“I-I only follow orders.” The voice was watery, unremarkable.
Manon snorted and headed for the nightstand, her braid and bloodred cloak flowing behind her. Slowly, listening, she poured herself some water.
The servant gathered her supplies quickly and deftly. “I can come back when it won’t disturb you, Lady.”
“Do your work, mortal, and then be gone.” Manon turned to watch the girl finish.
The servant limped through the room, meek and breakable and unworthy of a second glance.
“Who did that to your leg?” Manon asked, leaning against the bedpost.
The servant didn’t even lift her head. “It was an accident.” She gathered the ashes into the pail she’d lugged up here. “I fell down a flight of stairs when I was eight, and there was nothing to be done. My uncle didn’t trust healers enough to let them into our home. I was lucky to keep it.”
“Why the chains?” Another flat, bored question.
“So I couldn’t ever run away.”
“You would never have gotten far in these mountains, anyway.”
There—the slight stiffening in her thin shoulders, the valiant effort to hide it.
“Yes,” the girl said, “but I grew up in Perranth, not here.” She stacked the logs she must have hauled in, limping more with every step. The trek down—hauling the heavy pail of ashes—would be another misery, no doubt. “If you have need of me, just call for Elide. The guards will know where to find me.”
Manon watched every single limping step she took toward the door.
Manon almost let her out, let her think she was free, before she said, “No one ever punished your uncle for his stupidity about healers?”
Elide looked over her shoulder. “He’s Lord of Perranth. No one could.”
“Vernon Lochan is your uncle.” Elide nodded. Manon cocked her head, assessing that gentle demeanor, so carefully constructed. “Why did your uncle come here?”
“I don’t know,” Elide breathed.
“Why bring you here?”
“I don’t know,” she said again, setting down the pail. She shifted, leaning her weight onto her good leg.
Manon said too softly, “And who assigned you to this room?”
She almost laughed when the girl’s shoulders curved in, when she lowered her head farther. “I’m not—not a spy. I swear it on my life.”
“Your life means nothing to me,” Manon said, pushing off the bedpost and prowling closer. The servant held her ground, so convincing in her role of submissive human. Manon poked an iron-tipped nail beneath Elide’s chin, tilting her head up. “If I catch you spying on me, Elide Lochan, you’ll find yourself with two useless legs.”
The stench of her fear stuffed itself down Manon’s nose. “My lady, I—I swear I won’t t-touch—”
“Leave.” Manon sliced her nail underneath Elide’s chin, leaving a trickle of blood in its wake. And just because, Manon pulled back and sucked Elide’s blood off her iron nail.
It was an effort to keep her face blank as she tasted the blood. The truth it told.
But Elide had seen enough, it seemed, and the first round of their game was over. Manon let the girl limp out, that heavy chain clinking after her.
Manon stared at the empty doorway.
It had been amusing, at first, to let the girl think Manon had been fooled by her cowering, sweet-tongued, harmless act. Then Elide’s heritage had been revealed—and Manon’s every predatory instinct had kicked in as she monitored the way the girl hid her face so her reactions would be veiled, the way she told Manon what she wanted to hear. As though she was feeling out a potential enemy.
The girl might still be a spy, Manon told herself, turning toward the desk, where Elide’s scent was strongest.
Sure enough, the sprawling map of the continent held traces of Elide’s cinnamon-and-elderberries scent in concentrated spots. Fingerprints.