"After a while, Miss Jaenelle leaned back and lifted Lucy's arm out of the basin. There was a long, deep cut from her elbow to her wrist . . . and that was all. Miss Jaenelle looked each of us in the eye. She didn't have to say anything. We weren't about to tell on her. Then she handed me a jar of ointment, my daughter being too upset to do much. 'Put this ointment on three times a day, and keep it loosely bandaged for a week. If you do, there'll be no scar.'"
"Then she turned to Lucy and said, 'Don't worry. I'll talk to them. They won't bother you again.'"
"Prince Philip, when he found out Lucy'd gotten hurt because the dogs were chasing her, gave the dog boys a fierce tongue-lashing; but that afternoon I saw Lord Benedict pressing coins into the dog boys' hands, laughing and telling them how pleased he was they were keeping his dogs in such fine form."
"Anyway, by the next summer, my daughter married a young man from a fine, solid family. They live in a little village about thirty miles from here, and I visit whenever I can get a couple of days' leave."
Daemon looked into his empty mug. "Do you think Miss Jaenelle talked to them?"
"She must have," Cook replied absently.
"So the boys stopped teasing Lucy," Daemon pressed.
"Oh, no. They went right on with it. They weren't punished for it, were they? But the dogs . . . After that day, there was nothing those boys could do to make the dogs chase Lucy."
Late that night, unable to sleep, Daemon returned to the alcove. He lit a black cigarette and stared at the witch blood through the smoke.
She has come.
He'd spent the evening reviewing the facts he had, turning them over and over again as if that would change them. It hadn't, and he didn't like the conclusion he had reached.
My sister planted these. As remembrance.
A child. Witch was still a child.
No. He was misinterpreting something. Hehad to be. Witch wore the Black Jewels.
Maybe he'd gotten the information mixed up. Maybe Wiihelmina was the younger sister. He'd still been fighting to regain his emotional control when he'd arrived at the Hayllian embassy in Beldon Mor. It would make more sense if Jaenelle was almost old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness. She'd be on the cusp of opening herself to her mature strength, which would be the Black Jewels.
But the bedroom, the clothes. How could he reconcile those things with the power he'd felt when she'd healed his back after Cornelia tied him to the whipping posts?
She talks like that sometimes.
He could count on both hands the people still able to speak a few phrases of the Blood's true language. Who could have taught her?
He shied away from the answer to that.
It's a hospital for emotionally disturbed children.
Coulda child wear a Jewel as dark as the Black without becoming mentally and emotionally unbalanced? He'd never heard of anyone being gifted with a Birthright Jewel that was darker than the Red.
The chalice is cracking.
He stopped thinking, let his mind quiet. The facts fell into place, forming the inevitable conclusion.
But it still took him a few more days before he could accept it.
7—Terreille
After parting with Wilhelmina, Daemon changed into his riding clothes and headed for the stables. He had a free morning, the first since he'd arrived at the Angelline estate, and Alexandra had given him permission to take one of the horses out.
As he reached the stable yard, Guinness, the stable master, gave him a curt wave and continued his instructions to one of the stable lads.
"Going to hack out this morning?" Guinness said when Daemon approached, his gruff manner softened by a faint smile.
"If it's convenient," Daemon replied, smiling. Here, like most places where he'd served, he got along well with the staff. It was the witches he was supposed to serve that he couldn't tolerate.
"Ayah." Guinness's eyes slowly rode up Daemon's body, starting with his boots. "Good, straight, solid legs. Strong shoulders."
Daemon wondered if Guinness was going to check his teeth.
"How's your seat?" Guinness asked.
"I ride fairly well," Daemon replied cautiously, not certain he cared for the faint gleam in Guinness's eye.
Guinness sucked on his cheek. "Stallion hasn't been out for a few days. Andrew's the only one who can ride him, and he's got a bruised thigh. Can't let the boy go out with a weak leg. You willing to try?"
Daemon took a deep breath, still suspicious. "All right."
"Andrew! Saddle up, Demon." Daemon's eyebrows shot up practically to his hairline. "Demon?"
Guinness sucked on his cheek again, refusing to notice Daemon's outraged expression. "Name's Dark Dancer, but in the stable yard, when we're out of hearing"—he shot a look at the house—"we call him what he is."
"Hell's fire," Daemon muttered as he crossed the yard to where Andrew was saddling the big bay stallion. "Anything I should know?" he asked the young man.
Andrew looked a bit worried. Finally he shrugged. "He's got a soft mouth and a hard head. He's too smart for most riders. He'll run you into the trees if you let him. Keep to the big open field, that's best. But watch the drainage ditch at the far end. It's too wide for most horses, but he'll take it, and he doesn't care if he lands on the other side without his rider."
"Thanks," Daemon growled.
Andrew grinned crookedly and handed the reins to Daemon. "I'll hold his head while you mount."
Daemon settled into the saddle. "Let him go."
Demon left the stable yard quietly enough, mouthing the bit, considering his rider. Except for showing some irritation at being held to a walk, Demon behaved quite well—until they reached a small rise and the path curved left toward the open field.
Demon pricked his ears and lunged to the right toward a lone old oak tree, almost throwing Daemon from the saddle.
The battle began.
For some perverse reason of his own, Demon was determined to reach the oak tree. Daemon was equally determined to turn him toward the field. The horse lunged, bucked, twisted, circled, fought the reins and bit. Daemon held him in check enough not to be thrown, but, circle by hard-fought circle, the stallion made his way toward the tree.
Fifteen minutes later, the horse gave up and stood with his shaking legs spread, his head down, and his lathered sides heaving. Daemon was sweat-soaked and shivering from exhaustion, and slightly amazed that his arms were still in their sockets.
When Daemon gathered the reins once more, Demon laid back his ears, prepared for the next round. Curious about what would happen, Daemon turned them toward the tree and urged the horse onward.