Thread of Frost

Ch. 33: A Good Day

"Show me what's in the basket," Julian said.

He sat across from Isolde in the carriage. Milky light filtered through the window, leaching colour from his blue eyes. They hit a bump, and Julian ducked to avoid smacking his head against the ceiling. Isolde clutched the wooden basket to her chest and tried not to smile.

"No."

"You have to," Julian said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"It could be a security threat."

"It's not," Isolde said. "Relax, Julian. It's nothing dangerous."

Julian didn't look convinced. And maybe he had a point, Isolde thought; in the three weeks that she'd visited the poorhouse, she'd brought blankets and buttermilk biscuits and card games, but she'd also brought honey wine and knives. Last week, she'd brought a dull sword for a young boy that had just finished reading The Great Tales of Sir Gulaine. Julian hadn't spoken to her for the whole ride back to the palace.

She shifted the basket. A small yowl escaped.

Julian's eyebrow inched higher. "Did the basket just... mew?"

"Nope."

"Isolde." Julian rubbed a hand across his face. "Please tell me that you don't have a cat in that basket."

"Okay," Isolde said. "I don't have a cat in the basket."

A heavy silence fell. The basket mewled again.

Julian sighed. "Do I want to know where you got that from?"

Isolde shrugged. "The servants like me."

She'd asked Emily, who brought her tea in the morning. The girl had been reluctant to speak to her at first — fiddling with her skirt, sloshing tea on the tray — but now they had regular chats about books and politics and everything in between.

Julian's mouth tightened. "The servants aren't supposed to talk to you. Halson doesn't like it. He prefers..." His fingers tightened on the ledge beneath the carriage window. "He has a certain way of running things."

"Well," Isolde said, "Halson isn't here, is he?"

"No," Julian said slowly. "I suppose he isn't."

The carriage stopped. Isolde kicked open the door, shifting the basket under one arm.

"Come on," she said. "We're here."

Isolde hurried down the tunnel. Her glass leg flashed silver beneath her gold skirts, glittering like a star. She emerged into the abandoned museum; light spilled through the cracked ceiling, illuminating polished marble statues. People played cards, and the sound of laughter split the air. Everything smelled of cooked onions and spice.

Isolde shifted her basket. A young boy was hopping from table to table, waving his wooden sword around. Julian sighed, muttered something about poking an eye out, and started in that direction.

"Isolde!" a voice cried.

A whirl of blonde curls collided with her waist. Isolde let out a little oof sound — mostly for Rosie's benefit — and buried her hand in her curls. The younger girl pulled back, giving her a gap-toothed grin.

"Did you bring biscuits again?"

Isolde set down the basket. "I brought something even better."

Rosie bounced up and down on her toes. Isolde smiled.

"Go ahead," she said.

Rosie dove into the basket. She emerged carrying a squirming bundle of orange-and-white fur, her expression exultant.