The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

It felt good to be back in the kitchen with his dear friends, but there was a feeling of sadness as well. The kitchen invoked memories of Ankarette, and in so doing, freshened the hurt of losing her.

He glanced at the wall that concealed the secret door leading to the maze of tunnels that could be used to secretly navigate the palace. Through the upper window in the kitchen, he could still see the poisoner’s tower, Ankarette’s former home. In that tower, she had coached him in the ways of her arts and the arts of the Espion. He remembered her lessons well, but he had not ventured up there since.

Drew clapped his shoulder. “I’ve a tree that needs to be felled. Off I go before Berwick complains. It’s great seeing you, Owen.”

“Berwick’s still alive?” Owen asked, chuckling. The butler had seemed ancient to Owen when he was a boy.

Liona pursed her lips. “He’s got gout now and waddles when he walks. But he’s determined to keep serving. Bend down so I can kiss you, my boy. I’m not fetching a stool!”

Owen complied and bent his head down. She kissed him on the forehead, patted his cheek as if he were still eight, and then bustled around the kitchen. Breathing in the comforting smells of baking bread and yeast, he sat there for a while longer, but his gaze kept returning to the secret door.

Owen scooted off the barrel and walked over to his old corner. Though he’d spent many hours playing there alone, he’d spent many more with Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer. The thought of the danger she was currently facing made him frown. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself for not being there. At the thought, a spark of pain shot through his chest that turned into a dull, throbbing ache. He clenched his teeth, anxious to fulfill his duties and get into his saddle again.

But first, he needed to visit a ghost.

Owen looked around to make sure no one was watching, then tripped the latch of the secret door and stole into the secret corridor beyond. He walked quickly. He wasn’t afraid of being caught by the Espion now, for they all knew that the Duke of Westmarch was part of the spy ring himself. The corridor was small and dusty, and it felt more cramped than it had when he was a little boy.

Soon he was tramping up the tower steps, listening to the sigh of the wind through the arrow slits as he continued his upward trek. His heart began pounding with the effort, but it wasn’t just from the physical exertion—a feeling of dread and nervousness began to bore into his heart. Was he ready to face the memories of Ankarette again? He owed so much to her—the chain of office around his neck, his arrangement with Mancini, even his continued life. Everything he was today could be ascribed to her subtle influence and care. He slowed as he reached the pinnacle of the tower. He looked forward to seeing her things—the intricate embroideries she had done, her lovely dresses—but he reminded himself that the tower room would be covered in dust.

Owen reached the door and steeled himself, his hand tightening on the latch. Sweat clung to the roots of his hair. He sighed deeply and clutched the handle and unlatched it, giving it a firm push.

He was almost blinded when he entered. The curtains had always been drawn, for Ankarette had slept during the day, but now they were wide open. He saw the outline of the bed and a few tables, but there were also things that should not be there. Gowns that hung from wooden frames, and casks of jewels that winked in the radiant light. A few pairs of slippers were arranged under the bed, a washbowl full of water, and a brush with gold strands of hair clinging to it. The room didn’t smell of roses. It smelled of something more subtle . . . lavender, perhaps?

He found himself standing in the middle of the room, one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he took in the change of scene. Except for the white-and-purple Wizr set, the room was not as Ankarette had left it. It belonged to someone else. Another woman.

He heard a faint scuff on the floor, the deliberate tread of someone trying to sneak up on him. His ears had always been sharp, alert to the sound of anything out of place. There was someone behind him, someone who had hidden behind the open door.

Owen jumped toward the table with the washbowl and ewer, turning as he landed. A slender arm with a dagger was thrusting at him. As he grabbed the woman’s wrist, he barely had time to notice the purple powder on the blade’s tip—poison—before she tried to strike his throat with her other hand. He warded off the blow with his free hand, not budging the hand restraining her wrist. He was fighting by instinct now, and he knew it would all be over if she stabbed him with the poisoned dagger.

She hooked her slippered foot around his heel, and he felt her body shift to trip him. Grabbing a fistful of her golden hair with the hand he’d used to block her throat jab, he shouted, “Peace! I don’t want to hurt you!”

And suddenly the room was spinning and Owen landed on his back, hard, the blow knocking the wind from him. He grunted with pain, still clutching her hair, only then realizing he was holding a wig.

She stood over him, knife at the ready, her shorn hair giving her a boyish look despite the pearl-colored gown and necklace that were clearly Ankarette’s.

“Hurt me?” she said disdainfully. “You flatter yourself. Stay down, boy, or you’ll bleed.”

Owen did not want to lose sight of that dagger, but he also wanted to get a better look at her. From his position on the floor, he could kick her legs, but he expected that she was anticipating that. Being called a boy was deliberately offensive, which he also thought was part of her plan. He propped himself up on his elbow, but did not try to sit.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he gasped, trying to calm his racing heart.

“You made enough noise, but you didn’t startle me at all. Now give me my hair back before you ruin it.” She extended her free hand, gesturing for it.

He felt rather silly holding the wig, so he leaned forward slowly and offered it to her. She snatched it from him and then set it on the table.

She was older than him by just a few years. She was beautiful, even with the shorn hair, in a way that was calculated to drive a man to desire. Her haughty look told him she felt completely in control of the situation. It irked him to see this stranger wearing Ankarette’s gown, her jewels.

Owen licked his lips, trying to keep himself calm and focused. “Can I sit up without getting stabbed? I won’t attack you. You have my word.”

“Turn your head to the side,” she commanded. He complied, but didn’t let her out of his sight. “No,” she said impatiently, “turn the other way!”

He did, and her look changed immediately, wilting into surprise.

“Oh dear, you’re the Duke of Westmarch,” she said, then smiled. “Look who I’ve caught in my web.”

“And who are you?” Owen asked, feeling his stomach twist and clench.