Whisper of Blade | ✓ (Crimson #1)

Chapter 14: Funeral Pyre

"Are you sure you're strong enough for this?" Nola asked, adjusting Minerva's sash yet again with nervous hands that had nothing else to do.

"Yes," Minerva lied.

Kaolin grimaced while she dabbed soft rose color onto Minerva's dead complexion. Only three days in her service and the spy could already see through her better than Nola. She was a dangerous one, and in a way Minerva wasn't used to.

Nola fluttered around her like an agitated butterfly—though one wrong move and her nurse could easily turn into an overprotective lioness with a wayward cub. "We should delay the Trial a couple more days to let you recover," she pleaded. "The court already knows that you were injured in the raid and it wouldn't be amiss."

At the mention of the Terron attack, Minerva raised an eyebrow at Kaolin. The spy shook her head in answer.

She hadn't found anything yet.

"Then all your work in getting me prettied up would be utterly wasted," Minerva answered drily. Neither her protests nor Kaolin's subtle nudges had swayed Nola in her decision to make Minerva "the shining sun of the assembly".

Said decision entailed traditional Pyro dress that fit her like a sheath of cloth, a flamboyant sash with a giant bow at the small of her back, and tiny silver ornaments placed everywhere in her hair that tinkled when she moved.

No wonder this style went out of fashion, Minerva mused. Anyone who wore it would be a sitting duck for assassins.

"Kaolin, another pin for her hair." Nola beckoned with her hand.

Minerva winced at the stab to her head. "We're going to be late."

"Just a moment more," Nola said through the pins held between her lips. Several more minuscule fixes and her nurse allowed her to shuffle toward the door.

"Daggers," Minerva said to Kaolin.

"Not those plain ones!" Nola cried. She fetched the bejeweled set from the table. Oversized emeralds glimmered along the length of the grip.

So impractical.

"They're going in my sleeves, Nola," Minerva said impatiently. "No one's going to see my daggers unless they're buried hilt deep in their chest and I doubt their dying thought will be 'Oh no, she killed me with an undecorated kitchen knife!'"

Kaolin covered a laugh with her sleeve before whisking the daggers Nola offered out of reach.

The old woman sighed and brushed an invisible speck of dust from Minerva's shoulder. Her own white hair spilled messily out of its bun and shadows had taken up residence beneath her golden eyes. Crow's feet creased the corners—Minerva hadn't noticed them before.

"You're all grown up," Nola whispered. Her hand reached out to as if to smooth Minerva's hair before she drew it back.

"I grew up a long time ago." But Minerva reached out with her finger to tap the kirukkan forehead pendant that glowed between Nola's brows—an old childish habit.

Her nurse's face scrunched up.

"Don't cry, Nola," Minerva warned.

"I'm not!" Nola snapped. "The stark whiteness of your skin blinded me, in spite of the rouge Kaolin applied."

Kaolin rejoined them. "Less is more, and at least her skin is clear. Others cannot claim the same."

Nola's mouth contorted as if a hundred words battled to be voiced. "Be careful," she finally said. "Don't trust the politics of nobles. Remember the lines you're to say and don't muss your dress."