Point of Hopes

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the long room was cool, and very quiet, not even the sound of a house clock to disturb the silence. The magist who sat in the guest’s chair by the empty fireplace was very aware of that unnerving quiet, and folded her hands in her wide sleeves to stop herself fidgeting with her rings. The room smelled of sour ash, as though the fire hadn’t been lit in a week or more, for all that it was only the last day of Lepidas and the Rat Moon. The spring came late and cold in the Ajanes; she would have been glad of a fire to cut the chill that clung to the stones of floor and walls. The heavy tapestries and the one paneled wall did little to warm the room. She looked around the room again and was reassured by the sight of silver on the sideboard and wax candles in the carved‑crystal holders, though she could have sworn there had been a case‑clock by the window the last time she’d come to Mailhac.

The landame of Mailhac–who had been plain Jausarande d’Orsandi, one of five daughters with sixteen quarterings and no prospects, before she had made her bargain with the magist’s employer–saw that look from the doorway, and knew it instantly for what it was. To see a shopkeeper’s daughter, or worse, presuming to judge her own financial standing, to count the value of silver that had belonged to this estate for generations, was intolerable. Still, it had to be tolerated, at least a little longer, and she smoothed her skirts, displaying long, fair hands against the rich green silk, and swept forward into the room.

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