“Fabulous,” Elle muttered. The ladies maid was trying to teach her how to read.
Emele selected a left over turnip and held up the slate, which was now inscribed with the word turnip.
“Turnip,” Elle said.
Emele nodded and proceeded to slowly gesture her way through the word, managing to “teach” Elle how to pronounce letters by crawling through words and making her utter individual syllables.
It was a laborious process, and Elle was thankful when Emele finally fed her a cup of strong alcohol to kill the pain and lull her off to sleep.
When Elle woke up again it was to the careful ministrations of Duval, the barber-surgeon. He was inspecting the stiff bandages, feeling her leg for additional swelling.
“How long?” Elle asked, her voice crusty with sleep and the last bit of alcohol in her system.
Duval looked up.
“How long am I stuck in bed?”
The barber-surgeon hesitated before holding up two fingers. He waited a few moments and then flashed three fingers.
“Twenty three?” Elle guessed.
Duval shook his head.
“Two to three?”
Duval nodded.
“Days?”
Duval shook his head.
“Weeks?” Elle yelped, rocketing to an upright position.
The barber-surgeon took a step backwards and nodded.
Elle could do very little except stupidly stare at her leg. Two to three weeks? She was supposed to report back to Farand in a week! If he thought she deserted her post her entire family would pay. Hopefully whoever was next on duty would notice Elle’s absence and send word to Farand. If they did, and if she was extraordinarily lucky, Farand wouldn’t think she had deserted.
Elle shook her head, too stunned to do anything else. Duval gave her a comforting smile that she did not notice as she collapsed back into the bed.
Duval left as Emele arrived. The ladies maid carried a strangely shaped pillow, which she set about embroidering when she took up her customary position at Elle’s bedside.
Elle lay still for an hour before she tried moving. Just because Duval said she needed two to three weeks of rest didn’t mean she—Elle bit her tongue to keep from howling. When she moved the pain ripped brutally through her body. She had to stay stationary, there was no way she could drag herself all the way to Noyers.
Elle closed her eyes in an attempt to smother the tears that threatened to fall.
Emele sympathetically patted Elle’s hand and skirted around the bed like a mother hen stuffed in a puffy pink dress. She roused Elle for tea and a reading lesson, but Elle didn’t have the heart to try.
All the hard work Elle did was for her family, and now because of one stupid mistake everything was going to unravel.
“Enter,” Severin growled when a servant tapped on the door.
Burke, Severin’s personal valet, swept inside with great pomp. The man moved like a peacock and had the wardrobe to match. Today he was in prime form as his feathers were displayed with all smugness. He wore ridiculously high heeled shoes that were tied with a blue ribbon and decorated with bows. His petticoat breeches—which were more puffed than even the most daring fashion devotee wore—floated around him like a skirt. He wore a fine waistcoat and a flowing cravat, all giving him the air of a fashionable idiot, but Severin was not deceived. Burke had the mind of a bear trap.
“What is it?” Severin asked.
Burke slid a wicker basket across Severin’s desk.
The basket held a sewing needle and a small spool of black thread, a black handkerchief, a chunk of crusty bread that had the density of a turtle shell, several long and oddly bent hair pins, a belt knife, and a silver whistle.
“These are all the items the girl carried on her person?” Severin asked as he held up the bright whistle in the dim light. A gift from a lover, perhaps? It was probably the most expensive item out of the bunch as the belt knife had been sharpened so many times the blade was cheaply thin.
Burke nodded.
Severin tossed the whistle back in the basket. “She must be a villager from Belvenes. Give the items to Emele for storing until the girl is able to stand—but confiscate the belt knife.”
Burke dipped forward in an outlandish bow, took the basket, and left.
Severin sighed—the sound was more guttural than he meant for it to be. The girl was a headache Severin didn’t want to deal with. His servants were acting like she was a visiting empress, which wouldn’t have bothered Severin if they ceased their tendency to pepper him with irksome questions about the girl’s health, treatment, and ignorant inability to read.
“One would think they would have as bleak an outlook as I do pertaining to our curse. All those wasted times and raised hopes,” Severin shook his head like a dog, redirecting his thoughts. He needed to go over the notes from his last meeting with his half brother, Crown Prince Lucien.
Severin found the papers and read the first paragraph when there was another knock on the door.