Nehelon waited for what was coming, they all did. For the smug look on her face promised there was a condition.
She could taste the tension in the air. The anticipation. All of them were still looking at her—at her face now. Into her eyes. Lady Brenheran had even nodded her agreement. Now it was time to play the cards right. The Meister—painful as his lessons might have been—had taught her one or the other thing about how to navigate herself in situations that demanded wandering off the path of Vala. She could negotiate—would negotiate.
“A year,” she said coolly.
And Lord Tyrem’s eyebrows rose, as did Brax Brenheran’s and Lady Crystal’s. Nehelon’s face, however, remained unreadable.
“What ever do you mean, Miss Brayton?” Lord Tyrem asked when Gandrett left them guessing for a moment longer than his patience held.
Gandrett kept her face blank. “When I bring home your son Joshua,” she said, sounding as reassured as if she were telling Nahir that she wanted more oat cookies, “I want one year with my family.”
Beside her, Nehelon’s arm twitched the slightest bit. He knew that she was taking what he had already negotiated with the lord and stretching it, testing how far she could go, to gain as much from the bargain as she could. Something more valuable than any gold they could pay the Meister—time with her family. Seeing her mother’s smile, hearing her brother’s laugh, looking out the window and finding her father on the field with the fat ponies that pulled his plow—
If Lord Tyrem was offended by her question, he didn’t show any sign. All he did was turn to Nehelon and say, “So far, she exceeds my expectations in every regard but manners.” Then to Gandrett. “If…” He gave her a stern look. “If you manage to pass as a lady in Denderlain court,” his eyes bore into hers, fierce. A warrior, a father, betting on the only horse available to save his son and pushing it, daring it, threatening it to win. “If you bring home my son in one piece,” he leaned back, “I will grant you a year.”
Somehow, he didn’t look like he believed she would manage.
“Show the Child of Vala to her chambers.” He nodded at Nehelon, who promptly reached for her arm and pulled her up.
“Come, Miss Brayton,” he said with a professional tone, “I am certain you can use a bath after the strain of our journey.”
Gandrett ignored as he sniffed at her before he walked her from the room.
Chapter Fifteen
The double doors of her chambers were guarded, one heavily armed man on each side. Gandrett had flashed them each a smile as Nehelon walked her in—not at the tip of his sword the way she had done with him at the priory but with mere words of caution.
“Don’t even think about running,” he had said with a feral grin.
Gandrett interpreted his words as, If you want to live long enough to see your family again.
He had left her to take a bath and get some rest with the reminder that the guards outside wouldn’t be the only ones monitoring her chambers. And while both of them knew it would take more than two or three guards to stop her once she made up her mind, they also knew that he, with his Fae senses, would be the first to come after her the second she went missing.
Quiet footsteps interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up to find a woman in a simple dress—still more fashionable and of a better fabric than her dirty, brown one—enter the bedchamber where Gandrett was standing and studying the burgundy and gold tapestry. The woman stopped and curtseyed then hurried to the dresser, head down, and opened it to pull out a variety of fabrics.
Gandrett watched, her mouth open. She had heard about servants, about noble ladies having someone tending to them. But never had she believed anyone would see to her needs.
The woman turned toward her, curtseying again. “We didn’t know what size you’d be,” she said with a low voice, half-blushing as she studied Gandrett’s body, “so we brought some underthings and something to sleep in…just until we get some clothes made for you tomorrow.”
Gandrett’s eyes followed the servant’s hands as she reached into her apron, and her instincts went on red alert… For a second, until the woman extracted a tape measure and stepped closer.
“If I may,” she lifted the item in her hand and waited.
And waited.
For a moment, Gandrett just stared. Then she realized what the woman meant and fumbled with her dress.
“My apologies, Miss Brayton.” The servant took another step. “I can help you with the dress if that makes it easier.”
Gandrett stopped. “What’s your name?” she asked the woman and tried to smile, something Nahir had said once coming to her mind. Treat your servants like the people they are—people, who through their hard work, make your own life easier. Respect them.
The woman looked up with hazel eyes. “Eugina.”
“Thank you, Eugina.” Gandrett pulled off her dress in one sweep, folded it over a chair, and held out her arms to the side for Eugina to take measure. “I haven’t worn a proper dress in—” Over a decade. “A long time.” She wasn’t sure how much the woman knew about where she had come from, what her purpose at the palace was, how dangerous she could be. So she smiled again.
Eugina, obviously relieved that Gandrett wasn’t a fire-breathing monster like some ladies—according to Nahir—were, wrapped the tape measure around Gandrett’s chest, waist, hips, then measured the length of her arms, shoulder to floor, and every other detail that Gandrett never knew was necessary in order to fabricate a dress.
Then, with another curtsey and the promise that she’d have something to wear by tomorrow, the woman left.
Gandrett loosed a breath. Her own chambers. Not just one room shared with another acolyte but one bedroom, a private bathing chamber, an antechamber. Her eyes darted from surface to surface, marveling at ornate carvings, burgundy and gold patterns, and the thick rug covering most of the dark stone floor. She marveled until her chest hurt from the ambivalence of it. Beautiful, yes, but it all belonged to the man who had taken her childhood away.
And if she was honest—the only thing keeping her here was knowing that if she tried to run, Nehelon would end her with a flick of his hand. She couldn’t care less about Joshua Brenheran. No one had cared when she had been taken from her parents. People in the streets had cheered when the dark-clothed, hooded men had picked her from her home. She couldn’t remember faces, just the fear when it had settled in that she would never return.
If she ran now, she would make it to Alencourt in two or three days on foot.
A glance out the open balcony doors told her it would be easy. With her acolyte-uniform on and some strips of fabric from the dress to wrap her hands with, she’d climb down the rough stone to the garden below and disappear in the blossoming bushes, following them until they lost themselves near the palace walls.
A low laugh from above caught her attention. Reaching to her side for the sword she had dropped on the chair alongside her dress, Gandrett swirled around, her hands gripping thin air, and earned a clap from Brax Brenheran who was leaning on the balcony rail one level above.
“Denderlain court will be in turmoil if this is to become your usual attire,” he said, a mischievous grin lingering on his sensuous lips. He leaned forward, hair dancing around his face like onyx silk. “Not that it doesn’t suit you.” A wink.