Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“Quiet,” Nadine observed. “Steffi tells me that you know stories. Would you tell us one before you go back to the kitchens?”

“I can’t. Mistress Raendl—”

“Mistress Raendl,” Nadine said crisply, “ate too many prunes when she was a girl.”

Ilse choked back a laugh.

“It’s true.” Nadine’s expression was grave, but her eyes were bright with mischief. “Six, count them, six baskets of prunes, eaten in a single day, on a dare. A tragedy. We speak about it often, we courtesans. Tatiana sings of the matter to clients, when they ask for sorrowful songs.”

Smiling and shaking her head, Ilse wiped down the table.

“I think you ate some of those prunes, too,” Nadine went on. “Or else you would be laughing right now. Just like Eduard.” She poked Eduard with the foot. Eduard grunted and rolled over, but his shoulders were shaking.

“Don’t tease,” Adelaide said. “It’s not kind.”

“Hah. She likes it. Where are you going, fair Adelaide?” she asked as Adelaide stood up.

“An appointment,” Adelaide said. “Luise expects me within the hour, and I need to dress. So do you. Don’t dawdle too long.”

She left the room silently, her gown fluttering behind. Nadine stretched out on the couch, watching, her slanting eyes narrowed to dark lines. “Do you think her pretty?” she asked Ilse.

Calling Adelaide pretty was like saying Launus Paschke could pluck chords on a guitar, Ilse thought. Adelaide had fair golden skin and hair so black, it had tints of blue. Her face and hands and body were faultless, if one dared to use that word. Ilse could see her in Duenne’s palace, entertaining kings. “She’s beautiful.”

“Do you like her?”

“She’s nice,” Ilse said warily.

“Nice.” Nadine laughed. She rolled over, caught Ilse by the wrist. Before Ilse could jerk her hand free, Nadine kissed her wrist and released her. “If you ever decide that I am nice, you know which is my room. Now go, before Greta sounds the alarm.”

Ilse hurried back to the kitchen and dumped the tray with its dirty plates by the washbasin. She had picked up her washcloth when Kathe reappeared. “One last tray,” Kathe told her. “For Maester Hax. Oh and try not to let Lord Kosenmark see the dishes. He and Mistress Hedda are worried about the poor man’s health.”

“You forgot to tell me to hurry,” Ilse said with a smile.

Kathe laughed. “You already know that. And I already sound too much like my mother.”

The back stairways were still quiet, but when Ilse reached the landing outside Hax’s office, she found his door open and Lord Kosenmark outside. “We’ve no more business tonight,” Kosenmark was saying to his secretary. “Leave those papers for tomorrow.”

Ilse withdrew, trying to keep the tray out of sight, but Kosenmark beckoned her forward and inspected the dishes. “This is not the diet Mistress Hedda ordered,” he said. Hax had ordered strong tea, biscuits and honey, and grilled fish dotted with pepper.

“Mistress Hedda would physick me with boredom,” Hax retorted. “You might inform her, Lord Kosenmark, that I am used to my spices. I like them. I will not give them up.”

“As much as you like your strong tea and keeping late hours. Berthold, Berthold. You are a horrible old man.”

“I have you to thank, my lord, as both a model and an inspiration.”

Kosenmark grinned. His glance fell on Ilse. The grin altered to a friendly smile, which she found almost as surprising, and he waved her into the room. “Serve this old man his supper, child. If he carps and whines about his indigestion, we shall feed him prunes by the barrel.”

It was unnerving how he knew the doings of his entire household. Embarrassed, she went about pouring the tea, and setting out the silverware on the side table. Kosenmark left with another edged comment to Hax, who was laughing silently. “He is a terrible man,” he said to Ilse. “I wonder that I tolerate him so.”

She smiled but said nothing. Lord Kosenmark was right about Maester Hax, she thought. The old man looked tired, and since she last saw him, his color had turned a pasty yellow. Ilse cut several biscuits and spread them with honey, since he liked to eat as he worked, and laid a napkin ready. When she finished, she saw that Hax was observing her. “I haven’t seen you about these past few weeks,” he said. “Is Greta keeping you busy?”

“Busy enough, sir.”

He tilted his head. “Meaning, you do not wish to offend with your answer. Very well. Thank you for the tea, Mistress Ilse. And the fish.”

No more trays waited for her. Just more dreary smelly work. Someone had left a crate of potatoes to rot in the storerooms, and the potatoes had turned to black sludge. Ilse had mopped up the worst, but Mistress Raendl wanted every groove in the tile floor scoured clean to keep out the rot. Her one consolation was that Janna had murmured her sympathy in passing.

Step by step, she told herself. They might even forget where I came from