Chapter 310: A Letter From Your Mother

"I know."

"At any hour."

"I know."

"Come to me. Or send. I will not mind." He hesitated. "I would prefer it, truly."

She smiled.

It was a small, tired, true smile.

"Good night, Draeven," she said.

"Good night."

***

The room was dark when she reached it.

Rowan had not lit the lamps. She sat in the window seat, hunched in her grey wool, with her knees drawn up and a cooling pot of tea at her elbow. Moonlight fell across her face. She looked up when the door opened, and her eyes went straight to Morgana’s face.

She did not speak.

She rose. She crossed the room. She put her arms around Morgana, and held on, hard, and the two of them stood there in the dark with their foreheads pressed together.

"I heard," Rowan whispered.

"Everyone heard."

"The whole palace is talking about it. Cook was crying in the larder. She said you were the bravest girl she’s ever seen." Rowan’s voice shook. "I didn’t know what to do. I came to find you, and Corin said you were with the kings."

"I was."

"Is it true? Is your....is your father...."

"I don’t know." Morgana drew back. "I don’t know, Rowan. I think so. I think he is."

Rowan’s eyes were enormous.

"I’ll tell you," Morgana said. "All of it. I promise. But not tonight. Tonight I can’t."

"I know."

"I’m so tired."

"I know you are." Rowan took her hand. "Come and sit. I’ll get you out of that gown. I’ll put you in bed. You needn’t say a word."

They did it in silence.

Rowan’s fingers were deft and quick, as they always were. She unpinned the high coil of hair and laid the silver pins in a neat row on the dresser. She undid the long line of buttons. The heavy dark gown slid from Morgana’s shoulders, and Rowan caught it and folded it over a chair. She drew the soft nightgown over Morgana’s head.

Morgana sat on the edge of the bed.

She was so tired. It was a bone-deep, hollow weariness, as though something had been scooped out of her and left a gap. She stared at her hands. They lay in her lap, small and pale and still.

She said, in a very small voice, "I want to see my mother."

"I know," said Rowan.

"I want to see her so much."

"I know." Rowan sat beside her. Her arm came around Morgana’s shoulders. "I know, love."

"I haven’t seen her in a weeks. And she’s sick, Rowan. She was already sick. And now some terrible man knows where she lives, and I’m here, in this gown, in this room, eating cake....."

Her voice broke.

Rowan held her.

She didn’t say anything. She only rocked, slowly, a little, from side to side, the way Morgana’s own mother had done in the dark of the cottage after a nightmare. She held on while Morgana cried, hard and silent, the shaking sobs of someone who has been strong for far too long.

When it was over, Morgana sat with her face in her hands.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"Don’t you dare."

"I’m a mess."

"You’re a person." Rowan wiped Morgana’s cheek with her thumb. "You’re allowed."

Morgana laughed wetly.

The clock on the mantel ticked. The fire had burned low. Moonlight lay across the floor in a long pale bar, and in the quiet she heard her own breath slowing, evening out.

"I have something for you," said Rowan.

Morgana looked up.

Rowan had gone very still.

She was sitting with one hand in the pocket of her apron, and her face had a strange, careful, almost frightened look. She drew her hand out slowly. Something small and pale was folded in her palm.

A paper.

It was a piece of coarse yellow parchment, folded in thirds and tied with a bit of string. One edge was smudged. The string was knotted in a clumsy, hurried hand. In the middle, pressed into a blob of dark red wax, was the faint print of a thumb.

"A stable boy brought it to the kitchens," Rowan said quietly. "At noon. During the council. He was out of breath. He said Master Garrick had sent him, and that it was for you, and that I was to give it into your hand and no one else’s."

Morgana did not move.

"There was a note, too." Rowan’s voice was low. "Wrapped around the outside. I read it. I’m sorry. I thought it might be...." She swallowed. "I thought I ought to know."

She held out a second slip.

It was small and creased, written in a big blunt hand with a stub of charcoal. Morgana took it with fingers that did not feel like her own. She tilted it toward the moon.

Girl, it said.

This came to my door last night, late, by way of a man from the kitchens, who had it from a flour merchant, who had it from a baker in Ashford. I do not know all the hands it passed through. I know it is from your mother. I was to put it in your hand. I tried at dawn. The guards at the east wing wouldn’t let me past the gate.

Then I heard what that lord said in the hall.

I’m sorry I did not find a way sooner. I am an old man and a slow one. But I wouldn’t hold it another hour.

Read it. Then come and see me. I’ll have tea.

G.

Morgana read it twice.

Then she lowered the note, very slowly, to her lap.

"Rowan," she said.

"Yes."

"Did you..." She couldn’t finish.

"I didn’t open it." Rowan’s voice was gentle. "I wouldn’t. It’s yours."

Morgana looked at the folded parchment in Rowan’s hand.

She had seen that string before. She knew it. It was the same coarse brown twine her mother used to bind the herb bundles that hung from the rafters of the cottage, the same knot, clumsy and quick, that she tied around everything. She knew the faint stain on one corner of the paper, the soft brown smudge of a thumb that had worked in dye. She knew the smell that rose from it when she took it, very faintly, through all the other smells of palace and journey, lavender and woodsmoke and old stone.

Home.