Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

The man made an impatient noise. “I found the girl outside my house and brought her inside. You would do the same.”

Ilse listened as well as she could. She heard doubt in the woman’s voice. The man’s voice, so strange to her ear, was much harder to read. Cool and controlled, with undercurrents she could not identify.

Mistress Hedda laid her palm against Ilse’s cheek. Ilse leaned against her warm hand and heard the woman’s soft intake of breath. “She’s a trusting girl,” Mistress Hedda said. “Too trusting.”

“Obviously.” He said it without sarcasm, his tone thoughtful.

Their conversation dropped into a low murmur. Ilse wished she could hear more, but at her first restless movement, Mistress Hedda broke off and returned to her side. With another spell, she sent Ilse into a deep sleep, a sleep without dreams or whispers that did not break until morning.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHE WOKE TO bells ringing from a nearby tower. Four peals, late afternoon. Sunlight poured through the windo

ws of the small room where she lay. A cool fresh breeze stirred the room’s silken tapestries; it carried a strong salt tang mixed with earth and changing leaves.

Her thoughts drifted from one hazy memory to the next. Starvation. Moonlight in the square. The boys’ attack. Running from the watch. The sharp pains in her belly. A strange high voice. An old woman speaking magic words. And then a whispered conversation.

She lost the child.

She must not have known.

How could she not know?

Suddenly awake, Ilse caught her breath. How could she know?

She tried to recall her last bleeding. There’d been one shortly after she made her bargain with Alarik Brandt. The men hadn’t cared. Some liked it better. Her skin growing colder, she found she could not remember another since.

Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. Stupid. Crying for the bastard get of three dozen men. Or was she really crying for herself?

The bellsong faded away. Gradually other sounds intruded on her notice. Crows chattering outside her window. The rattle of wings as they took flight. Someone in the corridor, humming softly to herself.

The door opened and a young woman, still humming, backed into the room. Her dark blue gown swirled around her legs as she turned and set a tray on the bedside table. She smiled at Ilse. “I’m glad to find you awake. It’s long past time for a meal.”

Her face was round and pleasant, her skin dusky brown, and she wore her hair sensibly pulled back into a tight braid. The sight of such friendliness and competence threatened to bring back Ilse’s senseless tears. She swallowed them back. “I’m not hungry.”

The young woman poured out a cup of tea. “Drink, then. It helps ease the pain.”

Gently she helped Ilse to sit up, then plumped the pillows and held the cup to Ilse’s lips. Tart and black, laced with willow extract and sweetened with honey.

“Now to eat.” The young woman fed Ilse steaming mash, flavored with cinnamon and fresh apples. Summer fruits in winter—most likely shipped from southern lands or grown by magic. She had come to a wealthy household, if they did not stint at such luxuries.

“You’re nothing but bones and twigs,” the young woman observed. “Lord Kosenmark said to feed you well so you don’t starve before the medicine takes hold.”

“I won’t starve.”

The young woman flashed a smile. “And Mistress Hedda said you were stubborn. That’s good. That means you’ll get better, faster. My name’s Kathe, by the way. Now to finish off a couple more spoonfuls.”

Before Ilse knew it, Kathe had fed her the rest of the mash, then coaxed her into drinking another cup of tea. This time, Ilse managed to hold the cup herself.

“You look better,” Kathe said thoughtfully. “Hot food—lots of it—and sleep. Another visit from Mistress Hedda, and you’ll be dancing.”

“That,” said another voice, “is not quite what Mistress Hedda said.”

A tall man dressed in dark blue silks leaned against the door frame. Ilse recognized him at once—it was Lord Kosenmark, the one with the ambiguous voice. “You may go,” he said to Kathe as he came into the room. “Leave the tea, in case she wants more.”

Kathe curtsied and retreated from the room. Lord Kosenmark fetched a chair and sat next to Ilse’s bed. He was a handsome man with his honey-brown skin and full mobile mouth. When he leaned close and laid a hand against her forehead a whiff of his scent came to her, warm and personal.

Kosenmark said something under his breath. Warmth flowed outward from his hand, and her tense muscles unlocked. He smoothed a strand of hair from her face—a light, impersonal gesture. “Better?” he asked.