Thread of Frost

Ch. 18: I Think You Know

Over the next week, Isolde fell into a routine.

Breakfast of salted cod, butter, and toast. Wander the grounds. Visit the library to read sermons. Lunch. Crocheting. More wandering. Dinner. She was allowed to respond to a daily letter from a Bardanian citizen, but her responses were always carefully monitored. And none of the letters ever mentioned the gassings on Holy Day. None of them expressed discontent over food shortages.

She suspected that her correspondence was being screened.

Of course it was.

Isolde tried to speak with the servants, but they turned to face the wall, their eyes fixed on oil paintings or empty sconces. A young maid brought her strong black tea every morning. When Isolde asked her name, the girl looked down at the floor.

Silence.

Isolde tried again. "You must have something that I can call you. A nickname. A surname, if nothing else."

The girl whispered something.

"Pardon?"

"I would rather not say." The maid kept her eyes on the floor, her cheeks flushed. "Your Holiness."

"Why?"

The girl's eyes flickered to the bruises on Isolde's wrists. "His Holiness doesn't approve of familiarity."

After that, Isolde stopped asking the servants questions.

Only Tilda and Sendra continued to speak to her. Tilda insisted on afternoon strolls through the gardens; they would wind their way through the winter rose garden, zigzagging across glass bridges until they reached the archery range. Sometimes, they brought a picnic of nutty cheeses and plump grapes; other times, Isolde brought her book of sermons and fantasized about chucking it into a frozen pond.

Alas.

"Oh, look," Tilda said. "Julian's here."

The other girl was dressed in a pink cloak and a thick fur hand muff today, her golden hair braided into a crown. She sounded surprised, Isolde noted wryly, although she wasn't sure why Tilda would be; Julian Winterthorpe was always at the archery range at this hour.

They paused, watching as Julian fired the bow.

The arrow sunk into the target.

Isolde shielded her eyes against the winter sun. "Not bad."

Tilda sighed. "He's so talented."

Julian notched another arrow. A vein jumped in his arm as he pulled back the string, and Tilda made a rather unladylike noise that could have either been a squeal, a shout, or a gasp. The bow fired. Again, the arrow met its target.

Isolde dropped her hand. "Have you ever fired a bow?"

Tilda's face scrunched up in horror. "Like, by myself?"

"Yeah."

"Um. No."

Isolde turned. "Sendra?"

The other girl frowned. "I once threw my hat at a squirrel. I didn't hit it, though."

Isolde decided to ignore this. "Well, then." She raised her skirts, picking her way across the frozen field. "No time like the present."

She could feel the girls exchanging a look behind her. Their hurried footsteps crunched on the ice-bitted grass. When Tilda reached her, she was flushed and panting. "You can't be serious. That's dangerous."

Isolde shrugged. "It looks fun."

"But—"

"Your Holiness," Julian said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"