“Wesley,” the boy said. “And I’m to wait here, as there will most certainly be a response.”
Nim’s brow rose, and she finally fell to the temptation of glancing at Allister. She wished she hadn’t. “Tea,” she managed.
“Of course, my lady.”
Allister bowed grandly before escorting the boy from the room, leaving Nim alone with her thoughts and a letter from a man who was second to only the king. “For all that is sacred,” she muttered. She might have laughed had the letter not been so heavy in her hand. She glanced at it, pale against the folds of her dark skirt.
The seneschal’s elegant hand was slanted across what might have been the finest parchment Nim had ever held. The notable Lady Weston, Hearst Manor. She blinked. Notable. She supposed it wasn’t an insult, though it was probably best not to think on the word for long.
She ran a finger over the letter’s seal, a dagger and an annulet on a shield beneath a phoenix, pressed into dark-red wax. It cracked loose, and she examined the ribbon beneath it more closely, half certain it had been made from the same material as her missing cloak.
Nim unfolded the parchment, dreading what awaited her inside.
* * *
My Lady,
* * *
Please do not abuse poor Wesley. I have grown quite fond of him and would prefer to keep him on. By now, you’ve had time to consider our agreement and have settled with the idea as best you can. As such, the days spend quickly toward the turn of the moon. Submit to me a full report of your last encounter with your keeper, as well as any tokens that have been passed to you by the society.
* * *
With Regard,
—W
* * *
Nim stared at the writing, dumbfounded. She remembered the boy’s words about there most certainly being a response and frowned. She stood, her previous notes and trappings fluttering to the ground, forgotten, and crossed to the small writing desk near the window. Taking pen and ink to hand, she scratched out a loose note.
* * *
My esteemed lord W, held in highest of regard, even by himself,
* * *
Thank you for your favor. I’m referring, of course, to the letter and the use of your darling boy. I am quite overwhelmed by your generosity in allowing me a full morning to recover, as well as your concern for my health. One can only hope that your fears will be eased by the assurance that I’m not fool enough to relay information of this private—dare I say intimate—a matter in such a common manner that might put my own health and the health of our beloved Wesley at risk.
* * *
With Discretion,
Your reluctant agent
* * *
Nim folded her message and gathered the most important of her papers and books to carry to her own desk, where she sealed the letter with wax quite hastily before returning to find Allister and the boy. Young Wesley was half full of cakes, his gloves in a pile on the floor.
“Miss—my lady,” he said around a mouthful of delicate pastries.
She waved off his attempt at a bow. “I’ve managed a response.” When she held the letter forward, he reached for it, and she caught sight of his mangled hand. Her intake of breath was sharp, and he flinched away, but Nim only stepped closer. “What happened to your hand?”
“It’s nothing miss. I—”
“Does he punish you? Does that bullheaded—”
The startled noise that came from the boy drew her up short. “That’s treason, miss.” His words were a whisper. Nim crossed her arms, and he added, “It’s not what you think. It’s not him at all. Lord Warrick has never raised a hand to me. He’s treated me nothing but well.”
Nim’s narrowed gaze trailed the lines that ran into his sleeve. “I’m no fool about wounds, Wesley. I can see that this damage was not the fault of a single accident. These scars are none the same age.” He’d been tortured, repeatedly, and it appeared that the jagged, hot red scars had been left by someone with magic—someone like an agent of the Trust—who’d stolen as a sacrifice payment for its cost. “I know who the seneschal is, and I know how this type of wound is made.”
The boy’s eyes went round. “You know Warrick? Truly? He said you’d only just met.” He looked a little crestfallen. “He said he wouldn’t lie to me.”
Guilt pinched Nim’s heart. She uncrossed her arms. “He hasn’t lied. We did just meet. I only mean I know the type of man he is.” The associations he kept, at least. What he looked like in a thin linen shirt. She cleared her throat before attempting a softer tone. “He didn’t do this to you?”
“No, my lady. I swear. It was like this… from before.” He glanced at Allister. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
She stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “Of course, you’re in the right. It was exceptionally rude of me to ask. I was only worried for you.” She understood his tone. The Trust had hurt him. The marks that remained would hurt him still—it was what the sacrifice was. Permanent. Painful. A trade for what the magic had wrought. The boy was not to speak of it. It would cost him more than his position as messenger. It would cost his life. She set the letter on the table beside him. “Have Allister pack up some cakes for you, hmm?”
A sheepish grin changed the boy’s face. “I’m very loyal to Lord Warrick, and he does treat me quite well…”
Nim smiled. “But he doesn’t give you cakes.” At the boy’s nod, Nim looked to Allister. “Alice-sized rations for this one, my good man.”
Chapter 10
The second letter came while Nim was still in bed.
“My lady,” Allister said in a tone that suggested it was not the first time, “you have an urgent message.”
Nim grumbled and pushed to sitting, the light between the curtains indicating it was the small hours before dawn. “All things sacred. What sort of pompous clod—” She narrowed her eyes. Allister narrowed his own right back. “Is Wesley in the room with us?” Nim whispered.
“Absolutely not,” Allister assured her. “Propriety would never allow such a slight.”
There was a long silence before Nim said, “He’s just outside, isn’t he?”
“Attached to the door, it would seem.”
Nim groaned and fell back onto the bed.
“Shall I fetch your robes, my lady?”
“No bother.” She sighed. “I might as well dress for the day. After all… what day is it, Allister?”
“A day past yesterday, my lady. We’ll be waiting in the corridor.”
After drawing the curtains to let in the faintest glow of light, Nim picked up the candle he’d left as she scuffled toward the wardrobe. Lack of sleep complicated the process of dealing with buttons considerably, but she managed to dress before dawn broke through the windows. With a yawn, she pinned her dark hair back and made her way to the door.