sticking any retort well and truly inside her throat. Thoughts of Rhen and the sapphires rose anew.
Margery dropped her brush to the vanity table and stood, apparently unaware of the shift in Nim’s mood. “Now, then, let’s off to disinter the camarilla.”
The banquet hall was filled with dozens of courtiers and kingdom officials but done up with little pomp or celebration. Gatherings were nothing like the balls and festivals held by the king, events Nim had rarely seen in person, but instead a less formal and more widely attended meeting of those who decided how Inara was run and those like herself, she realized with a start, responsible for carrying out the king’s rule. Her palms went slick with apprehension, but Margery tucked her arm easily into the crook of one of Nim’s to lead them through the room.
In a slim silk gown, Margery was in her element, throwing mocking smiles and pointed comments at the worst of the court, not slowing to wait for their response. She was like a cat, above reproach and uninterested in anyone who promised interest in her. Margery loathed the sycophants who spent their days vying for the king’s ear so they might use his power against those beneath them. And as someone responsible for their private contracts and deeds, Margery knew well enough precisely who misused their post and abused the king’s favor. Such had happened far more frequently in recent years, since Nim’s father and the king’s other trusted advisors had disappeared. Stewart had few he could trust.