One afternoon, perhaps eight days after the auction, a note came from Jess. Kestrel eagerly opened it, glad for the distraction. Jess, in her typical swirly writing and short, eager sentences, asked why Kestrel was hiding from her. Would she please pay Jess a visit today? Kestrel’s advice on what to wear to Lady Faris’s picnic was needed. Jess added a postscript: a sentence in smaller writing, the letters bunched and hurried, signaling that she couldn’t resist dropping an obvious hint even at the same time she worried it would bother Kestrel: By the way, my brother has been asking about you.
Kestrel reached for her riding boots.
As she wound through the rooms of her suite, she caught a glimpse in a window of the thatched cottage near the garden.
Kestrel paused, the leather boots in her hand tapping against her thigh. The cottage was not so far away from the slaves’ quarters, which loomed at the border of the window’s view. She felt a tug of discomfort.
Of course she did. Kestrel glanced away from the slaves’ quarters and focused on Enai’s cottage. She hadn’t been to see her old nurse in several days. No wonder the view troubled her, when it showed the sweet little house Kestrel had had built for the woman who had raised her. Well, she would visit Enai on her way to the stables.
But by the time she had finished lacing her boots and gone downstairs, the steward had already discovered through the almost instantaneous gossip of the household that Kestrel was leaving. Harman ambushed her by the parlor door.
“Going for a ride, my lady?”
She pulled on a glove. “As you see.”
“No need to ask for an escort.” He snapped his fingers at an older Herrani man scrubbing the floor. “This one will do.”
Kestrel let out a slow breath. “I am riding to Jess’s house.”
“I’m sure he can ride,” Harman said, though they both knew full well this wasn’t likely. Riding was not taught to slaves. Either they had the skill from before the war or never would. “If not,” Harman said, “you can take the carriage together. The general would gladly spare the use of two horses for the carriage to make sure you’re properly escorted.”
Kestrel nodded, just barely. She turned to leave.
“My lady, one more thing…”
Kestrel knew what that one more thing would be, but couldn’t stop him, for to do so would have been to admit that she knew and wished she didn’t.
“A week has passed since your purchase of that young slave,” the steward said. “You’ve given no instructions for his employment.”
“I forgot,” Kestrel lied.
“Of course. You have more important things to deal with. Still, I was certain you had no intention of him lazing around, doing nothing, so I assigned him to the forge and to serve as a farrier for the horses. He has done well. My compliments, Lady Kestrel. You are an excellent judge of the Herrani market.”
She looked at him.
Defensively, he said, “I only put him to work in the forge because he was suited to it.”
She faced the door. When she opened it, she’d see nothing but trees. There was no view from this part of the house that could unsettle her. “You made the right choice,” she said. “Do with him as you see fit.”
Kestrel stepped outside, her escort wordlessly following.
She didn’t stop by the cottage after all. She walked straight to the stables. The old Herrani groom was there, as always. There was no one else. Kestrel went to stroke the nose of her horse, a big-boned animal bred for war and chosen for her by the general.
When she heard footsteps behind her, the sound of someone new entering the stables, she turned. Two soldiers walked up to the groom and ordered that their horses be saddled. Kestrel looked beyond them and saw the Herrani slave Harman had selected as her escort waiting patiently by the door.
She had no wish to waste time finding out if he could ride. She wanted to leave now. When they reached Jess’s house she would send him to the kitchens so she wouldn’t have to see him until the return home.
“Ready my carriage first,” she told the groom, giving the soldiers a look that dared them to argue. They didn’t, but were visibly irritated. She didn’t care. She had to leave, the sooner the better.
“This one?”
Kestrel looked up from where she sat on a low divan strewn with dresses.
“Kestrel,” said Jess, “pay attention.”
Kestrel blinked. A black-haired girl, Jess’s slave, was tying a sash around her mistress’s waist, drawing in the flowery skirts so that they belled at the hips. Kestrel said to Jess, “Didn’t you already try on that dress?”
“No.” Jess snatched the sash out of the slave’s hands and threw it onto the silken pile next to Kestrel. “You hate it, don’t you?”