Snippet #2348296

The Torr, twenty-four years ago

“Do you think she has noticed anything?” said Faulkner, turning away from the window. It was late afternoon and high summer; the sun was only now beginning to lose some of its heat and begin its descent back to the west. Outside, the grass of the meadow had long dried out to a straw-gold, jewelled with wildflowers and in the distance it was lost to the shimmer of warm air above the line of the hill behind the Torr.

“Noticed us?” replied Tova as she finished adjusting her skirts. The sight of Faulkner, back slick with perspiration in the soft afternoon sunlight, relit the ember in her belly and she took a luxurious moment to savour it.

“Guessed why you are so taken with the sport of falconry,” he said, flashing a sudden grin at her as she stepped towards him to press her lips to the bead of sweat that had tracked its way down to the base of his throat. His grin suddenly disappeared underneath white linen as Tova tossed his shirt at his head and removed herself from him to slip on her shoes.

“She will not need to guess for I have already told her.”

“What?” Faulkner froze, one arm inside his tunic.

“Why else do you think she has been so obliging in taking an interest in what you do, Ayden? If not to give me reason to come here?” said Tova, crossing her arms. “She will keep my secret very well; she is my friend as well as my mistress… It is true,” she added, as Faulkner’s glower took on a hint of scepticism. “She is not just the Queen of Dunoting, though everyone seems to see her as such.”

“You are certain…?”

“Yes. She is no more likely to unleash scandal upon the Torr than your brother. Or your lanner falcon,” she said, tugging the hem of his tunic down over his navel and letting her fingertips linger on the line of muscle below his hip. “When did you become so concerned about preserving your illusion of virtue? Because I loathe to tell you that it’s a very transparent veil indeed, even at the court.”

“Then I had better not sully it further by revealing my association with one such as you,” he shot back, to which Tova pursed her lips in mock indignation. “I would not care, were it not for the closeness of yourself to the queen; I would prefer you to remain in a job. And my head on my shoulders.”

Slipping an arm around her waist, Faulkner tugged her off to one side of the window and they both watched, her back to him, as a slight pale figure idled in the grass out of the shadow of the Torr, a glint of white indicating her occupation. Inira was sketching, or at least, she was poised to; from up there the paper looked blank and unmarked.

“Do you think her beautiful?” Tova said.

“Yes, I suppose. But there is no life to her; I’m surprised she doesn’t melt away in the heat.”

“The king adores her. I see it in his eyes whenever he is with her.”

“And in hers?”

“She will learn to, I expect, in time,” said Tova. She turned around in his arms and her eyes fluttered shut as he bowed his head to crush a kiss to her lips. Behind them, below in the meadow another figure walked through the grass, a brightly-plumaged bird on his shoulder that was to be the subject of the Queen of Dunoting’s picture.