A Time of Mourning and Dancing: The Floramancy Archives - Book One by Abigail Falanga

Author:Abigail Falanga [Falanga, Abigail]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-09-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER Sixteen

Hands Joined

~

Toph launched abruptly into full wakefulness, jumping upright so suddenly that whoever had been none-too-gently nudging him jumped back with an oath.

It was broad daylight.

The antechamber bustled with a fresh influx of activity—pages bearing trays with cold pies, cheeses, steaming wine and creamy milk, maids carrying garments, ladies-in-waiting whispering together. And the valet, looking smug if startled.

A maid paused by him long enough to remark, “Their highnesses are abed late lately, but that’s nothing on this lazy lump.”

“Seems a shame to waste one of his last days in drunken-sleep,” the valet agreed, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“Too bad a waste of short time,” the maid pouted, before she hurried on at the impatient calling of a lady-in-waiting.

“Up, master!” The valet smoothed his face into a barely-respectful smirk. “I must have you decent and presentable before the princesses are ready to be about their day.”

“The ‘decent’ part seemed unnecessary, until Toph noticed he’d loosened the neck of his tunic too much and not it hung open over his bare chest.

He snatched the comb from the valet’s hand. “What’s the time?”

“The sun has been up more than two hours.” The valet gently guided him with a hand on his shoulder into the side room outside the antechamber.

Toph swore.

“It is your own doing, taking too freely of the king’s good wine,” the valet chastised, administering hair balm with a practiced hand.

“Same thing you are never guilty of, I’m sure.”

“It is only for the king’s table. Beer and mead are good enough for the likes of—”

“Us?”

“Well, sir…” the valet shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel before straightening out the over-tunic and handing it back.

“Still had more than a taste of the king’s wine, I’ll bet,” Toph sneered. “Where is the king today?”

“How would a lowly—?”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promised rashly.

The valet narrowed his eyes, as if sizing up how much work he could get out of a broken-down old ox. “I believe,” he said at last, “That his majesty is out inspecting the fortifications around the port, while the weather holds good.”

Toph glanced up at the single narrow window which lit the cell. The rainclouds had cleared for now, leaving bright autumn sunlight. He swore again and went for next-best. “Sir Trevlyn the Terrible. Is he about?”

“Do you mean, Lord Trevlyn, of Blackwell, sir?”

Of Blackwell… King Victor had already given away the title and lands left vacant by Lord Basil’s apparent death.

Why not?

The man was dead. Or so it seemed.

It was time to distribute the spoils—even if they were those of your own allies and people.

“Just answer the question,” Toph snarled, trying not to remember Trevlyn the Terrible’s order of retreat from men he may have aided.

“Lord Blackwell is in conference with some men from Narimos, arranging new trade agreements,” the valet said with surprising readiness.

Toph set the questions these answers produced aside, with more pressing business to attend to, and demanded, “What about what’s-his-name, the steward?”

“Lord Firbank is seeing to court business somewhere about the palace, no doubt,” the valet returned with an edge of interest in his voice.

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