Treacherous Witch

5. The Locked Door

"True magic is performed in a state of flow. The flow-state is known to any master craftswoman or artist. It is a state of pure creation, undistracted by the passage of time."
Interview with Queen Shikra III, as told to Master Anwen

The next morning, a maid woke her, one of the girls who had helped to prepare her the previous night. The girl introduced herself as Priska, her lady-in-waiting.

She had to ask. "Waiting for what?"

"For you, my lady. Anything you need."

"What did you do before?"

"Served Lady Rose, ma'am."

"No... before."

But Priska looked away. Her hair was pulled into a bun, her hands clasped over the dull grey frock and apron they made all the women servants wear, as if they didn't deserve nice clothes.

"We'd best get you ready for breakfast, ma'am."

Breakfast was at eight, and Priska warned her that Lord Avon didn't like to be late. This didn't surprise her. Valerie let herself be washed and dressed with a bemused air, caught between the nerves cramping her stomach and the strange, pampered situation she found herself in. Today's gown was pale as primrose with delicate cross patterning and short ruffled sleeves. The skirt was lovely, but she longed to adjust the too-frilly neckline.

While Priska fussed with her hair, she looked around the bedchamber properly, taking everything in. Like the king's chamber, the queen's bed was made of silverwood. And like the king's bed, it was imbued with a spell. She had slept well thanks to its magic.

"Is there a picture missing?"

One thing she had noticed about the royal palace was that there were paintings everywhere. Most were portraits, presumably of the royal family and their hangers-on, with the occasional landscape of picturesque villages, farms or palm trees dotted around.

"A picture?" Priska asked. "Where, my lady?"

"Above the mantelpiece."

The bedchamber had a fireplace and above that a mantelpiece, and above that was a space where it looked like a painting should hang. In fact, it looked like a painting had been there. The wallpaper was less faded, and there were holes in the wall for the hooks.

"Oh—I don't know, ma'am. I haven't been in the queen's rooms before."

"Do you think they removed it?"

"I don't know, ma'am."

Odd, when everything else in the queen's quarters, from individual books down to a gold-lined pad of paper and pens on the writing desk, had been so perfectly preserved. She'd discovered more magical items that the Drakonians had missed. The harp remembered music that it had played before, and there was a golden pen on the desk that would only write the truth.

Had the painting been removed because it contained a curse or some other harmful magic? She couldn't be sure and so filed that mystery away for later.

At exactly eight o' clock, she entered the breakfast room (an entire room for breakfast). She settled into the chair that Lord Avon held out for her with what she hoped was a graceful air. It was a small, bright room, the windows opening on to a wide balcony from which she fancied she could catch a hint of the sea breeze. A selection of cold meats, fruit and pastries had already been set out on the table. His manservant poured them tea.

Avon took the seat opposite her. "I imagine this must be quite strange."

"Yes, my lord," she said. "I've always dressed myself."