All The Queen's Ladies [NaNoWriMo Project]

The Butterfly and the Wasp

On Thursday her two legal sisters arrive at court. Mariam Roser, the younger, is a butterfly; small, nimble, with her brother's too-wide eyes and strips of autumnal colour trailing from her arms. Cara is the elder, still a Clare; Cara Clare, someone's idea of a joke, probably not her mother's. Cara has her look, serious and solemn, a woman who can make even the violent orange she is wearing today look sober. Do not let her stillness fool; she has a biting temper. She is the one who organises things at Rooksrest. It will have been her idea to come here, and to bring flitting, giddy Mariam with her.

Almost as soon as they have passed their hoods to the lingering pages they seek an audience. That is, Cara seeks. Mariam, who has never been to the High Palace before, is entranced by everything and seems intent on stroking it all, and has little interest in a meeting. Branwen is sewing with the ladies when she hears of it. With the queen's permission she takes Alice and Carlotte to accompany her, so she can be assured of pleasant company. Alice comes gladly, happy to be removed from Lady Marr's presence, to have a moment's respite from wondering if she will be laughed at. Carlotte tucks her sewing into a pouch; if the audience drags, she will get it out and start running her fingers over it, drawing the stitches in her mind. It will upset the sisters. This may be part of her intention.

One does not receive any Clare without giving them due hospitality. Cerys has had them seen through to one of the royal antechambers, lush with gold frogging and the smell of spices, and with a lutist playing lazily in his own little nook. The city, frosted over, glistens like a diamond through the windows, the more unfortunate features distorted by the patterns in the glass. Mariam is standing admiring it, pointing out particular areas of interest. Cara stands in the exact centre of the room refusing to be impressed. Her expression is one of absolute and superior patience.

"My dear sisters." They aren't, but she has to say it. "I hope your journey wasn't too difficult. The weather has been turning recently."

"I think we shall have snow soon," Mariam says happily. "Does the city look pretty in the snow? I shall have to talk to Will, I am sure he could find business here if he looked hard enough."

"Who are these?" Bright, brittle, icy, Cara has no time for chatter or even, it seems, for basic courtesies.

So. Introductions. "Lady Alice Wagstaffe," she says. Alice bobs. Cara's nostrils flare; the Wagstaffes are highlanders, and jostled with the Clares of the lushlands for position during the last war, in which the queen's ancestors took the throne. Neither lost any from it, but neither gained either. It was hundreds of years ago, and she had thought it forgotten. Clearly not. "And Carlotte Cadith." Carlotte gives an elegant bow. She does not like to be stared at. Among strangers she wears a rigid hood to hide her hair, but her pinkish eyes and perfectly white skin give her away. "Lady Alice, Carlotte, these inestimable ladies are my husband's sisters. This is Miriam, married to William Roser. And this is Cara."

"Lady Cara, I'll thank you. Or Lady Clare will do." Is it possible for her to speak without sneering? "Cadith?"

Carlotte bows again, and speaks softly. "I was a gift to the Queen Who Was, from the Princess of the Straits. I served in her household as a child." In a grotesquerie. The Princess is still going, with her seven husbands; a harsh woman, known for her love of fools, freaks and other such novelties, but a friend to Errisland, so we will pretend not to see those. "I am a straitswoman by birth, but I have been at court near twenty years now."

"How touching."

Carlotte retreats, her eyes lowered. Her hands are going to her sewing already, so she, Branwen, offers them all a seat as if these were her own rooms before anybody can take any more offence. Carlotte takes a position by the lutist - he is not the one Nicolas Wrainby sent, who is a doe-eyed boy who looks constantly in danger of dropping his instrument - where Cara will have to turn if she wants to keep staring. Miriam hurls herself into a backed chair with padded arms, tipping her head back so she can see if the ceiling is painted, while Cara lowers herself primly into a comfortable chair with tapestry cushions, which she rearranges with quick movements. She herself takes a low stool on the basis that they will enjoy looking down at her. Alice kneels next to her, a hand resting on her skirts. It is a gesture that is both comfort and warning, and oddly familial. She pats the hand briefly. Alice smiles.