THE AFTERNOON WAS WANING, and the Prisma still had not called Cassia away from the garden. Perhaps she
would manage to escape back to the palace without the mage asking her to do anything else about the
rimelace. Cassia’s luck had held. It seemed word had not yet reached the cloistered halls of the
temple about the scandal at the palace, that the king’s bastard now blemished the noble Summit.
Cassia lifted her hoe from the soil at the end of the row and leaned on it. Another bed turned over.
Soon it would be time to move onto the next. She straightened, stifling a yawn. It was always that
Hesperine’s fault she did not sleep. Now she would only see him at the Summit, but it was his fault
that she would have to attend each night, and that she would lie awake in her chambers afterward,
battling her own weakness. It would surely win, and the cramps in her stomach would drive away
sleep.
As she headed for the nearest well, Knight got to his feet and followed. She drew a bucket up and
cleansed first her spade, then her hands. Knight watched her expectantly, knowing clean hands meant
petting would resume.
She was about to start scrubbing the dirt from under her fingernails when another pair of hands
entered her vision. Elegant ivory fingers took hold of the other bucket on the opposite side of the
well. Cassia glanced up to find Irene had joined her. She gave the mage a nod as civil as she gave to
anyone.
Irene’s beautiful, rosy lips curled into a smile that did not reach her eyes. “You must feel very
privileged.”
Cassia’s instincts warned her that her luck was about to run out. Irene was not to be outdone by her
brother, Free Lord Tyran, although their family had raised him to sit upon the Council and bartered her
to the temple in her childhood as a badge of their devotion to the gods. Cassia knew she would
always be Irene’s favorite target, for she lacked what Irene was most proud of—elevated, legitimate
birth—and possessed what Irene wanted more than anything. A life at court.
Cassia followed her customary policy of giving Irene as little as possible to use against her and
simply raised her eyebrows in an interested expression.
“A seat at the Summit,” the mage fawned. “What a truly unusual condescension from His Majesty.”
“Yes.”
Irene rounded the well, still smiling as if this were a harmless chat over the buckets. Closing in for
the thrust, Cassia guessed. Knight maneuvered himself into the space between her and the mage. Irene
shifted on her feet with an eye on her sky-blue robe to ensure it was not touching the dog. But she did
not back away.
“I confess to being surprised at you, Cassia. You have always shown yourself to be aware of your
place, as befits us all to be. Perhaps you have misunderstood the Prisma’s generous kindness to you.
Has your little garden plot gone to your head and emboldened you to reach out of the dirt for a seat at
the table?”
“I sit where the king bids me.”
Irene’s smile widened, but her eyes narrowed. Just a squint in the sun to anyone looking. But
Cassia, under the full impact of her gaze, saw it for the warning it was.
“As a handmaiden of Kyria, I am called to assist my fellow women in remaining on the path of
virtue. When I notice a female about to stumble, it is my duty to warn her of the pitfall waiting to trap
those who are susceptible to corruption.”
Cassia showed Irene the face she wore before the Summit.
“It may by exhilarating to sup on rich fare,” said the mage, “but only those born to it can dine with
grace. Those who were not will always appear gluttonous. Woman was born to lay the table, not sit at
it. And some women were born only to grow the food that shall be laid.” Irene’s gaze fell to the dark
lines under Cassia’s fingernails. “An ambitious gardener will only soil the linens.”
“I assure you,” Cassia replied in her mildest tone, “I scrubbed my fingernails quite clean before
answering the king’s summons to the table last night.”
Irene gave a shrug that said hew your own crypt. “Some dirt is too ingrained for the eye to see.”
Cassia gazed back at her steadily. “I could not agree with such wisdom more.”
Irene’s gaze sharpened to blade-point. “Some of us see it, no matter how deep it is hidden. Some
of us can spot presumption...unseemly pretentions...while others are duped into seeing only virtue.”
A dozen different parries occurred to Cassia, and for an instant she indulged an uncharacteristic
desire and imagined saying them. If she engaged, she could outduel Irene so effectively she would
leave the mage bleeding.
Where had this unfamiliar thirst for battle come from?
There was no call to strike back against Irene. There was no reason for these same accusations to
rankle Cassia. Bastard. Tarnished. Unwomanly. Presumptuous. No wedding vows had constrained her
mother. Therefore the daughter too must be uncontrolled, uncontrollable. Always violating the proper
bounds the gods had placed on her, lusting for men, riches, or power. Cassia had heard it all before.
She spent every day laboring to be acceptable, and they still believed her capable of every
transgression.
Irene was just more of the same. A woman who regarded other women as a threat to her. A
daughter trying to make what she could of the life her father had ordained for her.
In fact, Irene was a great deal like Cassia herself. The only difference was that Cassia only
worried about real dangers. Irene’s jealousy drove her to see threats where there were none.
“Certainly,” Cassia said, “we should all strive for a greater level of insight. With the goddess’s
help, we ought to all pray to become better judges of character.”
Irene’s lips pressed together. “Oh, yes, Cassia. Pray. And hope that when you fall, the gods hear
and are merciful enough to catch you.” She took her bucket in hand and turned her back on Cassia to
walk away.
Cassia gazed down at her hands, which were clean of everything except those little smudges under
her nails. Knight nudged her, reminding her she should be petting him. She gave his ears a thorough
rub. Satisfied the threat was gone and they were on schedule, he wagged his tail.
If only her own course seemed so simple as the one that governed his life.
She glanced at the sinking sun. If she did not dawdle, she had just enough time before dusk rites to
talk to the Prisma.
When she stepped into the antechamber, her heart pounded, warning her what her body would do
to her if she went through with the plan she was about to propose. The knot in her belly agreed with
Irene that Cassia had no place even attempting this. All her life, Cassia had agreed with that, too.
Everyone had. Except Lio.
Curse him. She was not doing this because of what he had said. She was doing it because she
wanted her hours at that table to produce more than another night of sweating and nausea. Because she
was just corrupt enough to want a place at that table and just virtuous enough to want to use it to erase
the look of despair she had seen on the Prisma’s face at the news there would be no medicine.
The vestibule door opened, and thankfully it was sympathetic Deutera who invited Cassia inside.
Cassia entered with one hand on Knight’s ruff to steady herself, and Deutera departed, shutting the
door behind them.
The Prisma stood before Kyria, half turned away from the door. She had draped her apron over a
nearby chair in anticipation of dusk rites. “Lady Cassia. Can I do something for you?”
Cassia cleared her throat. Her stomach seemed to have leapt into it and lodged there to stop her
words from coming out. She swallowed. “Actually I came to ask if I might do something for you.”
The mage turned, wearing a smile that must have cost her a great deal of effort. “Do not feel you
have anything to make up for, child. The rimelace is out of our reach.”
“Perhaps it isn’t.”
The Prisma’s brows lifted over her tired eyes. “You think there may yet be a chance?”
Cassia swallowed again. “It would require broad permission from you, but if it is acceptable to
you, I will do my part.”
“Please, go on.”
“If you will allow me...” Cassia’s belly flopped. Her sweat-soaked gardening dress would need
washing when she returned to the palace. When she escaped...and fled toward her fate. “...I could
convey to the Summit your concerns about the frost fever and plead on your behalf that they
reconsider their decision regarding the Hesperines’ gift of healing herbs.”
The Prisma came to her and took her hands. Her grip, firm but gentle, stilled Cassia’s shaking.
Cassia dropped her gaze to their joined hands. The Prisma’s were strong and callused from hard
work, brown from time spent in the sun. The little marks and discolorations on them were not unlike
Cassia’s freckles, although she had been born with hers, and the Prisma had earned hers through a life
of harsh endeavor and exposure to the elements. Cassia could imagine the hands that held hers had
saved many lives, while Cassia’s had been busy clinging to her own.
“You have overcome a great deal to suggest this,” the Prisma said. “I appreciate what more you
must overcome to act on it. Kyria bless you for acting.”
Cassia resisted the urge to tighten her hold on those hands. For steadiness. For...comfort? “Then
you will permit me?”
“Lady Cassia, I would not be ashamed before the goddess to beg you.”
Cassia swallowed again. “What message shall I deliver to the Summit for you?”
“Tell the truth about the outbreak. Inform the king and Council they must take immediate action to
provide the medicine if they expect my mages to protect anyone. We are out of time. We must have the
rimelace now, or there will be no hope.” The Prisma gave Cassia’s hands a squeeze.
Cassia flexed stiff fingers and returned the gesture. “I will wait no longer to speak.”