wise?” The faint mocking tone of her voice does not hide the admiration it holds.
I look down at the jug, as if contemplating my next sip. “My mother and aunts were knowledgeable in the ways of men and their foibles. They shared that knowledge with me.”
She cocks her head, curious. “Tell me of this family of yours.”
I lift the wine to my mouth, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. There is no reason not to tell her the truth of my upbringing—except she is noble and lovely and has such scorn for men and their appetites that I fear those feelings will carry over to my family, and they do not deserve her scorn. “They—we—are not nobly born like you. My father ran a tavern, my mother helped him in his work. My aunts all lived in the same . . . village . . . and they too would lend a hand.”
“And how did your father take to being surrounded by so many helpful women?”
Her question surprises me. “He welcomed their help and helped them in turn. Everyone benefitted.”
“And where did you fit in?”
I smile in memory. “I was the lone child, always underfoot, asking questions, trying my hand at any little kitchen or garden task they would entrust me with.”
Her lips curve upward. “They sound charming.” There is no hint of mockery in her voice. “I would think it hard to leave a family like that. For me the convent was a refuge, but I imagine for you it was something else.”
The memory of that loss is as sudden as a fist to my gut. I look down at the earthenware jug in my hands. “It was.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.” I take a generous swig of the wine, then shove the jug at her. “And you?”
She looks out the window. “Fourteen.”
“Fourteen! Why did they wait so long to send you?”
She barks out a bitter laugh. “They did not send me at all.” Her finger drifts up to caress the base of her neck. “My old nurse did. When she feared I was at the end of my rope. Ha!” She nudges me with her knee. “That’s a good one.”
I tilt my head. The jest escapes me, and I furtively weigh the cask in my hand, wondering how much she had before she came to fetch me.
She lets her head fall back against the wall and closes her eyes with a sigh.
I do not know what she is thinking, but it is like watching someone be pulled down into dark, murky depths. I search for something to say that will call her back. “Do you want to hear what the regent had to say when she caught us together?” There. Talking about the regent ought to cheer her right up.
Her eyes fly open. “Go on,” she says.
I tell her of the regent’s disturbing visit and my concern as to how much she might have heard. When I have finished, Sybella swears and holds her hand out for the jug. We fall silent, thinking of all the ways this could have gone horribly wrong.
As if discerning the direction of my thoughts, Sybella nudges me with her foot again. “This is not solely your fault.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she reaches across our legs and puts a finger on my lips, its warm firmness startling me into silence.
“Even your decision to trade favors with the king to gain mercy for the convent does not rest solely on your shoulders.”
Hearing my foolish actions fall from her lips causes my body to grow warm with embarrassment. “Of course it was! It was my idea, my plan, my lips that shared with him the convent secrets.”
“What else were you to do? How were you to know the letter was a lie? That Angoulême had betrayed both you and the convent?” A deep frown creases her brow. “I still cannot guess what game he plays. After the Duke of Orléans, he is next in line for the throne. Could this be some way of trying to block the marriage or prevent it from producing an heir?”
“I have not been able to see how such a scheme would play out. Besides, as you say, the Duke of Orléans is next in line. Surely it is he and his heirs who would benefit. But either way, isn’t that what they trained us to look for? This sort of scheming and lying?”
She is quiet, considering. “Mayhap. But it is not a skill one can fully