Thread of Frost

Ch. 23: Built into Their Bones

"You want to do... what?" Isolde asked.

She was sitting in a room with a bay window, books, and a small wooden table. A servant had informed her that it was the "Sapphire Breakfast Parlor," whatever that meant. She'd given up trying to find her way around the palace. Far better to sit somewhere reading a book until someone came to retrieve her. Penny sat across from her, calmly dipping buttered toast into a soft-boiled egg.

"I want to visit a poor house," Penny repeated. "Today."

Isolde blinked. "Why?"

More dipping. "I have a keen interest in charity work."

"I see," Isolde said.

She didn't see. Whenever she tried to imagine Princess Penelope Delafort in a poor house, it was like trying to imagine a fish climbing a mountain. Isolde spread a soft cheese mixture over some toast, topping it with smoked fish. She hadn't the faintest clue what fish it was; they'd only been allowed tinned tuna at the convent.

Penny leaned closer. "Come with us."

"I don't know," Isolde said.

Halson wouldn't like it. Or maybe he would. Either way, Isolde thought, was it worth taking that risk? She looked at the copy of Drusden's sermons, lying beneath a half-drunk cup of tea. She'd used it this morning to crush a spider. It was proving more useful every day.

"Well, I won't go," Tilda announced, from the window bench. "Those places are so cramped and dirty and awful. It's terribly sad, of course, but..." She lifted a delicate shoulder. "It's not worth the risk of contracting some dreadful disease, is it?"

Sendra looked up from her knitting. "Are poor houses very diseased?"

"Oh, dreadfully," Tilda said.

Sendra paled. "What sort of diseases?"

Tilda's knitting needles flashed. "Histine fever, monkey boils, acid throat..." The needles paused for dramatic effect. "Doxy pox."

Sendra's eyes widened. "My cousin had doxy pox. His right arm nearly fell off. Took ten stitches and a skin graft to save it."

"Nobody's contracting doxy pox." Penny's voice was short. "Please, Isolde. Come with us." To Isolde's surprise, the princess placed a warm hand on her arm. "You can consider it your first public outing."

Isolde looked down; Penny's fingers encircled her sleeve. It was amazing, Isolde thought, that the other girl couldn't feel her bruises. They were yellow-and-green now, bleeding chlorophyll like summer leaves.

"I'm sorry," Isolde said. "My schedule won't allow for it."

Penny withdrew her hand. "Too busy with Drusden?"

There was no judgement in her voice. Still, Isolde stiffened. She wondered if Penny could sense that she'd hit a sore spot. Probably.

"Something like that." Isolde picked up her toast. "I'll ask Julian to go with you. He knows his way around Bardan."

And to keep an eye on them. She didn't know much about court politics, but she knew that you weren't meant to let foreign princesses go trapsing around your city alone. Penny finished her eggs-and-toast, wiping her fingers on a monogrammed napkin.

"Shame," Penny said. "I was going to suggest that we stop by a bakery afterward. Maybe stretch our legs for a bit." She rose, stretching her arms above her head. "But I suppose I'll see you at dinner."

Isolde paused.

The toast felt limp in her hands. Sunshine streamed through the window, illuminating the dusty footprint on Drusden's sermons (she'd used it as a stool to reach above her four-poster bed, where she'd hidden What Hunts in the Shadows). Isolde tipped her face up, feeling the sun on her cheeks.