At this, Emory’s eyes widened. “You arranged the coronation ceremony in my absence?”
“Of course,” the queen mother said.
“But if I hadn’t returned—”
“That is not a thought a mother entertains,” interrupted the queen mother, as if even the idea of Emory failing to return to the castle was too bitter to consider. “You returned home to Harding as king, having earned your position as tradition dictates, and you shall be celebrated as such, without delay.”
Emory reached across and took his mother’s hand, squeezed it. Ama watched as mother and son shared a deep, long gaze, each one’s love for the other writ clear upon their faces.
She was, Ama felt, both at the table and entirely invisible. It was through Emory’s rescue of her from the dragon that he was now to be crowned king, but in this moment Ama wondered if she could have been anyone, anyone at all, and the plates spread on the table would still be heavy with the same sugared fruits and dishes of cream.
Ama was, she saw, both terrifically important and terribly insignificant, in equal measures, at exactly the same time.
When she looked up from her plate, it was to find that the queen mother had shifted her gaze from Emory to Ama; gone was the gentle gaze of mother love, replaced by something else. Something sharper.
“Dear girl,” the queen mother said. “Tomorrow you shall see our Emory crowned king, and in less than two months, at midwinter solstice, you shall become his queen. What do you think of that?”
“It is a wonder,” said Ama. “Truly, it is.”
“Indeed,” said the queen mother, and she picked up her glass goblet by its delicate stem. She held it before a candle and twirled it, gazing into the glistening red wine. “It is dizzying, the wonder of it all.” She brought the goblet to her lips and drained it. A servant was at her elbow before the cup had reached the table, and he poured another long stream of wine.
“I do hope, though,” Ama said, choosing her words carefully, “that perhaps some search can be made for my family? So they might know of my fate?”
Emory cleared his throat as if to speak, but the queen mother laid her hand on his arm.
“Your family?” said the queen mother.
“Well,” said Ama, “there must be someone, after all. That is to say, everyone comes from a mother and a father, do they not? Surely someone, somewhere, is anxious to hear of my safe escape from the dragon, just as you were anxious to see your son safely home.”
“Dear girl,” said the queen mother firmly. “You have no family.”
“No family?” Ama said, her throat closing. “Why do you say that?”
“The dragons, they do not . . . take girls with families.” The queen mother’s face was gentle, sympathetic. “Emory didn’t tell you?”
Ama shook her head.
“He should have,” the queen mother said, frowning briefly at her son, “so that you wouldn’t have false hopes. It is kinder that way.”
“It is true, Ama,” Emory said now, leaning in toward Ama. “The damsel never has kin. It is known.”
“By whom?” Ama asked, but she felt in her bones the truth of his words.
“By all,” said the queen mother, as if that settled the matter. And it did.
“But we shall be your people,” Emory said, and he laid his warm hand gently atop Ama’s. As he did, servants appeared with still more food, laying a plate of ripe plums before them.
“In seven weeks’ time, my son shall be your husband, and he shall give you a son; that is all the family you should need,” the queen mother said.
“Seven weeks,” Emory echoed, picking up a plum and, with a burst of juice, biting into its red flesh. “Seven weeks to learn the ways of Harding, the ways of the castle, and the ways of a queen.”
Seven weeks, then, before the year’s shortest day, the year’s longest night. Ama’s throat felt tight and dry. She lifted her glass—such a lovely glass, she noticed—and drained it.
Ama’s Visitor
It was well past midnight when Ama was returned to her room. Tillie was there, as she had promised, sitting in the chair where Ama had sat for the styling of her hair.
Perhaps Tillie had been asleep, for when Ama entered, led by Rohesia, she stood quickly, as if startled into wakefulness.
The lynx lay, still curled, on the hearthrug, and Ama’s entrance did not disturb her in the least. Ama noticed that someone had fetched a box of sand and placed it in a corner, for Sorrow to use.
“My lady,” said Tillie, dropping into a curtsy.
“Thank you for staying with Sorrow,” Ama said. “I rested easy knowing she was in your care.”
“Pay it no concern, my lady,” Tillie said, though now Ama wondered if Tillie had missed her supper because of the assignment. But when she asked, Tillie shook her head and said, “It’s kind of you to worry, but I have no needs.”
Ama thought it was an odd way of saying that she was not hungry.
Then Rohesia set to building up the fire, and Sorrow stirred at the new warmth of it, stretching her legs and yawning, her sharp kitten teeth white against the pinkness of her tongue.
Tillie helped Ama out of her gown and underdressing and into a thin pale chemise. She took down Ama’s hair and arranged it in a simple plait, then turned back the covers and the furs for Ama to climb into bed.
Oh, such luxury, to climb into a warm bed, heated by stones tucked between the sheets. Oh, such luxury, to rest her head on the bolster, to watch Tillie unfasten and close the curtains of the canopy.
Sorrow leaped prettily to the foot of the bed just before Tillie lowered the final curtain, and she said crossly, “Out of the mistress’s bed, you beast.” But Ama reached out and stroked the cat.
“Leave her,” she said, and Tillie pursed her mouth as if she wanted to argue, but here in her chamber it was clear that Ama was in charge, and so Tillie did not protest.
“Sweet dreams, lady,” she said, dropping the curtain and leaving the room.
Ama was alone for the first time since . . . well, since ever, as far as time mattered. With no memories of before, all Ama had were the days with Emory and this evening, at the castle. To be by herself, in a safe and comfortable bed, with only Sorrow for company, felt like a great relief. It was as if, for the first time she could recall, no one was watching her.
And what would Ama do with this first secret freedom?
She pulled Sorrow up from where she lay in the crook of Ama’s knees, wrapped her arms around the lynx’s warm, soft pelt, and sobbed into her neck, the kit lapping up her tears with her rough tongue.
Ama wept. Until, at last, she slept.
Ama did not hear the turn of the knob. She did not hear the creak of the door, pushed open. She did not hear the footsteps cross the floorboards of her room.
But when the bed curtain was pulled back, with a whisper of cloth just near her head—that, Ama did hear.
She woke, breath trapped in her throat, a sick roll of her stomach, room spinning in the dark—from fear or wine, Ama did not know. At her side, still clutched in her arms, Sorrow growled, a low and dreadful sound.
“Call off your guard, Ama,” came Emory’s voice. “It is I.”
Ama stroked Sorrow’s pelt, and though some part of her felt that perhaps Sorrow’s warning was not unwarranted, she hushed the cat until the growling stopped.