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His intake of breath is sharp. “Doma Maraya?”

“Steward Polodos.” Her tremulous smile seems the brightest object in the tomb, the source of all light and hope.Advertisement

“It is true,” he whispers in a raspy voice worthy of the tragic theater. “Buried in the tomb. Blasphemy against the gods! You must think I abandoned you, Maraya.”

She presses an open hand against the wall. “I knew you never would, not if you knew. How could you possibly have guessed?”

“I am here now, my dearest Maraya. If I must walk to this tomb every day for the rest of my life I will do so. I will not hesitate again, as I did in speaking to your father about us. You deserve better than my timid promises.”

The adoration in his voice stuns me. My single-mindedness has blinded me to everything going on in the house.

Embarrassment makes me snap. “Did you see Lord Kalliarkos?”

“Doma Jessamy!” His tone flattens as he realizes he and Maraya are not alone. “I apologize for not believing you when we met here that night. I must say that to have a lord walk into the Least-Hill Inn took me aback for it is not the sort of place—”

“None of that matters,” I interrupt. “What is the plan?”

“When Lord Kalliarkos told me about the poisoned food, I agreed to bring an offering tray so you would have something to eat and drink. As for the rest, I do not know. He was arguing with his advisers over a matter they considered too dangerous to undertake.”

“Do you think they will betray us to Lord Gargaron?”

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“The minds of palace men are closed to me. Whatever happens here, we will be beholden to them and they will demand an accounting. Beware, for they are not generous men.”

“Are you a generous man, Steward Polodos?” How I wish I could see his expression to judge the worth of his promises.

Maraya leans a cheek against the bricks as if against his chest. “He is a patient, humble, and courageous man.”

“Doma Maraya, I do not deserve such praise, and especially not from you, for I have done nothing to aid you when you were most in need.”

Maraya tilts her head as she does when she is blushing. “You are here now. That is all that matters.”

The march of the priests on their morning rounds nags at my ears so I break into their cooing. “Sing the offering prayers so the priests won’t be suspicious. After that you can come around to the oracle’s alcove and talk to Merry.”

I hear him tap his chest twice, just as if my father had given the order. He intones the ritual prayer. “‘Oh merciful dawn, light of justice, rise over the pure waters of the afterlife. Slake the thirst of the just as they pass through the curtain between this life and the other world.’”

The rope pulley scrapes, and a lacquered box appears from under the wall in the offering trough. I open it to find a feast of delicacies pleasingly arranged in decorated bowls and cups: ripe figs, chopped dates, almonds, walnuts rolled in honey and seeds, bread and barley beer, a wholesome lentil stew, and poached fish garnished with ginger. Polodos prays loudly for the judge in the court of the dead to bring a judgment of peace for all who are good-hearted and diligent.

We take the tray to the oracle’s chamber. Amaya is still curled on the bed but sits up eagerly. The baby is nursing. Cook has wrapped Mother’s hair in a band of linen to keep it out of the way.

“Figs are your favorite, Doma.” Cook presses a fig into Mother’s hand, but Mother lets it drop and sags listlessly.

“The lentil stew smells delicious,” Cook says more desperately.

“Let me.” Cook makes way so I can sit down. “Mother, you must eat so your milk will come in.”

“Jessamy? Is that you?” She regards me as if she cannot quite recall who I am. Raising a hand she touches my face but after a moment slumps back.

I hold her hand, shocked by how weak she is.

Cook murmurs, “Ever since Captain Esladas left she has fallen farther into this cloud of confusion. There is a black dog on her shoulders eating into her head.”

“We have to get her out of here,” I say, but when I look at the air shaft my courage wilts.

Having finished his prayers, Polodos comes around to kneel in the oracle’s alcove, where he can without suspicion pretend to be asking for a sliver of wisdom or a glimpse into his future. Maraya boldly sits on the oracle’s stool. The gap in the wall is just wide enough to slide a hand through. She reaches in. I pretend not to hear their whispered declarations.

Amaya snivels about her aching belly as she gorges on figs and dates and bread. pqdm.com