Issandrian paled, and then chuckled ruefully.
“You make it sound more than it is,” he said.
“No, I only see the same thing from another angle,” she said. “I will tell my husband you came, and what we said. I will tell him you seemed sincere because you do. And if he wishes to converse with you about this, I won’t argue against it.”
“Baroness Osterling, I could ask nothing more.”
“You could ask,” she said. “But you couldn’t have it. And now I must ask that you go. I have family here.”
Issandrian practically sprang to his feet, his face and voice rich with apology.
“I hadn’t known that, my lady, or I wouldn’t have intruded. I owe you even greater thanks, it seems. If I can ever be of service to you, only let me know.”
“Lord Issandrian?” she said. He paused. “My husband hates you, but he respects you as well. It isn’t so bad a position to be in.”
Issandrian nodded soberly and made his exit. Clara walked back out toward the garden slowly. Her impression from Dawson’s letters was that Sir Klin wasn’t at all enjoying his time winning back his honor. And, in fact, that Palliako had gone out of his way to make the poor man’s time in the field as hellish as possible. She wondered whether she should write to Dawson about this or wait for his return.
In the garden, Elisia and the nurse were still by the pond, splashing and playing. Sabiha sat alone at the table. Clara’s pipe was in the girl’s hand.
“Where did you find it?” Clara asked, taking the little clay bowl and stem from the girl’s hand. There was already a hard wad of tobacco stuffed into it, ready for the fire.
“In your withdrawing room,” Sabiha said. “Just as you thought. I’ve been listening to your grandson. He’s a beautiful child.”
“He is. Takes after his mother that way. She was always a pretty child, even when she was growing half a hand a year and looked like a blade of grass come to life, she wore it well. And he doesn’t sleep any more than she did. I’ll tell you a secret. Watching your children struggle with the same things you did when they were babes is a grandmother’s revenge.”
Sabiha smiled. It wasn’t obvious that she’d been weeping. Only a little redness about the eyes and a tiny, fading blotchiness at the throat. The girl was lucky that way. Being able to hide tears was a gift. But now a fresh shining came to her. Clara pursed her lips.
“Sometimes,” Sabiha said, “and it isn’t often, but sometimes I think of how the world could have been if I hadn’t been Lord Skestinin’s daughter.”
“Ah, but you always were,” Clara said, trying to keep the girl from going down the path she was headed. The girl wouldn’t be turned.
“I know. It’s just there are freedoms women have when they aren’t what we are. There are struggles too, I understand that. But there are ways to shape a life even within those, and then maybe—”
“No,” Clara said.
Sabiha’s tears welled, but did not fall. Not yet.
“No,” Clara said again, more gently. “You can’t think of that child. You can’t even wish for him back. It isn’t fair to ask everyone else to forget and only you remember. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I miss him, though,” Sabiha whispered. “I can’t just stop missing him.”
“You can stop showing that you do. Jorey has risked a great deal to give you another life. Another beginning. If you didn’t want it, you should have refused him. Accepting him and also keeping hold of the past isn’t fair. And it isn’t wise.”
“I’m sorry,” Sabiha said, her voice thick. “He was my boy. I thought you would understand.”
“I do. And that’s why I’m saying this. Look up. Look at me. No, at me. Look at me. Yes.”
Sabiha swallowed, and Clara felt the beginnings of tears in her own eyes. There was a boy out there—a child—whose mother loved him enough to break her heart, and he would never know it. Perhaps it was fair to the girl. She’d at least made a decision, even if the punishment seemed too much for the lapse. But the child was blameless. He was blameless, and he would suffer, and Clara would do what she could to see that the estrangement between mother and son was permanent, and that Sabiha’s old scandals were all kept in the past where they belonged. A tear tracked down Sabiha’s cheek, and Clara’s matched it.
“Good,” Clara said. “Now smile.”
Cithrin
T
he last Dragon Emperor slept before her. Each jade scale was as wide as her open palm. The eyelids were slit open enough to show a thin sliver of bronze eye. The folded wings were as long as the spars of a roundship. Longer. Cithrin tried to imagine the statue coming to life. Moving. Speaking in the languages that had made the world.