Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

The cook was just

checking over a tray of sugared biscuits. She was frowning and muttering to herself, something about glazes and colors. “Yes,” she said, without looking up. “Did you come to tell me the dirty dishes all disappeared?”

“No, Mistress. I came to ask—to say …”

“To say what, girl?”

Ilse started at her sharp tone. “I came to say that Rosel meant no harm with her joke.”

“And?”

The kitchen was too noisy to hear any whispers, but Ilse could sense the other girls watching this scene. It was another prank, she thought. Or maybe not. Maybe she could do nothing to make friends with these girls, not with her accent and her manners and how she arrived at this house. I can still try. I have to.

“Nothing else,” she said. “But I thought it was important to tell you.”

Mistress Raendl pursed her lips. Her gaze flickered toward the other girls. “I see. Thank you. You may go back to washing dishes.” Her voice rose slightly, cutting through the clatter. “Rosel will take no harm with her chores tonight. She might even learn some good sense.”

Ilse turned back to her workstation. Dana was chewing her lips. The other girls were blank-faced and silent. She could not tell if she had made things better or worse.

She had just finished with the plates and had started on a stack of pots, when Lys came into the kitchen. Her sharp gaze took in Rosel kneeling on the floor. She frowned. With the ease of long practice, she conducted one whispered exchange with Steffi as she dropped off her load of dirty dishes, and another with Dana, while she loaded up a new tray with more wine and cups. Ilse tensed, but no one looked in her direction. She thought Lys had gone, when a loud groan penetrated the general din.

Several girls left their stations and rushed over to Lys, who bent over, clutching her stomach. “Something I ate,” she announced, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Mistress Raendl turned around with an exasperated expression. “What now?”

“Lys is sick,” Janna said at once. “I’ll take her to her bed, if you don’t mind.”

Mistress Raendl waved her away impatiently. She scanned the other girls, frowning. Ilse could almost read her thoughts—Hanne too small, Dana coming out in spots, Rosel in disgrace, Janna occupied with Lys. It would be her or Steffi.

“You,” Mistress Raendl said, pointing at Ilse. “I need you to serve in the common room. Put on a fresh gown. Rinse your face and brush out your hair. Good enough. Here, take this tray and set out the wine and new cups. Clean up the table, and bring back the dirty cups and whatever empty carafes you find. We’ll have another tray ready when you get back.”

A runner brought a new gown from the stores, and Ilse made ready in a small closet off the kitchen. She picked up the tray and hurried to the common room, ducking between runners and other servers. Outside the doors, she stopped, her heart beating painfully fast. She could not wet her mouth.

It’s just another room.

Except that courtesans entertained their clients in that room. She had never asked if the courtesans did more than sing or talk. She hoped she would not see them pleasuring their clients. She couldn’t face that. Not tonight. Not ever. It occurred to her that Lys knew or guessed far more about Ilse’s time with the caravan than Ilse had admitted.

She knows I’m afraid.

Ilse drew a breath to settle her stomach. Today or next week or next month, she would have to face this room. She gripped the tray firmly and went inside.

She thought at first she had stepped into a well of sweet-smelling darkness. A chandelier illuminated the room’s center, but the rest was enveloped in shadows. As her eyes adjusted, Ilse saw Adelaide entwined with another woman. She skirted them, only to see Nadine and Eduard, sitting on a couch with an older man between them. Nadine was singing softly, and Eduard had just laid his palm against the man’s cheek. The man rose and walked toward the staircase, hand in hand with Eduard. Nadine trailed behind, still singing.

Passion. Desire. Panic. For a long moment Ilse could do nothing but breathe, and that with difficulty. She thought about Lys. That didn’t help. She thought instead about Kathe, who had always shown her kindness and patience, and her nerves steadied.

Pretend the room is empty. Pretend you are walking through a forest.

She found an open path around the next grouping of chairs and to the central tables. She knelt and cleared out a space for the full carafes and clean cups, then stacked the dirty cups on the tray. She swept crumbs from the table into her hand and deposited those in one of the dirty cups. Though she tried to concentrate only on her task, she could hear too much of what went on around her. A prolonged kiss. An answering sigh. When a man’s rough voice asked Tatiana to come at once to another room, Ilse stood up quickly with the tray. I’ll come back for the rest later.

She turned toward the doors, only to collide immediately with a stranger. One cup went flying onto the carpeted floor and shattered. Ilse caught herself before the rest followed. She heard a gasp from someone nearby, and then a smothered laugh. The stranger, a young man, lurched against her a second time. He smiled and leaned heavily against her shoulder, breathing wine and smelling of exotic perfumes. “Pretty,” he mumbled, sliding his arm around her waist.

Ilse stiffened and choked back an exclamation. “My lord. Please.”

“Please. Oh pretty please.” He buried his face against her neck.

The entire room had to be watching. She tried twisting away, but she could not without dropping more cups. “I’m not what you think,” she whispered. “Please let me go.”

“Yes. Let her go, Lord Gerhart.”