“Language, Gwynnie.” Emlyn snatched up a linen towel and hurried across the room, throwing it around Gwynnie’s shoulders. She took off the coif and ruffled Gwynnie’s hair with the linen.
“You wish to preach to me about my language now?”
“They don’t believe us?” Emlyn asked as she continued to wash the sheets.
Gwynnie sat beside the fire in the laundry room, trying to get warm. Her hands still shook as she held them out toward the flames and her hair was loose around her shoulders, drying in the heat.
“Well, Pascal does not.” Gwynnie chewed her lip as she watched the flames dance.
“When the flood retreats, we’ll have to run.”
“What?” Gwynnie turned toward her mother. “You said yourself that if we run, they’ll know it was us. They’ll think us guilty of the murder too, and we’ll be hunted down like dogs.”
“Think on it, Gwynnie,” Emlyn said. “Would you rather be cornered in this building when they come to take us? Or out there —” she waved a hand at the window — “running on our terms? I know where I’d rather be.”
“It’s not so simple.” Gwynnie shook her head. “We still have to wait for the flood to retreat. It’s too dangerous as it is.”
Emlyn said nothing more and returned to her task, her movements sharper than before.
Watching Emlyn perform such a mundane activity, when so much else was going on, made Gwynnie think of the way that Florian had calmly drunk his wine, shortly before Fitzroy had latched his hands around the man’s throat. The everyday and the monstrous. Gwynnie shuddered.
“We must make them believe us,” she whispered. “We must make them see the truth.”
“And how do you expect to do that? Eh?” Emlyn laughed, but without any real humour. “You want to walk up to them and tell them with your own lips?”
“There must be something we can do.” Gwynnie thought back to that night in Donsen Tower when Florian had attempted to blackmail Fitzroy. The missing man, Master Woodville, was at the centre of it all.
“What if we were to do Pascal and Tombstone’s job for them?” Gwynnie whispered, watching the red and yellow flames dance in the grate.
“In case it has passed you by, we have enough of our own work to do here,” Emlyn called as she wrung out one of the sheets.
“I mean, what if we were to find out what happened to Jerome Woodville?”
Emlyn’s hands stilled on the sheet and water dripped off it, running into a puddle on the flagstones.
“Ma?” Gwynnie said. “Think on it. What if we were to find Jerome? We could point them toward where he is. It would lead them to Fitzroy, as he was seen in Master Woodville’s company the night he disappeared —”
“A body.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You are not asking us to find a man,” Emlyn said, her eyes flashing in anger. “You are asking us to find a body.”
“I… Yes, I am.” Gwynnie swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat.
“You saw your first dead man only a couple of days ago. Let me warn you of something now.” Emlyn crossed the room toward her. “It stays with you. Once you have seen death, you cannot unsee it.”
“I thought you never liked to talk of what you have seen before —”
“Gwynnie!” Emlyn snapped. “Looking for a dead man is the most foolish idea you’ve ever had.” She sat down beside Gwynnie, leaning toward the fire.
“What other choice do we have, Ma?” Gwynnie whispered. “If we find him, it could lead Pascal and Tombstone to Fitzroy.”
“It’s still a foolish idea.” Emlyn looked at Gwynnie. “But maybe it’s the only choice we have.”
Gwynnie nodded, a breath escaping her lips.
“Then here’s the next question. How do we find him?”
“We find out what happened at New Year, the eighth night of Yuletide.”
CHAPTER 10
“You’re getting worse.”
“I’ll be fine.” Gwynnie rubbed her sore back. Following the fall from Donsen Tower and her subsequent jump from Pascal’s office, her back was now smattered with bruises and when she walked, a throbbing pain radiated up her spine. Yet she couldn’t afford to sit down and rest. She had to push on.
She nodded to her mother as they reached the door to the kitchens. Emlyn walked away, heading toward the bathing room where the maids took their baths, and Gwynnie stepped into the kitchen. The bells from Friar Church rang out across the palace grounds, calling the courtiers to Sunday morning service.
It was the early hours of the morning, and the sunlight was just filtering through the lead-lined glass windows of the kitchens. At such an early hour, only a few cooks had risen. Bread was being baked in the fiery ovens, the flour spread on nearby wooden blocks, as the scent of dough lingered. Samuel was in his usual merry state as he kneaded dough on a slab of marble, humming a happy tune as he repeatedly pelted the dough with flour across the palms of his hands. Beside him were Seville oranges, imported from the Continent, and pomegranates, ready to make the bread sweet.
Gwynnie stepped up in front of the cook, offering an easy smile.
“Gwynnie! How are you, lass?” he asked as he broke off from his tune. “Not here to steal more pastries, are you?”
“What?” Gwynnie stiffened, fearing he had seen her take the doucet tray the day before.
“Pastries have gone missing.” He shook his head and sighed. “Between you and me…” He paused and leaned across the marble. “I suspect old Rudyard over there.” He jerked his head toward the oldest cook in the room.
