Chapter 314: Meeting Mistress Calla Again

"My lady," said Calla.

Her voice was perfectly level.

Morgana stopped.

She stood in the middle of the cold gallery with the morning light behind her and looked down at the bowed cap. She had imagined this a hundred times, in the cells, in the dark, on the long nights when she was a servant under that woman’s thumb. She had imagined it with a fierce, hungry satisfaction. She had imagined saying something cutting.

She found, now that it had come, that she did not want to.

"Mistress Calla," she said.

"My lady."

"You may rise."

Calla rose. Her face was colorless, set like a mask, but her eyes had gone to Morgana’s and held there with a hard unwavering stare, the stare of someone waiting to be struck.

"Good morning," said Morgana. "I hope you are well."

"Very well, my lady. I thank you."

"I am glad."

She meant it, a little, and was surprised. The older woman’s mouth twitched.

"I understand the household has been busy," Morgana said. "With the council. I hope the girls have been well looked after."

"They have."

"Good." She paused. "Rowan especially."

A flicker.

"Rowan is an excellent maid, my lady."

"She is. She has been a better friend than I deserved." Morgana’s voice stayed quiet, and quite calm. "I would like her treated accordingly."

"It shall be seen to."

"Thank you."

She was about to walk on. She had taken half a step. And then something rose in her, small and cold and clear, and she turned back.

"Mistress Calla."

"My lady?"

"The day I was taken from the stables," said Morgana, "you told Master Garrick that if he took another step, he would hang beside me."

The gallery went very still.

Behind Calla, a maid drew a sharp breath. Calla’s face did not move. But the hand at her hip, the one resting on the ring of keys, had gone white at the knuckles.

"I remember it," Morgana said. "I remember what his face looked like."

"My lady, I..."

"I am not going to say anything more today." Her voice was gentle. It had no heat in it at all. "I only wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten. And that I have chosen, for now, not to do anything about it."

Silence.

It stretched. It seemed to fill the whole long stone passage. Calla’s eyes searched Morgana’s face, and what she found there, Morgana could not tell. Perhaps it was only the three kings standing, invisible, behind her shoulder. Perhaps it was something older.

The mistress of the maids lowered her gaze.

"I understand, my lady," she said, in a voice hardly above a whisper.

"Good."

"Thank you."

"Good morning, Mistress Calla."

"Good morning, my lady."

She walked on.

She did not look back. She heard, behind her, the long hush of grey skirts and the chime of keys beginning again, softly, unevenly, and a young maid’s whispered, awed, "Did you see...." cut short by an iron hiss. She heard Corin’s boots fall into step beside her. She noticed, a little dazedly, that her hands were shaking.

At the end of the gallery, out of sight of the line, she stopped and leaned against the wall.

"My lady?" said Corin, carefully.

"I’m all right."

"Was that...."

"Yes."

"Gods," said Corin, with feeling.

She laughed.

It burst out of her, startled and shaky, and she pressed her hand over her mouth. Corin’s solemn young face cracked, and for an instant he looked very much like a boy of nineteen who had just watched something he would tell his grandchildren about.

"Not a word," she said.

"I would never, my lady."

"Not to Rowan."

"Especially not to Rowan."

She pushed off the wall.

Her knees were still trembling. But her chin was up, and her heart, under the dark brown wool, was lighter than it had been in a long time.

***

Garrick had the kettle on.

She smelled it from the end of the yard, in the grey morning, a thin curl of woodsmoke and strong black tea from the chimney of the head stable’s office. The stalls were quiet. A few of the hands were about, mucking out, hauling water, and she saw them look up as she crossed the cobbles in her plain brown wool, with Corin trailing three discreet paces behind. Nobody said anything. Nobody stared. One of the lads, the lanky girl with the bridle, dropped her eyes and murmured, "Morning, my lady," and went back to her work.

The door of the office was ajar.

She knocked on it anyway.

"It’s open, girl."

He was sitting at his battered desk with his boots up and a mug in his fist. Last night’s candle had burned down to a stub. The stove was lit. The cracked clay mug hung on its hook by the window, and beside it, set out on a clean cloth, was a second cup, and a third, and a little dish of dried plums.

He looked up.

He did not smile. He only looked at her, long and level, over the rim of his mug, the way he looked over a horse that had come back from a hard ride. She saw him take in her face, the swollen eyes, the careful straight back.

"Sit," he said.

She sat down.

He poured the tea. It was black and strong and bitter, and he put in a spoonful of honey without asking, the way he always did. He pushed the cup across the desk. He did not say, did you read it. He did not say, well. He only leaned back in his creaking chair and drank his own tea and looked, politely, at the stove.

For a while neither of them said anything.

The kettle ticked. A horse stamped somewhere beyond the wall. The morning light was cold and clear, and it fell across the old desk and the scatter of ledgers and the smooth worn handle of a currycomb lying forgotten among the papers.

"I read it," said Morgana.

"Aye."

"You didn’t ask."

"Wasn’t my place."

"Thank you for sending it."

"I’d have sent it sooner."

"I know."

"I tried."

"I know you did." She wrapped both hands around the cup. It was hot, and rough, and a little chipped. "Garrick."

"Aye?"

"Did you ever....." She stopped. She started again. "Did your mother ever lie to you? To keep you safe?"