The insult to the Queen poisoned me into rage. It came with a suddenness such as I had never experienced. I felt my chest and throat swell with it. A terrible strength rushed through me; I know my upper lip lifted in a snarl. From afar I sensed, What? What is it? Kill it! Kill it! Kill it! I took a step, the next would have been a spring, and I know my teeth would have sunk into the place where throat meets shoulder.
But: “FitzChivalry,” said a voice, full of surprise.
Molly’s voice! I turned to her, my emotions wrenching from rage to delight at seeing her. But as swiftly she was turning aside, saying, “Beg pardon, my lord,” and brushing past me. Her eyes were down, her manner that of a servant.
“Molly?” I called, stepping after her. She paused. When she looked back at me, her face was empty of emotion, her voice neutral.
“Sir? Had you an errand for me?”
“An errand?” Of course. I glanced about us, but the corridor was empty. I took a step toward her, pitched my voice low for her ears only. “No. I’ve just missed you so. Molly, I-”
“This is not seemly, sir. I beg you to excuse me.” She turned, proudly, calmly, and walked away from me.
“What did I do?” I demanded, in angry consternation. I did not really expect an answer. But she paused. Her blue clothed back was straight, her head erect under her tatted haircloth. She did not turn back to me, but said quietly, to the corridor, “Nothing. You did nothing at all, my lord. Absolutely nothing.”
“Molly!” I protested, but she turned the corner and was gone. I stood staring after her. After a moment I realized I was making a sound somewhere between a whine and a growl.