Emlyn sat up, swinging her legs off the bed. Her nightgown slipped from her shoulders and she pulled it up again, reaching for a woollen shawl that she wrapped tightly around her body.
Gwynnie rolled over on the bed, lying on her side as she looked at her mother. Her back twinged with the movement, but she said nothing.
In the moonlight that shone through the window, her mother’s face looked gaunt. The shadows were noticeable beneath her eyes, as if someone had smudged black ink there.
“You need to sleep,” Gwynnie whispered.
“I said such things to you when you had nightmares as a child.” Emlyn frowned. “After I came back that day, with…” She waved her hands in the air, not needing to say the words ‘with blood on my hands’. “You had nightmares again. You said it was always the same. There was blood everywhere, all over our chambers.”
Gwynnie remembered the dreams all too well. She sometimes saw her father’s face in those dreams. He was always smiling, always teasing, looking for a reason to be happy. At the time, Emlyn had smiled too. So often had Gwynnie seen the pair of them together, incapable of halting their laughter at some jest. She had a particular memory of the two of them dancing, celebrating something, though she was not sure what. They had danced and drank all night in their chambers, with small Gwynnie watching on, hopping in her chair.
After her father had died, Emlyn had never smiled in quite the same way again.
“Those nightmares were a long time ago,” Gwynnie said.
“Were they?” Emlyn shuddered. “For some reason, they do not feel so long ago tonight. I keep seeing things again, keep seeing it all…”
Gwynnie swallowed, knowing that they were no longer talking about her nightmares.
“Will you tell me what happened that night?” Gwynnie held herself still, not daring to move on the bed in case it creaked.
“I have told you.”
“Not completely. You’ve told me snippets … of how you had to defend yourself, of how it was necessary.” Gwynnie spoke quietly. “That I understand, but what did you do to him, Ma? How did you end up with blood … on your hands?”
Emlyn looked away hurriedly, her gaze landing on the window.
“I’ll tell you everything someday.”
“That is what you always say. I am no child, Ma. I have not been for a long time now.”
“I know.” Emlyn nodded. “I thought that you would have left me behind by now, left being a cutpurse too. Perhaps even got married yourself.”
Gwynnie wrinkled her nose at the idea. She had only ever cared for one man in her life, but that was many years ago now. She had been young and naive, which explained why she had let her heart be so ensnared by a man who had no intention of caring for her too.
“Whatever happened to that young man of yours? What was his name — Horace?”
“Harold.” Gwynnie turned her face away. “Let us not speak of him. You are changing the subject, Ma.”
She could remember Harold as if what had passed between them had taken place just the week before. He had asked her to marry him, but too afraid to abandon her mother, Gwynnie had turned him down, asking for more time to see her mother settled first. Less than two weeks later, he had married another.
“It would have brought me some comfort, I think.” Emlyn leaned forward. “To have seen you settled. You would be safer than you are now. In this dreadful place…” Emlyn stood and moved to the window, flapping the shawl around her shoulders as if it was a pair of wings and she was some restless bird, eager to take flight. “The cold, the flood, the ice, all of it. It is like a frozen hell.”
“You speak as if we have been given a death sentence, Ma.”
“I thought I knew what they were planning.” Emlyn turned on the spot. “I thought that by planting the jewels here, Fitzroy and Renard intended to see you charged with the crime, but then why follow us tonight? Why bring a blade? If that is indeed what you saw.”
“It is. He was carrying a dagger.” Gwynnie had told her mother about the blade once they had returned to their chamber.
“I need to think.” Emlyn pulled her cloak off a hook. “I am going for a walk.”
“A walk?” Gwynnie sat up. “Are you mad? When we are already being followed? Ma, that is a poor idea indeed.”
“Ah, miting.” Emlyn stepped toward her and patted her cheek, as if she was still a child. “You forget that I lived this life long before you were born. I have escaped people following me for many years now. Trust me. A short walk will help me clear my head and I shall be perfectly safe.”
“I shall come with you.” Gwynnie pushed back her blanket, but as she moved to stand, her back twinged and she was forced to sit down again.
“You need to rest.” Emlyn pushed her gently back down. “Trust me, Gwynnie.” She winked. “I do not always need a protector at my side.”
“No?” Gwynnie asked, her eyes wide.
Emlyn offered a small smile. “I shall return soon. Sleep. You need it.” She turned the key in the lock and stepped out, taking the key with her. Gwynnie heard her lock the door from the other side before her footsteps faded.
Gwynnie lay down heavily, making the bed groan beneath her. Something didn’t feel right. Emlyn was in a strange humour, to be going for a walk at this time of night. She had taken many such walks over the years on sleepless nights, but never in a flooded palace where men suspected them of being jewellery thieves.
“What are you up to, Ma?” Gwynnie glanced at the door. Deciding it was best to discover the truth, rather than just lie there and drive herself mad with speculation, Gwynnie stood from the bed and dressed, pulling on her maid’s pale blue gown and white apron over the top. She wrapped a thick fur pelisse around her shoulders to protect herself from the cold night air, though she didn’t bother with her coif at this time of night.
Gwynnie turned to the door, her hand hovering over the handle when she remembered Emlyn had taken one of the keys. She returned across the room and sought out another key that hung on a hook when a sound at the door drew her attention.
Someone was on the other side.
Something was slowly pressed into the lock of the door, the clicking of something hard sliding against the metal catch. Gwynnie stepped back, flattening herself against the wall behind the door as she watched the handle. Someone was attempting to pick the lock, though they were making a poor job of it. Their efforts to stay quiet soon became fruitless, and they practically shoved their implement further into the lock, in danger of fracturing it completely. The handle turned and the door swung inward, the hinges squeaking noisily.
Gwynnie’s breathing grew laboured, her chest heaving as she looked around for some weapon to use. All that she had was the key clutched between her fingers.
A man stepped into the room, his body turning as his eyes found hers. It was Renard, dressed head to toe in black, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
“Good evening, Mistress Gwynnie.”
