Echo in Onyx Page 2

  Within a few blocks, we arrived at Aunt Jean’s house, a tiny two-story building crammed between two much taller structures on a lot so small it might once have been a common garden. In fact, the only windows were on the front and back of the building because the side walls were built right up against the neighbors’ bricks. The house was sparsely furnished and scrupulously clean and exactly the sort of place you would expect Aunt Jean to live if you’d known her for even five minutes.

  Over a light dinner, she filled me in on local gossip, which mostly revolved around the fact that within the next six weeks, Prince Cormac and some of his friends would be traveling to Oberton from the royal city of Camarria. They were expected to stop in Alberta and Empara before their journey was over. This was big news, since there had been hostility for years between the three westernmost provinces and those in the east—including Sammerly, where Camarria was situated. I couldn’t remember the last time a royal delegation had come our way; and I most certainly would have seen one, since it would have had to pass my mother’s inn on the Charamon Road, even if the company was too grand to stop at a small posting house like ours.

  “Everyone thinks King Harold is pushing for greater peace among the provinces,” Jean said.

  “Why now?” I asked.

  “He’s getting old, I suppose, and he wants to make sure his sons inherit a stable kingdom once one of them ascends to the throne.”

  “Or his daughter,” I insisted.

  Jean made a face. “Queen Tabitha would like to see that girl wearing a crown, no doubt, but the two boys are older and have been groomed for the position much longer. Anyway, Harold loved his first wife and he hates Tabitha. He would pick Cormac or Jordan for that reason alone.”

  I took another slice of bread and covered it with jam. “How do you know all that?” I demanded.

  She laughed. “Well, it’s what everyone says. I have no idea what actually goes on in the palace. But you’d be surprised how often gossip turns out to be true.”

  “So what else does everyone say about the prince’s visit?”

  Jean poured herself another cup of tea. “That Cormac is looking for a wife.”

  “He’s already betrothed, isn’t he? To Vivienne of Thelleron?”

  Jean nodded. “A love match, or at least that’s the rumor. But the engagement’s been called off. The speculation is that Harold wants him to take a bride from one of the three western provinces as a way to improve relations.”

  I carefully set down my half-eaten piece of bread. “You think he might want to marry Marguerite?”

  Jean shrugged. “You know the governor has been urging Alberta and Empara to join with Orenza and secede from the Seven Jewels.”

  I nodded. That news had been the talk at more than one dinner when travelers gathered around the table at the inn. Orenza had a history of being the most fractious of the provinces, and more than once in the distant past had declared its independence, only to be brought back into the fold by force or negotiation. It was well positioned to be self-sufficient, since the mountains created two very defensible borders, and there was enough land and enough water to sustain everyone who lived there. From what I’d been able to determine by listening to the talk, though, there was only half-hearted enthusiasm for the idea of seccession—except when taxes were raised on crops or onyx. Then everyone thought it was a good idea.

  “So if Cormac marries Marguerite, Orenza stays in the kingdom,” Jean said. “It makes a lot of sense from Harold’s point of view.”

  I picked up my bread again. “I wonder what Marguerite thinks about the idea of marrying a prince.”

  Jean snorted. “I suppose it depends on the prince.”

  I nodded. It sounded very romantic to be married off to the heir to the throne, but I knew that reality often wasn’t romantic. I’d met my share of unsavory men as they paused at our posting house or spent the night under our roof. Plenty of them were nobles who thought their wealth and status entitled them to behave any way they chose. A prince might be gracious and charming—or he might be selfish and insufferable. It was hard to know.

  “Well, maybe someday I’ll be able to ask her myself,” I said.

  “That’s right. When you’re working as her maid.”

  I smiled and then I sighed. “I can only hope.”

  The next week passed in a whirlwind of shopping and sightseeing and dressmaking. It turned out that—between the money my mother had given me and the sum I had saved for myself and the amount Jean bestowed on me, with a gruff observation that her brother would have wanted her to do right by me—I had enough to buy three dresses. I also could afford a pair of good shoes and a cloak that I wouldn’t have a chance to use for at least two months. But it was not only warm and fashionable, it was on sale—and I could not resist.

  On the morning of my interview, I arrayed myself in one of the gowns (a bright blue that splashed a little color into my gray eyes), buttoned on my new shoes, and slid my mother’s triskele ring onto my finger. I was ready to face my future.

  Aunt Jean accompanied me, which was a good thing because I would have been lost without her. She knew which of the manor’s half dozen entrances we should use, she knew exactly what to say to the servants who asked us our business, and she exchanged a few friendly words with the housekeeper before introducing me. Constance was an imposing woman—at least six feet tall and solidly built—and she looked me over for a full minute before she began asking questions. I was polite but not obsequious, and I thought she liked my forthright manner.

  However, I could see her growing a little cooler after we had been talking for about ten minutes. “Am I to understand that you’ve never been a lady’s maid before?” she asked.

  “Not formally, no,” I said. “Though I’ve cleaned and pressed clothing for hundreds of women who stayed in our rooms overnight. And I’ve sewed buttons on their jackets and helped them into their dresses.”

  “She hasn’t been raised to know all the latest fashions, but she has a good eye for style and color,” Jean volunteered.

  Constance nodded. “Do you have much experience styling hair? Are you familiar with curling tongs and the various pomades?”

  I was starting to feel a little anxious. “I’ve used tongs often enough myself, and I was usually the one braiding my sisters’ hair—with ribbons and lace, even, on fair days.”

  Her expression said that I could not have supplied a more provincial answer. “But feathers and headpieces—the newest cuts and styles—you don’t have knowledge of how to incorporate those into a lady’s toilette,” she said.

  “I can learn,” I said.

  “She’s very clever,” Aunt Jean put in.

  “No doubt,” the housekeeper said. “Well, I’ll be frank, I’m not sure you’re what Marguerite is looking for, but she expressed an interest in meeting the most promising candidates.” She flicked a look at Aunt Jean that clearly said, Although this girl is not one of them. “And as I know this is important to my cousin, I will introduce you to the lady. But I would not get my hopes up, if I were you.”

  “Thank you. No. I won’t,” I said, my voice subdued.

  Constance got to her feet, and Jean and I hastily rose as well. “I will see if she is available now,” she said. “I’ll return shortly.”

  “Plenty of other jobs,” Jean said the minute Constance was out of earshot.

  I forced myself to nod and smile. “That’s true. At least I’ll get to meet her.” But it was hard not to feel both glum and a little embarrassed. Why had I ever thought I would be suitable for this position?

  Twenty minutes later, Constance reappeared and said, “Come with me.”

  I followed her through miles of narrow servants’ corridors and down one long, airy public hallway before she led me through a wide door. “This is Brianna,” she announced, then departed without another word.

  I was suddenly face-to-face with Lady Marguerite.

  I tried not to stare as I made a deep curtsey and sh
akily rose, but there was so much to take in at once. In person, Marguerite looked very much as she had always appeared in paintings and pamphlets. She had fine blond hair simply styled, smoky blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face with a sweet expression. But she had a quiet presence that didn’t come across in the portraits; she had a look of intensity that would have drawn my attention even if she wasn’t someone I had been curious about my entire life.

  Then there were the echoes.

  I had been shown to a large, sunny room that seemed to exist merely as a meeting spot. There were chairs and small tables and a coatrack near the door, and a sideboard in the corner holding a pitcher of water, some glasses, even a bowl of fruit. But there wasn’t a book or an embroidery frame or a sheet of writing paper to be found. People didn’t come here to do anything useful. They just came here to sit and talk.

  Or merely to sit.

  The three echoes had taken chairs across the room from Marguerite, and there they remained, eyes cast down and hands folded primly in their laps. They didn’t even glance up when I walked in. Like Marguerite, they were dressed in gowns of pretty seafoam blue, though perhaps two shades lighter in color. Their fair hair was pulled back from their faces in styles identical to hers. I couldn’t see their eyes, but I guessed they were the same color as Marguerite’s. Their expressions were different, though—more vacant, more placid. I never would have mistaken one of them for the real woman.

  “Have you never seen an echo before?” Marguerite asked in a lovely voice, light and musical.

  I quickly gave her all of my attention. “I have! A few. But never three at once.”

  “I understand that it is quite rare for someone to have three,” she agreed.

  “And I’ve never seen them sitting separately like that, away from their originals,” I added. “They’re not copying your every movement.”

  “Sometimes they do. But I can release them if I like. In fact, I often do.” She surveyed me a moment. “Where have you encountered echoes in the past?”

  “My mother runs a posting house on the Charamon Road, and all sorts of travelers pass through. Now and then someone comes with one of the shadow creatures.” I couldn’t help smiling. “The first time it happened, we didn’t know what to do! We charge by the bed, and a traveler with an echo needs two beds. But that first lord insisted that the echo was not a separate person, and so he shouldn’t have to pay a separate fee. My mother said, ‘Fine then, he can share your bed,’ and they argued for five minutes. In the end, she gave him blankets and let him make up a pallet on the floor for free.”

  “Poor echo,” said Marguerite.

  I glanced at the three sitting across the room, then back at Marguerite. “So they can feel discomfort and pain and fear the way ordinary people do?” I asked, wondering if it was an impertinent question but curious to know. “I have never been sure.”

  All this time, I had been standing politely in front of her, but now she waved me to a straight-backed chair placed a few feet away from her. I sat down, too nervous to do more than perch on the very edge of the seat.

  “Some people think they don’t feel anything,” Marguerite replied. “Some people think the echoes are no more than—” She lifted a delicate hand and made a short, graceful gesture. “Images in a mirror. Reflections flickering through a filtered life. Completely devoid of thought or feeling or emotion.”

  I was fascinated. “You don’t agree?”

  She turned her head to survey her companions as if she had never seen them before. “They eat. They sleep. If one stumbles against a door, a bruise forms on her skin. When I am sad, they come and sit by me and put their arms around me.” She shrugged. “I don’t believe they think and reason and grow and understand the way an ordinary human would, but they are more than reflections.”

  There were so many questions I wanted to ask to follow up on those observations, but the one that rose to my lips first was, “What sorts of things have made you sad?”

  I saw surprise come to her face, but she quickly banished it with a laugh. “Oh, isn’t everyone sad from time to time? And for no particular reason.”

  I studied her a little more closely now. I was used to gauging a traveler’s mood by the expression on his face or the way she held her shoulders—an essential skill when so many clients were likely to be tired and irate—and I would have bet that something was making Marguerite very unhappy. I could hardly ask her about it, however. “Yes, no doubt,” I said. “Though I don’t like to think of anyone being miserable!”

  She shifted in her seat and tried a smile, answering me as if I had actually posed the question. “I just have a slight headache,” she said. “It’s been with me all day.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said quickly. “I can come back some other time. It’s just that the housekeeper said you wanted to meet all the candidates—”

  “I do,” she said. “I suppose I should now ask you questions about your credentials as a lady’s maid.”

  All my wonder at being in the presence of Marguerite and her echoes faded away as I recalled that I really had no credentials. But I tried to cover up my discouragement with an air of confidence. “I can sew and iron and help you dress. I don’t have much experience with fashionable hairstyles, but I’m sure I can learn the ones you like. I’d be happy to run errands and I’m very discreet and— What exactly do you want to know?”

  Her smile became more genuine. “Those very things,” she assured me.

  I glanced at the echoes again. It was odd to see three people sitting there so quietly, not talking amongst themselves, not playing games, not embroidering, not doing anything. Just existing. “Does your maid help them dress, too?”

  Marguerite shook her head. “They dress themselves—or, if something needs to be buttoned or laced up the back, they help each other.”

  I maintained my silence, but I couldn’t help wondering why, if they were that adroit, they couldn’t help Marguerite with her clothes as well. She must have read my expression. “Yes, I know,” she said. “If the echoes are near me at all times, why do I need a lady’s maid at all? Everyone would be quite shocked if I didn’t have one. They would think me—defective or inferior. Or perhaps radical.”

  I ventured a smile. “You don’t look to be any of those things.”

  “No. And that is why I must have a maid of my own.”

  I wished with all my heart that I was suitable for the job. I said, in deeply respectful tones, “I hope you will consider me as you make your decision.”

  Marguerite shifted in her chair and something flickered across her face. I thought it might be uneasiness. “I will. I suppose I should ask you a few more questions—” She paused as her uneasiness increased.

  “Yes?” I said in an encouraging voice. “Another question?”

  She stirred in her chair again, then laid a hand across her stomach. “I’m sorry, I think I’m going to be—”

  And she leaned forward and vomited at my feet.

  I jumped up, and the three echoes did the same. They were at Marguerite’s side when she threw up a second time, but they did no more than hover there, agitated, their hands outstretched to touch her shoulders and the top of her head.

  I was more used to handling a crisis. “Quickly—one of you bring her some water. Someone else empty that fruit bowl and bring it to me in case she retches again.” They didn’t move, except to look at Marguerite and at each other, their agitation increasing. I bent over Marguerite, putting one arm around her shoulder and one hand against her forehead. Her skin was hot and her body was shaking. “Are you strong enough to stand? Would you like to lie down on one of the sofas, or would moving make it worse?”

  “Worse, I think,” she panted.

  “All right, then, just stay put for a moment,” I said. I put my hands on the back of her chair and shifted it just enough so she no longer had to look down at the puddle of vomit.

  I quickly circled the room, picking up the items the echoes had declined to fetch,
then returned to Marguerite’s side. After settling the bowl on her lap, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and dampened it with water from the pitcher so I could wipe her face. Over my shoulder I said, “Can one of you go get help?”

  I wasn’t surprised when the echoes all stared at me uncomprehendingly. None of them made a move for the door.

  “They—don’t leave me,” Marguerite gasped. She doubled over the bowl and her body heaved, but nothing else came up. “And even if they could find a servant, they wouldn’t be able to explain what was wrong.”

  Well, they could jump up and down and wave their arms and point back toward the room, couldn’t they? I wanted to demand. But apparently not. They might be more mirror reflections than Marguerite liked to think.

  “Then I’ll go find someone just as soon as it’s safe to leave you,” I said. “Would you like a sip of water, or would that make it worse?”

  “Worse,” she whispered, and then threw up again.

  It was probably another twenty minutes before Marguerite’s stomach settled a bit and she let me guide her to a sofa, where she lay down with my handkerchief draped over her eyes. The room was taking on a decidedly sour smell and the echoes were still hovering, distressed but silent. I wondered if they would start vomiting soon, sparing a moment to think how unpleasant the situation could become. I hustled out into the hallway and stopped the first servant I could find.

  “Lady Marguerite is sick and someone needs to go to her,” I announced.

  Within five minutes, there were a half dozen attendants in the room, some cleaning up the mess and some helping Marguerite to her feet. Nobody asked me who I was or what business I had at the mansion, and no one offered to see me out. I stood there a few moments after Marguerite was gone, watching the undermaids soaping the carpet, and then I shrugged and headed for the door. Soon enough, I had made my way down the hallways and found the kitchen, where the housekeeper had her office.

  Constance wasn’t there, but Jean was, taking advantage of a bit of quiet time to check entries in a ledger she had brought with her. She came quickly to her feet when I knocked on the door.