With a snap of reins from their drivers, the carriages roll.
As a courtesy I pretend not to see her cry. “So you are bound for the palace too, Denya Garon,” I say, the words as starched as waxed linen.
“Why are you so elevated? The lord would not take one like you to be a concubine.” She breaks off, realizing how the words sound.
“Why would I want to have to endure that man’s attentions in the bedchamber? I am at the Fives stable.”
She sniffs, drawing up her chin. “Yes, of course. Amaya said you were always sneaking out to run the Fives. My father would have whipped me.”
“Was Amaya tattling to all her friends?”
“No. Just me.”
There falls a silence. Denya was a loyal friend to Amaya. She deserves better than me hitting out at her in fear just because she’s the only one I can touch.
I try again, attempting a kinder voice. “What will happen to your father, Captain Osfiyos?”
Her mouth twists as she makes several messy snorts of grief. It is an embarrassing sound but I cannot laugh at her. Probably this is the only time she will be allowed to cry. At Garon Palace, as a woman brought in to please her master, she will need to show a smiling face.
“He was broken down into the ranks. My brothers must start over as apprentices. Our family was ruined because of Lord Ottonor’s debts. There was talk of me marrying a captain from Lord Nefelyan’s household but that is all gone.”
Just when I think she is going to collapse entirely she stiffens her spine and ruthlessly wipes her cheeks because she is a soldier’s daughter too.
“I shall have elegant clothing that my father could never have afforded. I just wish Amaya could see it. If she and I could go shopping together we should have such pleasure. At least my older sister is safely married out of the household. We had a younger sister but she was dedicated to the temple as an infant.” She stretches out her arms to study her hands as if imagining the rings she will wear, but the twist of her mouth betrays the rank taste in her throat. “I would rather endure Lord Gargaron’s attentions than be buried alive.”
He has buried them alive! An abyss has opened in my heart and I am tumbling endlessly, for there is no succor and no mercy.
Denya reaches across the gap, the pressure of her fingers like fire, her eyes lifted to mine all wide and trusting. How many times have I seen her and Amaya whispering together, hands clasped?
“You look sad, Jessamy Garon. Have you news of Amaya? Where did she go?”
I blink.
She doesn’t know. No one knows. He has hidden it because he knows it is wrong.
She leans closer, her shoulder touching mine. Her lips touch my ear as she whispers, although how anyone could overhear us as the wheels roll and the horses clop along I cannot imagine. “I’m so worried about her. If you get news can you please find a way to slip a note to me? You helped her smuggle the notes in before.”
“Was that awful poetry from you?” The mention of those dreadfully mundane and ridiculous love paeans breaks through my agony. She ducks her head as though to avoid a blow. “Unfolding petals and tongues of flame?”
Blushing, she struggles to meet my gaze. “We were just practicing. A married woman has to know how to… write love poetry and do other things. After she has given her husband sons, then people will look the other way if she wants to do things that unmarried women aren’t allowed to do.…” Like an actress playing the part of a modest lover, she presses a hand to a cheek.
Memory pulls me deeper despite the pain that recollection causes: the family courtyard with its lamps and the marriage couch where Mother loved to sit, content to know her man would return to her. Amaya would read plays aloud in her expressive voice, and we would laugh, or pretend to cry, or gasp in fear, or murmur in shocked surprise, according to her pleasure and the passage she was declaiming. Amaya was always brilliant at acting a part.
“We didn’t mean anything by it.” Her tone has an anxious lilt.
Perhaps for the first time in our years of acquaintance I really look at Denya. Her beautiful eyes are so brown they are almost black, with brows a perfect bow. The shroud drapes her body, hinting at a shapely form beneath. Her hair is clubbed up, but if let down it would be as straight and thick as that of the actresses on stage who are renowned throughout the land for their beauty. Dressed in finery, adorned with cosmetics and jewelry, she will be lovely. But it is the grief and fear and hope in her face that tell the truth of her heart.
“Were you and Amaya lovers?” I blurt out.
She draws back with an intake of breath but the truth is written all over her face, as good as a confession.
