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Chapter 11

In mercy, the sun was shining, the sky was a clear, pale blue, and the wind, though chill, held a hint of spring. Denoriel could only be humbly grateful to the Powers That Be because Elizabeth would have insisted on leaving for Chelsea even if it had been pouring rain. She was as excited and light-spirited now as she had been downhearted before she learned she was to live with Queen Catherine. Yet she was going into much greater danger than she had been in years.

Elizabeth would need to be cautious, to be circumspect. She should have shown herself modest and obedient and ridden in the traveling wagon Queen Catherine had sent. Possibly she would have been willing to ride in the wagon if it had poured rain. Possibly.

Denoriel doubted it. He had not even suggested the idea, although he knew he needed to alert her to guard herself. He hated to dim the glow of her golden eyes; he wanted her to be happy. But the reliance she put on the queen to protect her was probably unfounded and dangerous. And Aleneil would not even be with her.

Denoriel's jaw set hard, but he relaxed it. He had not thought to tell Aleneil to stay with Elizabeth and it seemed she had business of her own. As Lady Alana she had asked for and been granted a leave of absence and Denoriel had no idea where she had gone. She was not in her own house in Avalon. He had left a message with her servants, but even if she got it, she could not immediately go back to Elizabeth. The silly maids of honor would be surprised and gossip.

What he had done was to suggest that Elizabeth include Blanche among the young noblewomen. He knew that giving Blanche a place in that vehicle would draw some angry looks from the maids of honor and possibly a protest from Kat. But when Elizabeth glanced at him with widened eyes, he only whispered that she order Blanche to carry her jewels, which would provide a reason for Blanche not to go with the other servants. Elizabeth, bless her, had not asked why, only gave her orders and ended the noble maidens' incipient protests with a peremptory gesture.

Now he glanced sidelong at Elizabeth who sat her mare as firmly as if she had been nailed to the saddle. The animal was full of energy, curveting from side to side and tossing her lovely head. Elizabeth had been too downhearted over the past weeks to want to ride, and the mare needed exercise.

Ahead of them rode Gerrit and Shaylor. Just behind were the other two guards, Nyle and Dickson, and behind them Dunstan, followed by Ladbroke and Reeve Tolliver leading Elizabeth's extra horses. Denoriel glanced back along the road. First came the traveling cart, then three wains loaded with clothing and such furniture, paintings, dishes, and decorations as Kat and Elizabeth had decided they could not do without. And lastly a fourth wain fitted with benches and some pillows for the servants.

Elizabeth also looked back. He saw her nod; they were now out of sight of Enfield and it was safe for her to lean confidentially closer to him. "Denno, why did you want Blanche to travel with my maids of honor? Surely they are not important enough to draw—" her voice stopped, her lips quivered; she could not form what she had intended to say. "No one would care to hurt my maids," she finished. Her eyes sparked gold with—Denoriel almost groaned—what he greatly feared was anticipation. "Will we be attacked?"

"Not you," Denoriel said. "After what Oberon said—" Oberon was a name much used in poetry and betrayed nothing; moreover, there was no prohibition about him speaking of Underhill, though if it were reported he might be stripped of his power or even killed, "—I think you, personally, are safe from any attack. Mistress Ashley, though . . ."

"Kat!" Elizabeth breathed, looking stricken now. "No! It would be because of me. I could not bear it if Kat were hurt."

"Yes, my dear," Denoriel said. "I know that you would be wounded to the heart if any ill befell Mistress Ashley. That is just why I fear she might be a target, just as Blanche was last year. You must be watchful, and not only for what only you can see but for mortal attack also."

"But why did you not warn me sooner? I never thought of any danger to her. I did not watch at all . . ."

"There was little danger in Enfield. Your household was so much reduced and there were no diplomatic visits nor any interaction with the Court. Any stranger would have been noticed at once. And Blanche is always watchful for . . . ah . . . other dangers."

"I see." Elizabeth bit her lip gently. "Chelsea is much larger and it will be full of people I do not know."

"Yes, and Mistress Ashley must deal with the officers of the queen's household and their servants, particularly for the few weeks immediately after your arrival to arrange where, when, and how your households will combine."

"What can I do?" Elizabeth breathed. "Can I send one of the guardsmen with her? Will she allow it? Will she not ask why I have ordered such a thing?"

"Not a guardsman, no. However, could you not suggest that she take Dunstan with her? Much of what she will decide with the queen's household officers will be what he will be responsible for. You can hint it would be better if he heard his duties and responsibilities directly from them rather than have her need to make notes and repeat what was decided. And Dunstan is handy both with the sword and with a knife."

"Yes. Yes, he is. I have seen him practice with the guardsmen." She smiled, although her eyes were not quite as bright now. "Thank you, Denno. God's Grace, what would I do without you?"

"You are very welcome," he said soberly, "but likely it would be better if you did not make any point of how useful I am to you. It will be construed as a common merchant exerting undue influence on a lady of importance and power."

They rode in silence for a little while. Denoriel thought Elizabeth looked delicious with the tip of her nose and her cheeks unusually pink because of the cold and her excitement.

Suddenly she turned on him and said, "You did that apurpose! You did not want me to be so happy and carefree."

Denoriel opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was silenced by a terrible pang of guilt. Was it possible that he did not want her to be happy and carefree because then she would not need him? It was an ugly thought.

Possibly true too, but it did not matter. Elizabeth was one step nearer the throne now than she had been during her father's reign, and both threats and temptations would surround her. During the upheaval right after Henry's death, everything had been too uncertain to allow her to be a target, and her own fears and depression insulated her. In Catherine's household, she would not be so safe.

"I always want you to be happy," Denoriel said. He had to say it whether it was true or not, but he added soberly, "But it is true that I did not wish you to think that you were coming into a new stage of life in which there would be no dangers and dark places."

"Surely the queen does not wish me harm!"

"No. No, indeed," Denoriel assured her hastily. "Queen Catherine, I believe, loves you dearly and only wishes you the best of everything. However, you must remember that she is no longer your father's wife. She . . . she has her freedom and much wealth. There will be many . . . ah . . . visitors to Chelsea."

"Denno, speak plainly! What are you saying to me?" Elizabeth's red brows contracted into an angry frown.

"That Queen Catherine will be courted. She might even marry again."

"Marry again? After being my father's wife?" There was indignation in Elizabeth's voice.

That was dangerous. If Elizabeth showed disapproval of what Denoriel guessed would be Thomas Seymour's courtship, Catherine might well decide that having Elizabeth in her household was inconvenient. And, since Elizabeth was still too young to live alone and since Catherine had always liked Mary, the odds were that Catherine would suggest Elizabeth join her elder sister. That, Denoriel had already decided, would be utter disaster.

"Elizabeth!"

Denoriel's voice was so sharp that Elizabeth jerked her mare's rein and the animal jibbed. He reached out to grasp the mare's headstall, but Elizabeth already had her under control. She stared at him now, her mouth a sullen line.

"You loved your father, most rightly, and to you he was like the sun, a great and glorious being. But think of him for a husband. Think of the physical man, not the king."

Her gaze, which had been fixed challengingly on him as soon as the mare was docile, first looked away, then dropped.

"Did you know, Elizabeth, that your father was Queen Catherine's third old husband, that she was married when not quite fifteen to a sick man old enough to be her grandfather? In fact Lord Borough's son was suitably married to a woman who was seventeen years older than Catherine."

Elizabeth made a soft, horrified sound. She was nearly fifteen and knew that for diplomatic purposes she could easily be married to a king old enough to be her grandfather. Perhaps for once her mind's eye recalled her father as he was that last year of his life—too grossly fat to walk, always stinking slightly from the unhealing sores on his leg.

Denoriel was sorry to spoil her memory of the perfect being who had been king, but he continued inexorably, "Catherine was a perfect wife to Lord Borough, as she was to your father, and when the old man died, he left her rich. But in a way he died too soon. She was less than seventeen and her guardian—her mother had died the same year as Lord Borough—chose Lord Latimer for her second husband. He was not quite as old as Borough, but already ailing. She was his third wife."

Elizabeth had not raised her eyes again. She was looking down at her gloved fingers holding the reins.

"Again Catherine was a good wife and the kindest and most loving of stepmothers to Latimer's two children."

"As she was to us," Elizabeth murmured. "It was no pretense. She really cared for us."

"Yes, indeed. You may well meet Latimer's children. I am sure they will visit Queen Catherine now that she is no longer so hedged in with ceremony. They still love her dearly. Latimer loved her too. When he died, he left her even richer. And she was no longer a minor. She was old enough to make her own choice. As you can imagine, she was courted by a number of strong and handsome young men. I have heard rumors that she had almost decided among them, but then the king asked her to be his bride."

Elizabeth was silent again, but she looked at Denoriel and then looked away. He knew she was thinking, another sick old man.

"She was young enough still to have children," Denoriel said. "She is still young enough to have children, Elizabeth. And she loves children so much. Would you deny her the right to have her own child . . . because she was married to your father? Has she not waited long enough, been dutiful enough, to marry once for love?"

Elizabeth did not reply, and Denoriel said no more, content to leave her to her own thoughts. Elizabeth did love Catherine; she would be—because of her personal fears of what she might be forced to accept—sympathetic to the queen and come to accept courtship and marriage for Catherine.

Denoriel was not very happy about inclining Elizabeth in Thomas Seymour's favor. Because of his suspicions it was Seymour who had tried to have him killed, once he was reasonably sure that Catherine would invite Elizabeth to live with her, Denoriel had taken some time to discover what he could about Sir Thomas. He was very dissatisfied with what he learned. He sincerely wished that Catherine had not chosen so ill, that she had sought out worth rather than a beautiful body and flashy good looks. However, Denny had told him that it was Thomas Seymour the king had displaced and it was all too natural for Catherine to turn to the man she had loved once again.

If that was true, Catherine would take Seymour. What could be more flattering than that he had waited for her, not endangering her with his attentions while she was Henry's wife, but rushing forward to court her again as soon as she was free? Denoriel wondered if there were some way to let Catherine know that Seymour had proposed himself for both Mary and Elizabeth before he at last turned to her.

Could Elizabeth drop that information—as if she had been warned that Seymour had asked for her and that he was not suitable? No! She was little more than a child, just over fourteen. But girl children, who knew they must some day marry, were fanciful. If Elizabeth knew that Seymour had asked for her, would she be flattered? Inclined to look at him as a suitor?

Better to tell Elizabeth about Seymour's earlier aborted courtship of Catherine, which would fix him in her mind as belonging to Catherine. Denoriel just prevented himself from wrinkling his nose as if he smelled something foul. Unfortunately that tale might also paint him to Elizabeth as noble and chivalrous, which was far from the truth. He was only greedy (Catherine was rich and Elizabeth well endowed) and ambitious, seeking to lift himself up to his wife's position.

"I suppose," he said, "since I have said this much, I had better give you the rest of the rumors."

"Rumors? About Queen Catherine? Who dared . . ."

"It was before she was queen, when the king first approached her. There was some anxious talk about whether his majesty was going to be cuckolded again because Mistress Parr had a lover already."

"A lover?" Elizabeth's voice rose in protest.

Denoriel reached over and patted her arm. "More was rumored than was true."

"Then why did you listen to such scurrilous talk?" she asked, hotly accusatory.

"Elizabeth! Not for any dislike of the queen. She is and always was a woman I greatly admired. But, as you can imagine, I was concerned—particularly when I also heard of how good a stepmother she had been to Latimer's children. I was afraid she would make you love her, and if she too were discovered to be unfaithful—"

"Never! Never once did Queen Catherine show favor to any man or meet with any man except in public rooms in the presence of the entire Court. She never even entertained the officers of her household in her private withdrawing rooms."

"A wise and virtuous woman."

"Yes! She is! And, thinking back, no man sought her favor either. I think the rumors you heard were just mean-spirited gossip, made up to sully Her Highness."

"No, Elizabeth. The rumors were true enough. Oh, not that she had a lover but that many men courted her after Lord Latimer's death and that she had all but decided on one of her suitors when your father intervened."

"She did not!" Elizabeth cried, tears standing in her eyes. "I tell you there was no man." She uttered a sob and then said loudly, "I watched! I did watch this time in case . . . I would have warned her."

"There was no need for warning. The gentleman was clever in the ways of power."

Denoriel hesitated, wondering if he should tell Elizabeth that Seymour loved Catherine's rich estates far more than her person, and that he suffered only a check to his greed not a wrenching of the heart when he gave her up. Swiftly, he decided against that kind of criticism. In fact he did not know Thomas did not care for Catherine. Considering Catherine Howard's fate—and that of her lovers—Thomas' restraint might have been to protect himself as well as a lady for whom he cared.

"When he knew the king intended to make the lady an offer," Denoriel continued when Elizabeth looked an inquiry at him, "he went away. And he never approached her in all the time she was your father's wife. But after King Henry died, he came swiftly to offer the . . . the consolation of his condolences and his service."

"Oh." There was a little silence in which Elizabeth looked straight ahead and blinked twice. Then in a small voice she asked, "Who?"

"Sir Thomas Seymour."

For a little while she did not respond at all. Then she cocked her head to the side and said, "The king's uncle . . . the younger uncle. Yes, I've seen him." Her lips began to curve. "Yes. A tall man and well made. Not so tall and well made as you, my Denno, but still an impressive figure. And handsome too. A thick curling head of hair and an auburn beard to match, although I think I prefer you smooth shaven."

Denoriel was considerably startled by Elizabeth's use of him as a model against which Seymour did not quite match up. He found himself warm and flattered . . . too warm! She was only a child! But before he could think what to say, she had glanced sidelong at him, eyes glinting.

She paused as if to think and then giggled. "How would you look with a white beard?"

"Like an old man," Denoriel said somewhat bitterly, owing to the sudden bursting of his bubble of pleased surprise over her praise.

"Oh, no." The sharpness and mischief were completely gone from her voice. "You will never be old, my Denno."

The tone in which those last words were spoken sent a new pulse of warmth—no, think the truth—desire through him, but the words themselves were enough to add pain and chill to Denoriel's desire. Within Elizabeth's life-span, he would never be old. She would age while he would not.

He remembered the many warnings given him when he began to love Harry FitzRoy, that Harry's life compared with his was like the blooming of a flower, sweet and beautiful, but gone to brown death in a day. That did not matter. In the end he had not lost Harry, who was alive and well and making merry mischief Underhill.

Only Elizabeth was not a little boy. She was female and from the tone of her voice not immune to him. Because he was the only male who had ever been so close to her? And she was, although high young breasts now shaped her riding dress and her narrow waist flared into broadening hips, still a child. His hurt in her short life was irrelevant; her hurt if he bound her love to him was wrong, dangerous to her.

He would deliver her safe to the queen's care and take himself Underhill. He would join Harry's pursuit of the evils that had made El Dorado and Alhambra uninhabitable to the Sidhe . . . and he would strangle his unnatural desire.

 

Rhoslyn returned to Lady Mary's residence only an hour or two before dawn of the next day. She replaced the pillows in their usual position, gestured to remove her clothing, got into bed and released the maid. The girl blinked, yawned as if she had been asleep, which she believed she had been, and peered anxiously at her mistress. Assured that Rhoslyn was breathing quietly, she then clucked softly at her own carelessness and occupied herself with putting away the clothing Rhoslyn had left in a heap on the floor.

When the maid came to look at her again, sometime later in the morning, Rhoslyn stirred and pretended to wake. She had spent the quiet hours between releasing the maid and this wakening thinking about Pasgen, and she had decided that she did not dare leave him all on his own. He would doubtless come to the mortal world as he promised, but if he did not discover anything to hold his interest, he would be consumed by curiosity and God alone knew what he then would do. Rhoslyn shook her head at herself for calling on the human God who meant nothing to her.

Yes. She had spent far too much time listening to prayer and discourses on the human soul. She was not human and, she hoped sincerely, had no soul. It was enough to live for a few thousand years. There was no need to be greedy and desire immortality, particularly if one was threatened with unending torment for not adhering to the ridiculous patterns of righteousness demanded by the humans' God. Rhoslyn had been amused at that thought, but she suddenly shivered. Was that not what she had lived in all of her life, a place of unending torment?

She tore her thoughts away and concentrated on choosing clothing, deliberately selecting a pale yellow shift gathered at the throat to make a small frill and a dark green gown. The combination made her dark skin sallow and she drew her hair back under her green and yellow headdress.

The effect of her choice was immediately apparent when Susan Clarencieux, another favorite of Lady Mary, scratched and was admitted. "Oh," she said softly, "Mistress Rosamund, I see you are still not well. You should not have dressed."

Rhoslyn sighed. "I felt it necessary. You are very right, Mistress Susan, I am not so much recovered as I hoped. I fear I must ask Lady Mary to give me a leave of absence until I am stronger and I wished—during this sad time—to ask her in person, rather than just write a note."

"Lady Mary is free now, Mistress Rosamund, and sent me to ask about your well-doing. Let me give you my arm and bring you to her."

Mary was so kind and so concerned that Rhoslyn almost felt guilty for diminishing her already thinned entourage. Rhoslyn suspected that she was not the only lady or gentleman who had had enough of prayers for the dead. Moreover, Pasgen was more important than Mary, actually more important than England. Whatever happened would be over and done with in little more than an eyeblink compared with Pasgen's lifetime. Pasgen must be protected against himself.

On the other hand this really was a good time to be away. Nothing at all of political importance was likely to happen for a few weeks. Rhoslyn knew she could not leave her post permanently. Mary was now the heir apparent to the throne and as soon as those who would control the government felt they were secure, they would begin to apply pressure to Mary to bend her one way or another. Until they were sure, however, Mary would be courteously left alone.

Rhoslyn did not anticipate and did not have any trouble in winning her freedom. Lady Mary had taken her hands as soon as Rhoslyn was close enough to be seen. She urged Rhoslyn to sit down, exclaiming that she was sorry to see Mistress Rosamund still so pale. And Rhoslyn had hardly mentioned her desire to retire to her brother's house, when her request was approved. Her only problem thereafter was how to escape Lady Mary's anxious attempts to assist her in every way possible.

She succeeded only partially at last only by allowing Mary to provide for her transportation into London, where she said a message to her brother would bring his servants. That agreement at least saved her from another reading from the Fathers on the higher value to be placed on the comfort of the soul than that of the body because it was important to leave as soon as possible.

Even so, she raged inwardly as the clumsy vehicle—the most luxurious available but still slow and uncomfortable—crawled toward London. She was terrified that Pasgen would find some way around the promises he had made to her. She could too easily imagine him being drawn to examine more closely those ill-formed constructs and being swallowed up by the malevolent Chaos Land.

A few moments after Mary's vehicle deposited Rhoslyn in an elegant inn, she was out of the place by a back door. She made her way to Pasgen's Gate just north of Westminster Abbey, transferring from the terminus at the Goblin Market to the Gate that took her to the empty house. There the worst of her fears was assuaged, for she found Pasgen himself writing a message, purportedly from her imaginary brother's servant, asking her to attend on her brother.

"But I could not for the life of me think of a way of getting the message to you soon enough," Pasgen said.

Rhoslyn's eyes widened with alarm. "Soon enough for what? You are not going back to that dreadful place!"

Pasgen frowned. "I will have to go back, Rhoslyn," he said slowly. "I cannot leave what may be a real danger to the whole of Underhill without finding out if it is a danger, and if it is, without doing something."

She felt rising panic. "You need do nothing, certainly not go back to that hellish place! I will go to Oberon and report what you saw—only, of course, I will say that I saw it, that I had chosen an Unformed land at random to create a few constructs—"

"Rhoslyn." Suddenly Pasgen started to laugh. "I am the one who was always wiping up the messes you had left with your spells—"

"Yes," Rhoslyn interrupted forcefully, "and it is about time that I paid back all your favors. No, seriously, Pasgen, Oberon will not question my appeal to him. I am known for my creation of constructs and if anyone were to induce a mist to imitate creation, it is logical that it was me."

"But it was not you . . . and, Rhoslyn, it was not me either. The mist did not learn creation from me. I was not creating anything, only studying its properties. It was Elizabeth. She did not know how to create so she made a picture in her mind and begged the mist to create it."

"I will not tell Oberon about Elizabeth," Rhoslyn said quickly. "The less he thinks about her the safer she is. I will just tell him about the strangeness of the mist in that Unformed land."

For a moment Pasgen frowned thoughtfully at her, then he nodded. "Telling Oberon is not at all a bad idea, but not until I have a chance to test that mist again."

"Pasgen! You promised!"

"I know, but my curiosity is eating me up alive. I will be careful, Rhoslyn. I will stay right by the Gate . . ."

She shivered and caught at his hand. "Please, Pasgen!"

He laughed and turned his hand in hers so that he could squeeze it comfortingly. "Well, it is not something you need to worry about right now. I was not writing to say that I was off to the Unformed land. Why in the world would I send a note to the mortal world to tell you that?"

"So that I would be at hand Underhill to try to rescue you?" Her voice was tart with irony.

He pressed her hand again. "Would you, Rhoslyn?" Then he bent his head and sighed. "Yes, I know you would. And that is the thing most likely to keep me out of that Chaos Land." He gave her hand a last squeeze and said more briskly, "No, I was not planning to attack that problem just yet. We have another."

Rhoslyn let out a long breath. "Whatever it is, I welcome it if it has distracted you from that malevolent mist."

But he was shaking his head. "No, Rhoslyn. I do not believe the mist is at all malevolent. To me it seemed merely curious."

She bit her lip, and looked him in the eyes. "That an Unformed land can have become self-aware enough to be curious is dreadful and frightening enough. What is this other problem?"

His mouth thinned into a grim line. "It seems that plans are being made to arrange the deaths of Denoriel and Aleneil in the mortal world."

Her eyes widened, but what he had just told her seemed to make no sense. "Aleneil and Denoriel? That is ridiculous! How did you learn of this?"

"The first thing I decided to do when I Gated to the mortal world was to check on Fagildo Otstargi's house," he said, with a deep anger smoldering in his eyes. "The servant, to my amazement, was not in the least surprised to see me come down from the bedchamber. Now I chose him for his stupidity, but not to have noticed that I had been gone for several years seemed stupid beyond what was possible."

"To me also," Rhoslyn agreed, frowning.

He smiled, but without a trace of humor. "It seems that 'I' had not, after all been gone for years. 'I' have appeared irregularly from time to time."

"Vidal," Rhoslyn breathed.

"Yes, Vidal."

She clasped her hands together in distress. "He is trying to do something forbidden in the mortal world that will bring Oberon to attack you!"

"That was my first thought," Pasgen agreed. "But then I learned by looking into the servant's mind that Albertus, Aurilia's servant, was living in Otstargi's house and that his purpose was to arrange the deaths of Aleneil and Denoriel."

Rhoslyn's eyes opened wider still. "What profit can Aurilia gain by their deaths? Aleneil is a FarSeer, but only the youngest and least powerful of those in the Bright Court. You said that you chose Otstargi's servant to be very stupid. Could he have misunderstood what he heard?"

Pasgen grimaced. "I did not learn it from him, but from Albertus himself." And he went on to describe to Rhoslyn his whole conversation with Albertus.

"So there can be no mistake." Rhoslyn nodded, and felt a shadow of the same anger Pasgen was feeling. "But I still cannot understand why Aurilia should want to harm Aleneil and Denoriel."

"At first I was puzzled also," Pasgen admitted, "But when I gave the matter some thought, I understood that there was a simple and obvious answer. Aurilia is as power-hungry as Vidal. What is the greatest threat to the power of the Unseleighe in the near future?"

"Not Denoriel and Aleneil," Rhoslyn said with a laugh. "By Danu! They are minor cogs indeed in the clockwork of the Bright Court."

"No, you are right," Pasgen said, then leaned forward to emphasize his point. "But who depends on them? Who needs them?"

Enlightenment showed in Rhoslyn's dark eyes. "Elizabeth. It is Elizabeth Aurilia wishes to destroy, but surely there are more certain ways . . ." She paused, and narrowed her eyes. "No. Vidal and Aurilia will not attack Elizabeth directly, not after the warning you told me that Oberon gave to Vidal. Yet Elizabeth must be the target."

Pasgen raised his brows. "I cannot think of anything else that would make Aurilia part with Albertus. He is the healer who mixes that bluish drink she is forever sipping."

Rhoslyn did not look as if she heard his remark. She mused a moment more and then said, "I see. For all her high courage, Elizabeth is a tense and fearful creature. Vidal and Aurilia think that if Denoriel and Aleneil die and their support is withdrawn, Elizabeth will . . . break apart." After a moment, Rhoslyn shook her head. "But she will not."

"Do not be so sure," Pasgen said. "I saw how she acted when Oberon denied her claim that Denoriel was her Denno. She is closer tied to him than you think." Pasgen's lips thinned. "That does not matter. I do not wish Denoriel and Aleneil to be killed by common, mortal thugs so that Vidal and Aurilia will have more power."

"I agree most heartily with you, brother," Rhoslyn replied, nodding decisively. "But I see that we cannot ourselves be too direct in our actions. If you remove Albertus or interfere with his servants, you will then become the first target. I think Vidal would be glad of the excuse to attack you. However, neither Denoriel nor Aleneil is helpless. If we warn them—"

Pasgen gave a disgusted snort. "I tried."

"You mean they would not even give you a hearing—"

"No." Pasgen laughed at her indignation. "They were not at the house on Bucklersbury and were not expected there. I did leave a note for Denoriel with his man of business, but what if Aleneil comes to the house before Denoriel does?"

"Yes. The man of business would not give her your note if you addressed it to Denoriel. Hmmm." She looked down and then raised her eyes and tears glittered in the lower lids. "Aleneil does not have the defenses Denoriel does. I do not want Aleneil to be hurt or killed. She has been kind to me and . . . she is my sister."

She was his sister too, Pasgen thought, and a gentle spirit, if she had been kind and welcoming to Rhoslyn. Perhaps . . . just perhaps if Aleneil would support her, Rhoslyn might achieve her dream of some acceptance in the Bright Court. The thought left him with a hollow feeling. He did not think the toleration would be extended to him. Would he lose Rhoslyn? Not completely. Never completely, but . . .

"I think," Pasgen said hastily, "that I will go back to Otstargi's house and see if there is anything I can do to 'help' with Albertus' plans."

"Yes." Rhoslyn smiled at him gratefully. "And I will go to the house on Bucklersbury and ask to see Lady Alana. As Mary's maid of honor I could well have a message to pass to Elizabeth through Lady Alana, and I have asked for leave from Mary to rest, so I have a reason to be in London."

 

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