Page 11 of The Winner's Curse
Kestrel nodded, just barely. She turned to leave.
“My lady, one more thing…”
Kestrel knew what that one more thing would be, but couldn’t stop him, for to do so would have been to admit that she knew and wished she didn’t.
“A week has passed since your purchase of that young slave,” the steward said. “You’ve given no instructions for his employment.”
“I forgot,” Kestrel lied.
“Of course. You have more important things to deal with. Still, I was certain you had no intention of him lazing around, doing nothing, so I assigned him to the forge and to serve as a farrier for the horses. He has done well. My compliments, Lady Kestrel. You are an excellent judge of the Herrani market.”
She looked at him.
Defensively, he said, “I only put him to work in the forge because he was suited to it.”
She faced the door. When she opened it, she’d see nothing but trees. There was no view from this part of the house that could unsettle her. “You made the right choice,” she said. “Do with him as you see fit.”
Kestrel stepped outside, her escort wordlessly following.
She didn’t stop by the cottage after all. She walked straight to the stables. The old Herrani groom was there, as always. There was no one else. Kestrel went to stroke the nose of her horse, a big-boned animal bred for war and chosen for her by the general.
When she heard footsteps behind her, the sound of someone new entering the stables, she turned. Two soldiers walked up to the groom and ordered that their horses be saddled. Kestrel looked beyond them and saw the Herrani slave Harman had selected as her escort waiting patiently by the door.
She had no wish to waste time finding out if he could ride. She wanted to leave now. When they reached Jess’s house she would send him to the kitchens so she wouldn’t have to see him until the return home.
“Ready my carriage first,” she told the groom, giving the soldiers a look that dared them to argue. They didn’t, but were visibly irritated. She didn’t care. She had to leave, the sooner the better.
* * *
“This one?”
Kestrel looked up from where she sat on a low divan strewn with dresses.
“Kestrel,” said Jess, “pay attention.”
Kestrel blinked. A black-haired girl, Jess’s slave, was tying a sash around her mistress’s waist, drawing in the flowery skirts so that they belled at the hips. Kestrel said to Jess, “Didn’t you already try on that dress?”
“No.” Jess snatched the sash out of the slave’s hands and threw it onto the silken pile next to Kestrel. “You hate it, don’t you?”
“No,” said Kestrel, but Jess was already struggling out of the dress while her slave anxiously tried to undo its buttons before they popped. Pink skirts landed on Kestrel’s lap.
“What are you going to wear?” Jess stood there in her slip. “Lady Faris’s picnic is the event of the summer season. You can’t look less than stunning.”
“That will pose no problem for Kestrel,” said a trim, stylishly dressed man lounging against the jamb of the door he had opened without their hearing. Jess’s brother smiled at Kestrel.
Kestrel smiled back at Ronan, but in a crooked way that showed that she knew his exaggerated brand of flirtation was all the rage among young Valorian men these days and not to be taken seriously. She also knew that this—this dress-up session, Ronan’s safe compliments—was what she had come for, in the hopes her mind would become too cluttered to think for itself.
He crossed the room, pushed dresses off the divan and onto the floor, and sat next to Kestrel. The black-haired slave, looking besieged, bent to collect the delicate fabrics.
Kestrel felt a sudden impulse to say something sharp, but wasn’t sure to whom. Then the strains of music drifting in from the corridor saved her from embarrassing everyone in the room, including herself.
“The Senest nocturne,” she said, recognizing the piece.
Ronan tilted his blond head against the ornately carved wood that edged the divan. He slunk against its soft back, stretching out his booted legs, and gazed up at Kestrel. “I told Olen to play,” he said, referring to their Herrani musician. “I know it’s one of your favorites.”
Kestrel listened. The notes were careful, but oddly paced. She tensed at the arrival of a tricky passage and wasn’t surprised to hear it flubbed.
“I could play,” she offered.
