The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [21]
Had she taken other guests over there later?
The chatelaine stumbled over to the alcove. The beasts, looking away from the mirror to see her physically enter, let loose with shrieks and twitters and grunts, feathers flying or fur airborne. Only one or two remained inert; they had no choice, created immobile, twitching with pent emotions. She had caused this hurt, had torn apart their safe and pampered world by acts of irresponsibility.
How could she have just lain there?
The lock to the cage was scratched. Part had been bent. Picked, no doubt. Really, though, the quality of the lock was embarrassing, little more than an ornament.
Biting a knuckle, she stifled a wail.
Her poor cherub. Her poor, poor cherub.
She was a fool and an idiot and a terrible mother for getting herself into the state she’d been in, for letting strangers into her room every night, for drinking until oblivion put her to bed. The pets were right: she had done this with her own hands.
Two things became certain to the chatelaine as she stood there, breath coming in ragged gasps: first, of course, for the sake of Nowy Solum, she had to replace the cherub as soon as possible. Second was that she must tell the chamberlain of her mistake. Erricus and his palatinate officers already called her all sorts of a fool. She knew of their profound disapproval, for just about every aspect of her lifestyle.
They were right, it seemed.
She took another deep breath and began to pace.
As a young and anxious girl, the chatelaine had been handed control of Jesthe. Now, after years of decline, she had finally proved herself unworthy. There need not be a lecture from the chamberlain about priorities and her lack of security, and respect for the palatinate; she was all too aware that they had warned her of this very thing, as far back as the day she had first banished them from her wings of the palace. Erricus would imply, as he had back then, that she actually harboured a wish for someone to come into her bedchambers and cut her throat while she slept. She was lucky this time, he would say. This was a warning, a wake-up call.
The chatelaine did blubber a bit then, because she hated platitudes, especially when they were called for.
She offered hysterical apologies to her remaining pets.
Painful to admit that the chamberlain had been right all along. She sniffled.
Where was her little baby?
She made a fist.
During today’s conference, she would tell Erricus that the palatinate could return to all halls and chambers of the palace. She would admit defeat, and be humbled before his smugness.
Would this make her father happy? She was sure that the castellan worried about her, without protection down here, but in his current state of mind it was hard to be certain of anything.
She ground her fist against her palm.
Searching the floor for clues of any sort, she saw the signs of struggle and distress, but nothing unusual. Could she recall nothing? What was the matter with her?
Maybe a person other than a lover had come into Jesthe during the night, from the slums outside? Might even a servant, one of her own women, have done this? Almost anyone could enter the bedchambers on nights like the previous one. The palace was riddled, like old cheese.
Were there people in Nowy Solum who wished her ill-will? This concept was always a bit hard for her to get her head around. Why would people want to hurt her? The biggest crime she’d ever committed was sloth, or disregard. She was not malicious, nor had she ever harboured any ill-will of her own to force upon the citizenry.
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “They should receive