Chapter 296: You Look Well, My Lady

He crouched in front of her, so that his eyes were level with hers, and took both her cold hands in his. His grip was firm. His gaze held hers and did not let go.

"Listen to me."

"I’m listening."

"You will not face him alone."

She swallowed.

"Not for a moment. Not for a breath. I will be at your shoulder. Draeven will be on your right. Kaelen will be on your left, and he will be hungover and loud and extremely irritating, but he will be there." His voice was quiet and absolutely certain. "You will walk into that hall, and every man in it will see three kings around you. And Carrick Greythorne will understand, very clearly, what he is dealing with."

"And what’s that?"

"Something he cannot touch."

Her throat tightened.

"I’m not saying it to comfort you," Thorne said. "I’m saying it because it is true."

"I believe you."

"Good."

"I’m still afraid."

"I know." His thumbs moved over her knuckles. "That’s allowed. You may be afraid and go anyway. That is what courage is."

"Is that from a book?"

"It’s from Draeven. He says it about once a month."

She laughed, shakily, and the cold in her chest eased by a degree.

"All right," she said.

"All right?" He asked.

"I’ll go."

"Good." His hand lifted, and he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "And Morgana."

"Yes?"

"You do not have to say anything you don’t wish to. He is going to try to make you talk. He’s going to ask clever questions in a pleasant voice. Say nothing. Look at us. Let us answer."

"What if I want to say something?"

His eyebrows lifted.

"Then say it," he said slowly. "You are not a prisoner. You are not a child. If you have words, speak them. We will back you."

"Even if it’s the wrong thing?"

"Especially then."

She smiled, because It felt crooked.

"You’re very good at this," she said.

"I have had three centuries of practice at being extremely calm in front of people I wish to murder."

"Three centuries?"

"Two. Draeven says I round up."

She laughed so hard that she had to hold her towel.

Rowan stopped dead in the doorway.

It was a very good stop. It had everything: the sudden halt, the half-raised foot, the arms clutching a pile of rustling silk, the eyes going wide and then wider, and the jaw dropping so slowly that Morgana could actually watch it fall. She sat on the stool by the fire in Thorne’s shirt, with her hair half combed and her bare feet drawn up under her, and Rowan stared at her for a full, long, awful five seconds.

Five. Morgana counted.

It was a record.

"Hello, Rowan," she said.

"Hm," said Rowan.

"You’ve brought a gown."

"Hm."

"Is that the wine one?"

"Hm."

"Rowan, you can breathe."

Rowan took a deep breath.

She did it with great effort, in short sharp inhalations through her nose, and her eyes traveled slowly down Morgana’s neck, over the shirt collar, across her wrists and ankles and the faint dark crescents of fingers on her skin. She said nothing. Every line of her body was vibrating with the strain of it.

Behind her, a smaller, quieter figure slipped into the room.

"That will do, Rowan," said Agnes mildly.

She closed the door behind her with a soft click. She wore her usual neat grey, her cap crisp and white, and her silver-streaked hair coiled tight at the nape. Two younger maids hovered behind her in the passage, arms full of towels and pins and ribbons. Agnes turned and addressed them over her shoulder.

"Thank you, girls. We shall manage from here."

"Yes, Mistress Agnes."

"Wait in the sitting room. Not at the door. In the sitting room."

"Yes, Mistress Agnes."

They fled.

The room was quiet. Agnes turned back and surveyed Morgana from head to foot, with a face as smooth and unreadable as a closed book. Then she crossed to the stool and set one hand, very lightly, on Morgana’s damp hair.

"You look well, my lady."

"I feel well."

"I am glad of it."

"Are you going to say anything?"

"Not a word." Agnes smiled, faintly. "I am too old to be surprised, and too wise to say it aloud. The kings’ servants have been talking since dawn. I do not intend to add to the noise."

"Is it very loud?"

"It is deafening. But it will quiet. It always does." She patted the hair once and withdrew her hand. "Rowan. Put the gown on the bed."

Rowan moved.

She laid the silk across the black coverlet as though it were made of eggshells. It was a deep, dark red, the color of old wine, almost black in the shadowed corners of the room. The sleeves were long and fitted, narrowing at the wrists. The collar was high. The bodice was cut with a simple severity that made it look, somehow, more expensive than anything with lace.

"It’s beautiful," said Morgana.

"It covers the bruises," said Rowan, in a small tight voice.

"Rowan."

"Well, it does." She picked a thread from the skirt with trembling fingers. "I looked at all of them this morning. I held up six gowns to the window and I thought, no. No, you can see her arms. No, you can see her neck. No, no, no." She sniffed. "I thought I would have to send to the tailor. I thought I would have to scream."

"You did very well."

"I did not scream."

"I know. I’m proud of you."

Rowan’s chin trembled.

Then she crossed the room in four steps and threw her arms around Morgana, hard, wet-eyed, and pressed her face into her shoulder. Morgana hugged her back, and felt her friend’s whole body shaking.

"I was so worried," Rowan whispered. "You didn’t come back. You didn’t come back last night. I sat up on your bed until dawn and I thought, she’s dead, she’s been taken, she’s....."