Page 94 of Witchshadow
It was not, and a quick scan around the room revealed no belt, no chain, no Threadstones. Safi was going to have to enter the bedchamber.
After carefully shutting the study door and creeping through the utter black to reach the bedroom door, Safi paused. She listened. The noises from within had shifted to feminine, which, although more palatable, were still more than Safi wanted to hear.
Perhaps even more uncomfortable was the fact that nothing in the Truth-lens hummedfalse.The woman on the other side of this door—his mistress Paskella—was genuinely enjoying herself with the Emperor. She was fully absorbed in her pleasure, and Safi hoped that meant Henrick was too.
With the lightest of fingers and slowest of movements, Safi turnedthe knob and squeezed back the door. An inch. Then two. Then three—enough to give her a full view of the space beyond.
It was not so different from Leopold’s chamber: four-poster bed, fireplace (unlit), a single armchair. Heavy black velvet and glistening red brocades gleamed in the dim light of Firewitched sconces turned low. On the bed, two figures moved with great energy and surprising athleticism. They were, as Safi had hoped, wholly invested in each other.Where are their clothes?Safi thought, biting her lip. Henrick and his mistress must have undressed somewhere. The belthadto be near.
Then Safi spotted a haphazard heap beside the fireplace and pushed into the room, her eyes never leaving the thick curtains around the bed that hid Henrick and his mistress. Safi’s brain would at least be sparedthatimagery.
She kept her posture low and her footsteps quick until she reached the armchair. Then she dropped to her knees and studied the heap. It was indeed the discarded garments of the Emperor, and after rummaging through the pile she found Henrick’s belt.
She pulled it to her, head briefly hanging back. Success tasted so good. Even better than she remembered. Within seconds, she had the golden chain off and replaced by the one she’d obtained today in Praga. They were not identical, but a cursory glance wouldn’t reveal the differences. Besides, the Emperor in his hubris would never expect her to steal his chain.
It took Safi longer to pry the Threadstones loose. Henrick had had them stamped into the leather, and she lacked decent tools to wedge the rubies free. Eventually, though, with enough prying and pulling, the two Thread-bound rocks popped loose.
And oh, how Safi smiled then.
She shoved both stones into her pocket along with the golden Hell-Bard chain, and withdrew two new uncut rubies. These were a much closer match to the originals than the chain was. Safi had touched her own Threadstone so many times, she’d known exactly what she was looking for while she, Svenja, and Nika had gone from shop to shop.
She’d also had the foresight to bring a small tub of paste with her. After verifying that Henrick and his mistress were not yet done with their revelry, Safi unscrewed the tiny tub, slathered out several dollops of pale cream onto the leather, then shoved the new rubies in. She waited several seconds, blowing lightly, before wiping away excess adhesive.
Lev had said it would take a full minute—at least—for this paste to dry. She’d also said, once that happened, the stones would not be coming loose anytime soon.
Unfortunately, a minute was more than Safi had. As soon as she’d finished wiping, a great scream filled the room. Then a second, in a two-part harmony that made Safi’s stomach revolt. She hoped this woman was compensated for her time.Wellcompensated.
The crescendo ended, and silence descended. A net to cage in Safi. She went very still behind the armchair. Each of her breaths rasped overloud. If either Henrick or his mistress looked this way, they would see her shadow between the armchair’s legs.
She dared not peek at them. She just sat there, waiting for the paste to dry while two people enjoyed a postcoital haze.
Please don’t get up. Please don’t get up.
They didn’t get up. Instead, the sheets started rustling, and Safi suspected the two had settled in for a cuddle.
Inwardly, she screamed.
“Thirty-five years,” the woman said, “and it is still everything I want.” She had a deep voice, rough with age and time—and her accent was, to Safi’s surprise, lowborn. This wasnota typical courtesan andnota domna who traded favors for an emperor’s time.
And thirty-five years? This woman and Henrick had been meeting forthirty-five years?
“How are the boys?” Henrick asked. “Did Dietrik get the money?”
“He did.” Paskella laughed, an indulgent sound. A loving sound, and in tones filled with maternal pride, she described how Dietrik had repaired the roof and used leftover funds to make improvements in her kitchen. “He will be a fine builder,” she said. “No witchery needed.”
“He already is,” Henrick replied.
Safi gulped. Almost dropped the belt, for just as maternal pride had thickened the woman’s voice,paternalpride shone in Henrick’s. No falseness in his words—no lies to shudder within her Truth-lens.
As he and Paskella continued their updates and questions, Safi realized three things. First, Paskella was indeed a commoner. Second, she and Henrick were Heart-Threads—true,realHeart-Threads like the children’s rhyme.Robins and magpies on branches above. Money for marriage, and Heart-Threads for love.
And third, Henrick had not one, butthreesons. Sons who didn’t know he existed, sons who would never know he existed, yet sons whom he loved all the same. This was the reason he had never married. Here, in this room, was the reason he had consummated nothing with Safi. And the reason he had groomed Leopold so carefully to succeed his throne.
I am not so awful as you think me,he’d told her two days ago.You will come to see that in time.And then in the carriage he had said,We are not all so lucky, you know,in reference to building families with the ones we loved.
No, no,no.It was too much for Safi’s brain to digest. She was not supposed to pity Henrick fon Cartorra. She was not supposed to respect his lifelong devotion to the family he could never have. She was not supposed to appreciate how the woman laughed, throaty and warm, or be impressed that she made no attempts to polish her words or put on airs.
Henrick fon Cartorra was a bad man. He treated his Hell-Bards like cannon fodder. He abused them, he broke them—all in the name of power. He had imprisoned Safi with a golden chain, he had imprisoned her uncle in poison, and he had trampled on smaller nations in the pursuit of dominance and war.
