“Goodnight, Lady Franka,” she said as she walked to the dressing room door.
“Goodnight, Josette,” I replied and watched her open the door, move through it, but she gave me one last, long look before she closed it behind her.
The instant I heard it click, I turned back to the fire and whispered, “Antoine, are you there?”
I waited. I listened.
I heard nothing. I felt nothing.
I studied the flames dancing in their grate and came to the understanding Antoine was not coming to me as a spirit to keep me company in the only way he could.
It was just my conscience.
Gods, my conscience came to me in Antoine’s voice.
I supposed it would considering I’d never had one before him.
I sighed and uncurled my legs from under me, putting my bare feet to the thick rugs on the floor.
The morrow heralded the beginning of an eight-day ride to my brother through cold and snow.
Even though it might be, after having had a good sleep the night before, having been given chests of gold and jewels, new trunks filled with the finest furs, the safety wealth provided me, a plan for the coming days, months, years, that I would sleep, I was not counting on it.
So I might as well get down to it.
Whether it bring victory…
Or what I’d grown accustomed to.
Defeat.
* * * * *
Attend your father.
The hiss sounded in my ear and my eyes flew open.
I saw nothing but a dark room cut only by the faint dancing of firelight from the grate.
Attend your father!
Oh no.
Gods no.
I shot up to sitting and threw the covers off me, my gaze darting through the room.
She wouldn’t come to the Winter Palace. She’d never come to the Winter Palace.
But he would.
He most definitely would.
He did whatever he wished.
And she did whatever she had to to make that so.
Thus, worse, she’d make it safe so he could.
The buttery at the end of the hall off the kitchens, the voice instructed.
I felt the snake of panic and fear coil up my throat, but I didn’t even waste the time to snatch my shawl from the end of the bed after I jumped out of it and hurried to the door.
I just asked the room, “Do you have him?”
I’m near.
Oh gods. Gods.
Never safe. Even with trunks of jewels and gold I was never safe.
And worse, neither was Kristian.
“I’m going to him directly. Let Kristian be,” I demanded as I put my hand to the doorknob.
Accept your punishment, endure the length of it, and your brother will be safe, the voice replied.
At what I knew was to come, I felt saliva fill my mouth and swallowed it down as I pulled open the door.
The hall was lit with lantern sconces on the walls, but faintly. Hesitating only a second, I made the decision to seek the servants’ stairs, a more direct route and one where I was sure not to run into one of my kind. I had no idea where those stairs were but moved instinctively away from the main stairwell to the back of the hall.
I found them and rushed down the flights. The light even more dim there, I held on to the banister to guide my way, my bare feet making no noise on the risers.
I made the kitchens, shifting through the barely-illuminated, deserted area on darting feet, this being an area I’d been made familiar with during Frey’s first interrogation of me after a woman was poisoned at a past Bitter Gales.
I found the door at the end of the hall closed. Even knowing what lay beyond, I hesitated not even a second in opening it.
This room was lit brightly, blinding me the instant I stepped through.
I struggled to become accustomed to the light as I swiftly closed the door behind me.
Too soon, my eyes adjusted and I saw him. Standing tall and strong amongst the casks and shelves of bottles, the Drakkar good looks stamped on his proud features, even through age.
“Papa,” I whispered, fighting the shiver seeing him caused to slither over my skin.
It had been years.
But I was never safe. I knew I was never safe. Not in Lunwyn.
Her magic didn’t reach Fleuridia. And thus I counted on the fact it definitely wouldn’t reach the realms across the Green Sea.
But in Lunwyn, I knew, knew I was never safe.
“You and your brother have behaved very badly, Franka,” my father declared.
“I—” I started to explain.
“Silence!” he barked, leaning toward me, and as used to it as I was, the verbal strike of his loud word still made my body lurch in surprise and fear.
It was then I saw the lash coiled in his grip.
I didn’t take a step back. I never did. Weakness was not tolerated. I’d learned. I’d learned if I showed weakness, Kristian received the punishment and it would be twice as bad.
He could not endure it. We’d discovered that when we were children in a way so heinous, I buried it so deep I couldn’t even remember it, just the feelings it caused.
But we’d learned.
Kristian broke. He did it easily.
Soft heart. Weak will.
Thus I had to endure it. Every last strike. If I broke, they’d turn to Kristian and wouldn’t stop until the blood flowed in streams down his legs while he hung unconscious, receiving his punishment through oblivion.
“What have you done to our House, Franka?” my father asked, but didn’t allow me to answer. He continued on, “The mighty House of Drakkar could have been brought down to nothing, and would have if this generation didn’t see the resurgence of The Frey within The Drakkar.”
How had he heard?
“Please, Papa, if you’d allow me to—” I began.
“There’s no explanation for treason,” he bit out.