Now I Rise (The Conqueror's Saga 2)

“You may stand outside the door so that she thinks you are still in here. And then you may take a message and some food to my men outside. You will see their campfire.”

The girl squeaked in fear. “Men! I could not. It is forbidden. Oh, please, do not ask it of me. If she knew, if she found out—”

Lada held up her hands. “Very well! They will last until I go back to them. Get out.”

The girl nodded, wringing her hands, and slipped out the door. Lada followed, putting her ear to the door. She could hear the rapid, panicked breaths of the girl immediately outside.

What went on in this house?

Lada took a bath. Over the last year on the run, she had learned never to turn down a bath or a meal. But she did not wash her hair, or make any effort to tame it. She dressed again in her traveling clothes—breeches, a tunic, and a coat, all black. A red sash around her waist. When she was done putting her boots on, she opened the door. The maid was so close their noses nearly touched.

“Your hair?”

Lada shook her head, expression grim.

“I found some of her ladyship’s old dresses. I could let out the seams, and…” The girl trailed off, hope dying on her face as Lada’s expression did not change.

“When is supper?” Lada asked.

“She has already eaten.”

“Without me?”

“Our schedule is very specific.” The maid le

aned forward, looking to either side as though fearful of discovery. “I will bring you some food from the kitchens later tonight,” she whispered.

Lada did not know how to respond. With gratitude? Incredulity? Instead, she pushed forward with her goal. “If supper is over, I can see her now.”

“Yes! She will be waiting to receive visitors in the drawing room.”

“Does she receive many visitors?”

The maid shook her head. “Almost never.”

“So she is only waiting to see me.”

“After supper, she waits to receive visitors. You are a visitor. So you may see her now.”

Lada followed the girl through the hall and down the stairs. She would much rather be facing a contingent of Bulgars, or a mounted cavalry. At least those she would understand.

Mehmed’s mother, Huma, suddenly came to mind. Huma had been ferocious and terrifying. She had wielded her very womanhood like a weapon, one Lada did not understand and could not ever use. Was that what her mother was doing? Throwing Lada off guard to gain the upper hand? Huma had been able to manipulate Lada and Radu by forcing them to meet on her terms. Her mother must be doing the same thing.

It was comforting, in a way, girding herself to meet a challenge like Mehmed’s formidable mother. Huma was a foe worth having. A murderer many times over, who had even had Mehmed’s infant half brother drowned in a bath. Lada shuddered, the back of her hair wet against her neck. Was there a darker reason the maid had tried to insist on staying during Lada’s bath?

She regarded the tiny, trembling thing ahead of her with new suspicion. Flexing her hands, Lada dismissed the notion. Though Lada was certain that if her mother wanted her dead, she would make someone else do it. This waif would have to resort to poison or murdering her in her sleep. She was glad she had missed supper, after all.

But everything Huma had done, she had done to further her son’s place in life. What would Vasilissa stand to gain by killing Lada? And why did Lada find it more comfortable to think of Vasilissa as a potential assassin lying in wait than as her mother?

Before Lada could settle her mind, the maid opened a door to a sitting room. It was like being greeted by an open oven. The air was too close and heated past any reasonable degree. The windows were shuttered tightly, and a fire roared in a fireplace too large for a room this size.

The maid practically tugged Lada inside, closing the door as quickly as possible behind them. It took a moment for Lada’s eyes to adjust to the dim room. Her mother sat in a high-backed chair, hands folded primly in her lap, voluminous skirt hiding her feet. Her hat had been replaced with a long veil pinned at the top of her head that completely obscured her face. She was not wearing the same dress as before. This one was white, with a ruffled neck so high it looked as though her veiled head sat on a platter. All the dress’s folds and pleats nearly swallowed her whole.

“Oh,” she said, an entire discourse in disappointment contained in that single word. “You did not change.”

Lada longed to draw her knives, sheathed at her wrists. “These are my clothes.” She took the chair opposite her mother without being invited. It sank under her weight, the stuffing worn and the velvet threadbare.

“Would you like something? Tea? Wine?”