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There’s an implied threat in the woman’s words, and it tempts Ivaia to keep causing trouble, just to be troublesome. Run back to that study and barricade myself inside using the furniture? But she decides there will probably also be opportunities for trouble after she’s heard whether the woman has anything interesting to say. “I don’t think you’ve introduced yourself.”
“Don’t even bother trying to lecture me,” says Ivaia. “If you don’t like property damage, don’t kidnap people and lock them up.” She is startled by her own vehemence and impoliteness. But at least all the other people who have controlled and constrained me had some right to do so. “Tell me what’s happened to our driver and I’ll consider being a bit less troublesome. Maybe. I’m also extremely interested in hearing an explanation of what ‘aether’ means. And why you think I have anything to do with it.” Immediately, Ivaia feels guilty. I should be asking about Zhulina. And making sure that Karalisel is all right. But she decides that guilt, as well as politeness, can wait until she’s received some answers to her first questions. She remembers how badly dented the goblet looked after she threw it. I need to know that I’m not dangerous…
Instinctively, Ivaia closes the book and raises it to shield her face. As she’s turning, she feels a brief tug on the side of her neck, and then hears the beating of the bird’s wings, now moving away from her. When she lowers the book, the raven is about to fly out through the doorway. In its beak, it’s holding the necklace that the Duke gave to Ivaia the previous evening. “Wait! You can’t-” She steps forward, puts the book down on the desk and starts running. She chases the bird out into the corridor and back around the corner - she’s just fast enough to see the bird fly into the guest bedroom Ivaia had broken out of. I left the window open. She has no chance of catching up. Once she stops running, she can hear several set of footsteps approaching from the far end of the corridor. The tanned woman who met Ivaia and Karalisel at the front door now steps into view, followed by the two men who took Ivaia to her ‘guest’ room. Ivaia folds her arms. What question should I demand answers to first?
The books aren’t ordered by the numbers on the spine as far as Ivaia can tell. So how are they sorted? She crouches down to look at the lowest shelf - it’s only a quarter full, and there is a stack of unlabelled books lying horizontally in some of the remaining space. Maybe chronologically? She reaches for the rightmost labelled volume, hoping it will be the most recent. Why am I wasting time with this? Shouldn’t I be searching the rooms at the other end of this floor? As she touches the spine, her fingertips feel warmer for a few moments, then colder. Nervousness. I should probably have been feeling like this as soon as I started ripping up bedsheets. Just a quick glance. Seeing what these people choose to write down may give some hints about what they consider important. And how they think. She straightens and walks across the room to stand close to the window so she can read by what remains of the daylight. Cradling the book in her left arm, she opens the cover and looks at the first page. As she expected, the text is handwritten, but so neatly that it’s almost as easy to read as print. The title at the top of the page is: On the Haldizi and Volcharoth Families She feels briefly dizzy. The first book I chose, and it has my family’s name on the first page… It’s not so strange. We are important, or were once. But all the same… After the title, the writer cites various records and two published books as sources for the events summarised in the following paragraphs. Ivaia is curious - she’s heard the story many times, but only from her family’s point of view. And during the past few years, she’s started to wonder if she was being told the full truth. What will a less biased account say? But the history described here matches what she was told almost exactly. A little over a hundred and sixty years ago, the foreign cousin-by-marriage to the ailing Haldizi Duke offered to help administer the city while the rightful ruler was incapacitated. And the devious young Lord Volcharoth made many carefully chosen alliances, plundered the city’s treasury for bribes, gradually took complete control and signed a pair of loophole-filled contracts with the Haldizi family. And refilled the treasury through trade, reformed the laws protecting the rights of the common people and used his tactical cunning to repel two invasion attempts with hardly any loss of life. And so, when he was finally dying, he was able to pass his supposedly only temporary title on to his own son rather than returning it to the Haldizi heir. Of course, the Haldizi family tried to reclaim their city, but the Volcharoths had simply won too much support from the nobility and other citizens, and the legal challenges were predictably tied up in court for generations by the succession of appeals that the Volcharoths’ wealth could buy. And the Dukes of Tuarensi had been Volcharoths ever since. The only aspect of this version that Ivaia hasn’t already heard from her family is the commentary at the end, which claims that the blatant usurpation was almost certainly beneficial for the city, because none of the later heads of the Haldizi family seem likely to have made competent rulers. There’s no debate over the facts, then? What my family says about the current Duke is true. He’s just the descendant of a lucky swindler. The power he wields is illegitimate, and the Palace he lives in is stolen property. She remembers facing the Duke across his desk that morning as he stated his terms for offering a pardon to her uncle. None of that should have happened. He doesn’t have the right to decide my uncle’s fate… But she’s not feeling any anger or resentment towards the Duke. She’s unsettled, because she also remembers the lopsided reassuring smile from Alledain when they were dancing last night. I don’t think I can even begin to be angry at the Duke until I know that no one from my family was responsible for hiring the assassin who tried to cut the throat of the Duke’s younger brother. She begins flipping through the pages - only the first twenty or so have been written on. She skims through a lengthy discussion of events that occurred a few years before she was born - the current Duke’s father supposedly had an affair with Ivaia’s grandmother, and soon afterwards Ivaia’s grandfather was killed in what was sometimes described as a ‘duel’. Here, the writer cites no records but discusses the sometimes conflicting rumours and seems most interested in how uncharacteristic the actions of the previous Duke were. The majority of the pages are taken up by decisions made by the current Duke. There are quotes from court records of three eyewitness statements about the attempt on his life - Ivaia skips over these. But she does note one isolated, underlined sentence: It is strongly recommended that no one attempt to influence Dastiarn Volcharoth directly; although he maintains the demeanour of a man who respects reason and the rule of law, and he has shown no sign of possessing unusual mental powers, we believe him to be volatile and wilful, and he may be extremely dangerous if he believes his family or his control over the city to be threatened. The word ‘wilful’ seems a bizarre choice to Ivaia. What do they expect from a Duke? Why was this book the last one on the shelf? She turns to the final page with writing on it - here, the script is different, though still very clear. The words at the top begin mid-sentence: based on a purchase of clothing; however, Zhulina Haldizi apparently fell ill of fever shortly before the banquet and her cousin Ivaia Haldizi attended in her stead. Ivaia feels dizzy again and closes her eyes. When was this written? Last night? Today? After a few moments, she continues reading: If there are no other symptoms, then we should consider the possibility that the fever was psychically induced. I am unaware of the Ephemeral Flame or their servants possessing this power or using this tactic previously, but coincidence seems unlikely given how strongly subsequent events suggest that Ivaia Haldizi has some level of instinctive control over the aether and that others she met for the first time during the evening have abilities of even greater interest to us. The text ends there. How do they- Ivaia’s thoughts are interrupted by sounds like a small gust of wind and then something tapping on wood nearby. She looks up from the book.
After about a quarter of an hour, Ivaia had torn bedsheets into strips, twisted them and knotted them to create a sort of rope, and tied one end around the door handle and the other end around the back of a chair. And then she lifted the chair and dropped it out the window, hoping the extra weight will help her pull the door open. Now she’s gripping the bedsheets with both hands, just in front of one of the knots, and preparing to brace and lean back again. I should probably feel guilty about the property damage, but I don’t. If anyone walks around the back of the house, the sight of the dangling furniture will make it obvious that the ‘guest’ is not being cooperative. And the prospect of being caught inspires gleeful thoughts in Ivaia - it will spoil her chance to find her driver, but it will also give her an opportunity to tell her captors exactly what she thinks of their behaviour, now she’s been given time to reflect on it. She tugs hard on the rope. There’s the sound of cracking and splintering, and Ivaia manages to skip backwards and avoid falling over as the weight of the chair pulls the door open. Ivaia hauls the chair back up into the room and leaves it next to the open window, still tied to the sheets. Then she walks to the doorway. The locking mechanism has been pulled out of alignment, and parts of the surrounding wood have broken to make way for it. It looks moderately expensive to repair. She listens briefly - there are still muffled footsteps from the floor below, but none nearby, so she walks out into the corridor. There are several other doors to her left, and they look the same as the door to her room except less damaged. She goes to each door in turn, and first tries the handle. If the door isn’t locked, she pushes it open slowly. When she reaches one that is locked, she knocks quietly and whispers. “It’s me. Ivaia Haldizi.” Some of the unlocked rooms contain travelling bags or clothes laid out on the bed. There are no people in them now, however, and there are no responses to her knocks and whispers. The corridor turns a corner to her right. The remaining doors to the left are for cupboards containing bedlinen, brooms or firewood. But there’s an open door on the opposite side of the corridor, leading to a room that looks like a study or library. Ivaia walks inside. Like every part of this house that she’s seen so far, this room is clean - there’s no sign of dust. Instead, the air smells of leather, cloth and paper. The curtains are partly open, and the window overlooks the looping path outside the front of the house. By the late afternoon light, Ivaia can see the ink bottles, quills and penknives laid out across the desk. Against the opposite wall, there’s a high, narrow bookcase with glass doors. Ivaia walks across the soft carpet that covers much of the floor and tries to open the doors of the bookcase. They’re locked, and she finds she’s much more reluctant to do any damage to this room. Instead, she goes back to the desk and pulls the drawer open. It’s nearly empty, but there is one promisingly sized key, which does indeed unlock the bookcase. The spines of the books look identical - bound in black leather and all the same width - except for narrow pieces of card that have been slipped behind thin horizontal bands, allowing the books to be labelled. These cards have no words on them, just sequences of handwritten numbers separated by dots. The pages would have been blank when the books were purchased - the steward employed by Ivaia’s family uses very similar ones for the estate accounts. But there are at least a hundred volumes here. That would be a lot of accounting. Since the labels mean nothing to her, Ivaia needs some other way to choose a book.
Ivaia is lying on the bed in this ‘guest’ room, trying to persuade herself to be patient. If they think I’m compliant, maybe they’ll be more inclined to answer questions about our driver. Maybe they’ll actually prove to me that he’s safe. They’re not exactly rushing. Aunt Ela lectured me so many times about the virtues and rewards of being able to wait quietly… but how many times was there any reward? My uncle has spent nearly three years in a prison cell, and I’m eager to start shouting to be let out after… what? Half an hour? But when my uncle was arrested, he didn’t have a missing driver to worry about. And that’s the most ridiculous objection to anything I’ve ever heard myself make in my own head, she tells herself. But by now, she has already stood up and put her shoes back on. She walks across to the window and tries the latch, which lifts easily. She pushes the glass panes outwards to create a gap more than wide enough for her to climb through, if she wanted to. She’s on the second storey, and the nearest tree, while close, is not near enough for her to reach any branches. But there are bedsheets… Does that actually work? And do I want to escape that way? They didn’t say where our driver is, just that he’s being ‘entertained and distracted’. Where? In the city, or here in the house? If he’s here, I’ll have a much better chance of finding him if I don’t leave the house first - with all that activity going on downstairs, it may be hard to get back inside without being noticed. She turns away from the window, walks across the room to the door and finally tries the handle. The door is locked, of course. But locked bedroom doors in a house like this one are usually more of a signal to guests and servants. Not a serious impediment. The mechanism will probably be light-weight and not particularly sturdy. She wraps both hands around the handle, braces her feet and pulls forcefully.
Conveniently distracted.
1st level character sheet for Ivaia:
Spoiler: Ivaia Haldizi Human kineticist 1 Medium humanoid (human); Alignment: Neutral Init +2; Senses Perception +5
Ivaia has spent some time sitting on the bed and staring at the closed door. She heard a key turn, so she’s assuming the door is locked, but she has - so far - refused to try turning the handle. She’s not sure if this is pride, confusion or exhaustion.
Following the two men, Ivaia tries to look obedient while she ponders ways of getting out. Even if she eludes this pair, there are plenty of other people around. Best to wait. For a little while, anyway.
Ivaia meets Karalisel’s gaze. “If you want to take the oath and go with him, please do. I won’t mind, truly. But…” She turns her head and looks at Avrios. “But I can’t. Not yet. Not until you prove to me that our driver is safe and unharmed. And then I’ll need some way of knowing that this oath isn’t a trap. You’ve just abducted us - don’t expect me to believe any of your assurances, no matter how much you smile at us.”
Ivaia feels off-balance and bewildered, with no idea at all in her mind for a response. This man’s words are simply baffling, as if he’s from a utterly foreign culture. Or… as if he thinks she’s an ordinary person. Ivaia sits down in one of the chairs that the man offered, and she stares at the floor. How many times have I wished I’d been born to a different family? Dreamt of the freedom that could be given by a new identity? But my upbringing has trained me so thoroughly. I don’t even notice the deference until it’s missing. Hypocrite. She clasps her hands tightly and does not look up when the man calling himself Avrios continues talking.
Ivaia looks back. She and Karalisel are in plain sight and have been boxed in by the two lines of people and the carriage. “Very well,” she says to the blond man, hoping to make her voice sound cold this time. It will probably be more effective to let these people have their say first, and then ask more questions. But she finds herself worrying about what exactly the man meant by ‘distracted’.
Ivaia’s attempt to be commanding sounded weak to her own ears, and she’s not surprised if these people weren’t impressed. Something changes when Karalisel speaks, perhaps because the baker is simply more confident and persuasive. But is that all that’s going on? The blond man’s statement leaves a lot unanswered…
Guessing that the two people in the doorway probably have the most authority here, Ivaia strides towards them as quickly as her long skirt will allow. She stops halfway up the steps, almost within arm’s reach of them. “You,” she says. “Tell me. What have you done to our driver?”
Ivaia notes the expressions of the people in the doorway - both of them are watching Karalisel, and both seem pleased by something. Ivaia looks around and sees Karalisel flinching back from the driver. Not our driver. Those eyes…
Ivaia follows Karalisel out of the carriage. Her attention is drawn to two more people who are dressed like gardeners - this pair have not joined the others standing in parallel rows. Instead, they are still in the doorway, and both of them seem to be watching Karalisel in particular.
I would have expected servants in livery. These people look like gardeners… but there’s hardly any garden here for them to tend.
It looks as though some noble has sold all the family land and planted trees to hide the view of what’s been lost. But… I’ve never heard of any noble family living in this region. I thought it was all just rugged, difficult farmland. Trees so close to the house feel oppressive… …but perhaps that’s just because of what I’m used to. She’s about to ask Karalisel if she’s heard any rumours concerning this house or the wider area, but then the carriage draws up next to the front doors of the house and stops.
Ivaia nods, pulls the door closed and latches it. We’re committed to something now. We just have to wait to find out what it is. But what happened to our driver? Was he bribed? Unlikely. Threatened? …Replaced?
“Wait! What are you doing?” But Farenthar has leapt out of the carriage before Ivaia can even finish asking her question. When he looked out the other door, what did he see? Should we be trying to escape as well? Ivaia glances towards Karalisel. The baker is small, and she appears delicate - a fall from the carriage could seriously injure her. The carriage door is still open, swinging on its hinges. Ivaia leans forward, hoping to see if Farenthar is all right, but the carriage has moved away too quickly. While reaching for the handle, Ivaia looks again at Karalisel.
He must have found the nearby entertainment rather dull. I hope he hasn’t been sitting up there long.
Ivaia looks around the park. It’s a peaceful place. The trees and the river are beautiful. But suddenly it seems very exposed. Are those people really merchants? And who’s in that rowboat? “I don’t like the idea much either. But it’s an idea. Let’s not dismiss any choices too quickly. Why don’t we go back to my carriage? We could drive around the city and talk for as long as we want to. At least we’ll be less visible.” Although it’s obvious which family owns the carriage…
“Perhaps… the Duke’s generosity could help us again,” Ivaia says, although her voice clearly reveals her own doubts. “He’s just offered me a place at his court. If I accept, it’s likely he’ll allow me to bring along a couple of… well, hand-picked servants is how I’d describe you, I suppose. We could all live at his Palace. Having enough to eat won’t be a concern, at least. And…” Her tone becomes even more doubtful. “If we told him everything, perhaps he could help us further. He seems like a man who collects information… He may have knowledge, secret contacts…” She shakes her head, no longer sure what she’s suggesting.
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t think we should. One word in that letter seems as though it’s been chosen specifically to manipulate me. And perhaps they think I’ll sway the two of you.” She shakes her head. “I’ll want to know a lot more before I’ll be comfortable with speaking a single syllable of that weird text aloud.”
Ivaia is briefly distracted by the ever-shifting glimmers of sunlight reflected from the surface of the river. A tributary flows through our estates, she thinks. It’s not as though I can’t look at a river at home. But it’s always the same banks, the same trees, the same… She hears the baker’s words half-echoing her thoughts, and she quickly turns away from the river. She holds out her letter. “I assume mine’s the same too.”
“I have a carriage, but I’ve told our driver that my audience with the Duke will take several hours, and that he should find some distraction or pastime - or just a place to get a drink… So I’m unescorted, in the city,” she adds in a quieter voice, as if talking to herself.
Ivaia notices the actor and walks quickly down the Palace steps. She’s glad she dressed plainly today despite her audience with the Duke - the combination of dark brown and brick red in an unornamented style allows her to cross the square and approach Farenthar without drawing too much attention. How should I greet him? Perhaps with some light, ironic words before we start discussing anything serious? “Did you get a weird letter?” she asks him as soon as he’s within earshot.
Ivaia nods to the footmen who open the front doors for her, and then she quickly steps out of the Palace and looks around at the busy sunlit square. Good, no sign of our carriage driver. And there are Farenthar and Karalisel. Maybe they’ll have sensible thoughts about this letter. All I can think about is one word. ‘Enslave’.
He noticed that I’m wearing the necklace he gave me. And I assume he wanted me to notice that he’d noticed. And… And there’s no point wondering about the Duke’s motives any more right now. Her talk with him has been a distraction - and almost a welcome one, despite the main subject of the conversation - from the other message she received earlier that morning. The Duke’s summons created a stir at home when it was delivered during breakfast, but Ivaia was expecting it. She had not been expecting the letter she found on the carpet just inside her bedroom, as if it had been pushed beneath the door while she slept. She mentioned the note to no one, and she could not think of another reason to ask if anyone had heard or seen anything unusual during the night. How did the note arrive? She’s trying not to think too much about that question - all of the answers that have occurred to her so far are at least slightly troubling. She realises that she knows one side of the letter from memory, without having made a deliberate attempt to learn it: You have found each other. Now you must hide each other, or your enemies will find you and enslave you. Choose a place out of sight, stand facing each other at equal distances and recite the words on the other side of this page in unison. Focus your minds on each syllable that you speak. When you are done, burn each page before you leave. The words on the other side were written in a different ink - blue with occasional blotches of fiery red - and were in some language Ivaia has never seen before. She curtseys to the Duke even though he is no longer looking at her, and walks out of his study. I need to talk to Karalisel and Farenthar. What do we do about this letter? Should we actually follow those bizarre instructions? She hopes they understood the cryptic hints she tried to give them during the carriage ride last night - Rodairos was sleepy but not actually asleep, and she didn’t want him to hear her arranging a meeting with strangers…
“I… I will need some time to consider, sir,” Ivaia says. “Perhaps when you’ve received an answer from my uncle, I’ll be able to decide…” I’ve spent so long hating all my aunt’s rules and instructions, and now I’m being offered a chance for freedom, but… She tries to picture herself accepting. It would seem like a betrayal. The Duke is suggesting a pretence, but Ivaia will know the truth even if her family never guesses that she was summoned to the Palace because of a choice she made. I can’t agree until I’m sure I can trust this man. What’s his motive? Kindness, or an attempt to weaken my family by dividing it? It could be both. It’s easy to imagine his Grace having six or seven different reasons behind everything he says.
“None, your Grace.” She pushes back her chair and stands up. What had he been about to say to her? “I will take your message to my aunt. Thank you.”
“If you’re so certain, your Grace, then why is my uncle still in prison? You could have made this offer of a pardon two years ago. He would be free or dead now, but not locked up alone, day after day…” Is my uncle still a man filled with life, laughter and generosity? Can those traits survive the isolation that’s been inflicted on him? Aunt Ela only ever mentions his physical health… “Your delay suggests a man with doubts. Or a mind that’s changed.” As soon as she’s spoken, Ivaia asks herself what she was thinking. Why couldn’t I just nod and say thank you, rather than risk angering him? Maybe he uses that emotionless voice deliberately, to provoke other people into trying to get some sort of reaction out of him… If so, it’s certainly worked on me.
“I know I’m influenced by childhood memories - my uncle always seemed to be filled with life, laughter and generosity. The only thing that ever made him angry was injustice. Or any sort of unfairness, really. So I find it almost impossible to believe that he would try to harm you and your brother in revenge for something your father might have done.” She looks down at her hands as she continues talking. She’s used to her family talking around serious topics or minimising them, and she realises she’s fallen into that habit herself, saying the word ‘harm’ to a man who was stabbed in the back and very nearly killed. “I know the evidence. The surviving assassin claimed that my uncle hired and paid him. That could have been arranged, using disguise or coercion. My parents’ departure, though… Their passage was booked days before the attacks, and timed too conveniently. It’s very hard to explain unless my father knew in advance. But what I wonder is… Could it have been my father’s plan alone? What if my uncle wasn’t involved at all? It would explain why my uncle pleaded not guilty but refused to give any other testimony at his trial. He didn’t want to perjure himself but did want to protect his younger brother. Perhaps he thinks you’ll put more effort into pursuing my father if you believe he was the only one responsible.” I should feel like a traitor for saying this. But it’s the only explanation that’s ever made sense to me. I don’t want it to be true… but I owe it to my uncle to suggest the possibility to the man who controls his fate.
It seems he really does want to end the feud. Even the demand for a confession is reasonable - it would provide some clarity for the people of Tuarensi. But… “Your offer is magnanimous, your Grace,” she says. “As long as we assume that my uncle is guilty. What if he’s innocent, though? Is it fair to force him to lie for a chance to live with his family again?” Why am I taking this risk? My aunt will be appalled if she ever hears about this. But perhaps my uncle would want me to speak.
Ivaia nods, to show that she has understood.
As soon as the Duke mentions her uncle, Ivaia’s shoulders tense and her pulse picks up speed. The words aren’t surprising - Aunt Ela guessed that the banquet invitation was a prelude to negotiation. But… He’s demonstrating how serious this is. Last night, he treated me as an honoured guest. Now, he offers me nothing apart from a chair, as if I’m an envoy from a hostile force. Which I am, perhaps. Is he going to show mercy? How much? And what conditions will he impose? She sits down opposite the Duke, clasps her hands together tightly and tries to look patient and calm.
The emotions begin in Ivaia’s fingertips, and so she knows they are not hers. There’s a trace of grief from the past mingled with memories of happiness, all in the background of hope for reconciliation and peace. She looks up as the Duke pauses to study Farenthar, and she hears his question. “There is room in my family’s carriage. A few detours through the city won’t cause any inconvenience,” she says to the Duke. “They’re welcome to travel with us if they want.” This could be a chance to speak to them… except that Rodairos will be in the carriage too. She glances back at him - he’s still standing near one of the doors, and his hand is hiding his mouth. Doing his best to suppress a yawn. He must be exhausted - he’s usually out of bed by sunrise. Perhaps he’ll fall asleep during the ride. Too much to hope for. There won’t be time, given that the baker and the actor probably live in the city itself. But I must talk with them somehow. She imagines going back to her usual routine, being tutored in dancing and etiquette, not being allowed to leave the estates again for months at least, and all the time puzzling over the events of this evening without even anyone to share ridiculous guesses with… The Duke may be able to help. Do those emotions in the necklace really belong to him? Or were they just a trick of her own mind? Well, he did invite me here, so a wish for reconciliation would at least be consistent. She decides to take a chance and ask. “Before we leave, your Grace… you said that we could request a favour?” She lowers her voice so that Rodairos won’t be able to make out her words. She hopes, however, that the actor and the baker are paying attention. “I would like you to ask me to return here tomorrow morning, alone. If you don’t have time to see me, or if you don’t want to, that doesn’t matter. I just… just need an excuse to leave our estates and see the city.”
Ivaia has been staring down at the necklace in her hands. The others have been talking, perhaps about something important, but she has heard none of it.
Ivaia takes the bag, opens it and lifts out a necklace. The pendant is a rounded blue-green semi-precious stone set amid interlocking silver rings. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s beautiful.” She had briefly feared that the Duke would have chosen a glittery and ostentatious gift, but this is something she will be happy to wear (as long as she can think of suitable clothes to wear with it). Was there a trace of bittersweet feeling in the Duke’s voice when he talked about the necklace’s history? It’s easy to imagine that this is all manipulative deception. But of course after everything my family’s told me about him, my judgement’s hopelessly unreliable. I might have a better chance of learning something definite if this necklace could speak to me… She keeps the necklace in the palm of her hand and looks down at it.
That goblet is going to come back to haunt me, Ivaia thinks. She then describes what she saw of the pursuit. She’s careful not to make any guesses about things she didn’t directly witness - she’s expecting that the Duke will notice any discrepancy or unfounded claim and ask difficult questions. But when she arrives at the point in her narrative when the singer disappeared, it’s hard to select words for even the plainest way of saying what happened. “As soon as I reached her, she began to fade. That is… actually fade. Became transparent. And I tried to hold her wrists. To stop her escaping? I suppose. She was losing… solidness. When she was invisible, there was nothing there. I know this doesn’t make sense, but it’s what I remember. Although it’s already a bit more like a dream than reality in my mind.” She breathes in. “There’s not much more to tell. I was worried that you would be angry at your brother for leaving the banquet hall…” She doesn’t want to draw any more attention than that to her very rapidly failed pretence with the torn hem. She shrugs and falls silent.
Ivaia flinches when the Duke first speaks, and she turns around quickly. Too quickly, she thinks. I’ve probably just given a very good impression of being guilty of something. She curtseys, wobbling only slightly. “Of course, your Grace,” she says, and immediately begins to explain why she followed Alledain and the singer out of the banquet hall. “I didn’t know what to think at first,” she adds. “But with no guards in sight, I feared your brother could be in danger. I saw these others trying to restrain the woman, and I tried to help. I… I don’t know why I thought that throwing things would be useful. It’s not something I’m in the habit of doing at home. I’m sorry about the goblet…”
“Please forgive my absence - I just need a few moments to talk with them,” Ivaia says quietly to Rodairos. Then, before he has time to respond, she walks across to where the actor and the baker are sitting. “Good evening,” she begins, and immediately realises that it’s probably early morning by now. “I wanted to tell you that… I don’t know what his Grace will say to us, but I am grateful for your help earlier. And if there’s anything I can do for you in return… or if you’d just like to meet and talk about what we experienced…” Her voice trails off as she wonders: Did that sound really patronising? And I shouldn’t make promises - or even drop hints about promises - if I have no power to keep them. No power… I’ve been complaining to my aunt for a long time about my constrained existence, but have I really understood how bad it is? I need to arrange a chance to talk, somehow. She glances back towards Rodairos and then steps closer to the actor and the baker. She begins her question in a whisper. “Can-”
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