“Are you sure you belong on this level? The servants’ quarters are the next flight up, you know.”
I managed a nod. “Third door. If you don’t mind.”
She was silent for longer than a moment. “That’s the Bastard’s room.” The words were flung like a cold challenge.
I did not flinch to the words as I would have once. I did not even lift my head. “Yes. You may go now.” I dismissed her as coldly.
Instead she stepped closer. She seized my hair, jerked my head up to face her. “Newboy!” she hissed in fury. “I should drop you right here.”
I jerked my head up. I could not make my eyes focus on her eyes, but all the same, I knew her, knew the shape of her face and how her hair fell forward on her shoulders, and her scent, like a summer afternoon. Relief crashed over me like a wave. It was Molly, my Molly the candlemaker. “You’re alive!” I cried out. My heart leaped in me like a hooked fish. I took her in my arms and kissed her.
At least, I attempted to. She stiff-armed me away, saying gruffly, “I shall never kiss a drunk. That’s one promise I’ve made to myself and shall always keep. Nor be kissed by one.” Her voice was tight.
“I’m not drunk, I’m … sick,” I protested. The surge of excitement had made my head spin more than ever. I swayed on my feet. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re here and safe.”
She steadied me. A reflex she had learned taking care of her father. “Oh. I see. You’re not drunk.” Disgust and disbelief mingled in her voice. “You’re not the scriber’s boy, either. Nor a stable hand. Is lying how you always begin with people? It seems to be how you always end.”