Page 30 of The Half King
A small, round table had been delivered to her sitting room. Draped in a starched white cloth that bore a gold-embroidered Mortara crest, the table offered the finest place setting Cerise had ever seen, each plate rimmed with precious metals and gilded art. A sparkling crystal decanter of juice stood alongside a silver teapot, and etched silver trays offered an assortment of berries and melons, eggs and salted meats, and crème-filled pastries so delicate and enticing they made her mouth water. One of the maidservants placed a single pink rose on the edge of the table, along with a note that read:
With gratitude from His Majesty’s Royal Guard.
Cerise placed a hand over her heart. She thought back to her years at the temple, to the shame and the envy she had felt watching the other Seers succeed where she had only failed. All she had ever been was a disappointment. Now, to look upon the lavish display of appreciation from the palace guards made her eyes water. She blinked furiously to stop herself from crying in front of the maidservants.
She cleared the thickness from her throat and said, “Shiera’s light upon you.”
“And may her wrathful eye look away,” came the joint reply.
Though the maids had finished their work, they made no move to leave her suite. All three of them were young—barely fourteen, by Cerise’s estimate—with round, freckled faces and even rounder eyes that regarded her in the same way a child might gaze at a stack of presents left behind by the Harvest Fairy. In unison, the girls dipped into low curtsies, their gray linen skirts brushing the floor.
“If you please, my lady,” the first girl said in a voice that trembled. “May I have the honor of braiding your hair? I know the best plaits. All of the ladies at court used to request me to style them for parties.”
Before Cerise could respond, the second girl lifted a gilded plate from the table and asked, “May I serve you, my lady?”
The third girl quickly added, “And may I prepare your tea?”
Pressure built behind Cerise’s eyes. As she struggled to maintain her composure, she visualized the Reverend Mother standing in front of her, tall and regal, narrowing her gaze, shaking her head in disapproval, and chiding,Calm yourself, girl!
The mental image dried her tears at once.
“Thank you for your kind offers,” Cerise said. “I would love nothing more than to accept.”
All three of the maids beamed and then flew into action. Within moments, Cerise was seated on a plush, cushioned dining chair in front of the breakfast table while one maid tenderly brushed her hair and the others prepared to serve her. She briefly wondered what Father Padron would say if he could see her now, being showered with appreciation for her bravery. Would he join in and praise her? Or would he criticize her for enjoying the attention? She didn’t want to care about his opinion of her, but she couldn’t help it. She did.
Fortunately, the girls made it easy to forget him. She learned that they were triplets, and their mother had named them after her favorite birds: Wren, Lark, and Dove. As the girls attended to her, they took turns explaining their troubles—everything from unpleasant dreams and painful courses to diseased relatives and unwelcome proposals of marriage—and asking her for guidance. Cerise didn’t pretend that she could See their paths, but she promised to mention Wren, Lark, and Dove in her prayers, and that seemed to be a comfort to them. Then they told her some of the stories they had heard about the fire. Cerise had to bite her lip to contain a laugh when she heard a description of how she had extinguished the flames with the power of her prayers.
When Cerise had finished her breakfast of fruit pastries, honeyed oats, and spiced tea, a knock sounded at the door to her suite. She was still seated for her braid and unable to move, so she asked Wren to answer the door.
“It’s probably Lord Calatris,” Cerise said. “I’m expecting him.”
But it wasn’t the royal historian on the other side of the door.
The king’s courtesan had come to pay a visit.
Delora Champlain strode into the sitting room and smoothly lowered in a curtsy. Her glossy hair was loosely pinned in chestnut waves that spilled down the back of her silken gown, which was royal blue to match her eyes. She seemed as lovely and regal as ever. If not for the slight redness in her gaze, no one would guess that anything was amiss.
“My lady of the temple,” Delora greeted in a voice raw from smoke.
“Good morning, Lady Champlain,” Cerise said.
Delora looked from one serving maid to the next. “Leave us, please.”
“But my lady,” objected Lark, the maid braiding Cerise’s hair. “The plait is only half—”
“I will finish it,” Delora interrupted. She glided behind the chair where Cerise sat and then took over her loose sections of hair so gently that Cerise didn’t notice the transfer until Lark bowed and joined her sisters in leaving the suite. Delora resumed the braid in silence for a few moments, her fingers light and deft as they slipped through Cerise’s hair. Finally, she softly coughed and said, “I must apologize, my lady.”
“Apologize for what?” Cerise asked.
“The king explained what happened while I was incapacitated,” she said. “And when I listened to his story, I realized that he failed to thank you.”
“Did he?” Cerise asked. “I assure you I didn’t notice.”
“Nevertheless, the king owes you his gratitude, and I owe you mine.”
Delora completed the last section of braid and used a hairpin to secure the plait. With her long fingernails, she combed the stray hairs into place along the nape of Cerise’s neck, the gentle scraping raising chills on her skin. The sensation felt exquisite, and before Cerise could stop herself, she pictured Delora using that same sensual touch on the king. Her stomach sank an inch. She didn’t want to imagine them together. She shouldn’t be thinking of the king in that way.
Delora glided around the chair and faced Cerise, peering at the intricate braids as if to inspect her work. She nodded in approval. “Perfect.”
