Page 122 of City of Snakes
Help. His residence. I stood there confused.
If Ryssa wasn’t the lady of this house, then Haward and Barden had been duped. I had been duped.
I followed the old man inside.
“Name’s Rivolt.”
“I truly am King Mattock,” I said, for the first time wanting someone to believe it.
He simply scoffed at me.
“And Lady Ryssa, she’s not here?”
“She is no lady of this house. That isn’t what we call housemaids. If you were King Mattock, you’d know that much. She’s out in the greenhouse—likes to tinker out there when she gets a break from helping in here.”
I glanced around. Dust coated most of the surfaces, and the rugs looked as though they hadn’t been beaten in years. Texts reminiscent of the ones in Asterie’s tower library were stacked high atop the dining table.
I’d been allowing Ryssa to help me with administrative tasks for months. She’d always seemed privy to noble matters.
Always helpful.
Always insightful.
She may not be the lady of this house, but judging by the state of this house, she also wasn’t a housemaid.
“Might I go and have a word with her?”
“She doesn’t talk much, but sure. Out through the terrace, down the steps, take the path to the pond.”
“Thank you, Rivolt.” I moved through the cluttered estate and out the windowed double doors into a manicured garden. She’d said she spent most of her free time in the gardens atherestate.
One truth. One lie.
I’d get to the bottom of this. There must have been some mistake. The man was old; maybe he was a relative she’d taken in. He was confused.
I carried on down the path until a sprawling pond came into view, and beside it sat an overgrown greenhouse. When I stepped inside, I found Ryssa bent down by a row of newly planted rose bushes, plucking weeds from the soil around their roots.
Her burgundy robe hood was down, and she faced away from me. All I could see of her were petite, scarred hands pulling at roots in the soil, a gold ring on her left ring finger, and a long tousle of straight wheat-blonde hair tied back at her nape.
Of course she had to be a damned blonde.
She was just as gracefully beautiful as I’d imagined her, and I longed to see her face—to know the woman I’d grown fond of.
As I approached, deep scarring around her neck became visible. I grimaced, thinking of how painful whatever had put it there must have been. Drawing closer, I wanted a glance of her profile, to confirm what I knew—she’d be beautiful.
My boot hit a metal bucket.
Ryssa startled and turned toward me, rising.
No.
Backing away, I tripped over the pail and came down on my ass, hard.
Firose.
“What have you done with her?” I shouted from my vulnerable position, splayed there on the ground. “How are you—you’re dead!”
Firose’s face dropped—as did the weeds from her marred hands.
