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That jolted me enough to look up at him. Sorrow still filled his eyes, but he said kindly, “That was a surprise for me. A very nice one.”

I looked down again. I hadn’t intended it to be anything for him. Though, now that I considered it, I had looked forward to him seeing that I could ride a horse, even if neither he nor Riddle had had time to think it important enough to teach me. I realized then how deeply angry I was with both of them that they always seemed to spend more time on Shun than on me. I wanted to hold on to that anger and make it deeper and stronger. But more than that, I wanted my mother’s touches in the room where I would sleep tonight.

I spoke to the floor. I hated the hitch in my voice. “I’d like to go get my things now, please. And put them safe in my room.”

“Then we will,” he said. He stood. I didn’t offer my hand and he didn’t try to take it. But I followed him out of the room that had once been mine, the room where the messenger had died.

Chapter Twenty-Five
Things to Keep

...

It was in the time of Queen Dextrous that the head scribe at Buckkeep Castle was given the additional duty of instructing any “willing” child in the keep in the art of letters. It has been said that she decreed this because of her great dislike of Scribe Martin. Certainly many Buckkeep scribes who came after Martin seemed to think it more punishment than honor.

On the Duties of Scribes, Scribe Fedwren

And so, again, I had erred. And badly. I walked slowly down the corridor, my little child by my side. She did not take my hand. She walked just out of my arm’s reach, and I knew that was no accident. If pain can radiate as heat from a fire, then that was the cold that I felt from her stiff little form. I had been so sure that I was doing it right. That she would be delighted with her new room and furnishings that took her size into consideration. And in my eagerness to deceive the staff about the “guest” who had gone missing, I had destroyed precious mementos, irreplaceable pieces of her childhood.

I took her to my bedchamber. It was a different place than it had been the last time she had been there. I’d gathered all my clothing and bedding and sent for the launderer. The man had made two trips with a very large basket, disapproval pinching his narrow nose nearly closed. That evening, when I returned to my room, my featherbed had been aired and turned, all surfaces dusted, and the room otherwise tidied. I hadn’t authorized it; I suspected Revel. That night I slept on linens washed clean of the sweat of grief, on pillows that had not been soaked with my tears. The tapers for my candleholders were plain white ones, unscented, and the nightshirt I donned was soft and clean against my skin. I had felt like a traveler who had been on a long and arduous journey, and arrived at a faceless inn.

I was not surprised when Bee halted just inside the door and stared in dismay. It could have been any man’s room. Or no one’s. She looked around the room and then back at me.

“I want my things back.” She spoke clearly. There was no trace of huskiness in her voice, no strain of tears held back. I took her to a storage chest under the window, unlocked it, and opened it. She looked in and grew very still.

Inside were not only the items I had removed from her room on that cruel and frantic evening, but many another memento as well. I had the first garment Bee had ever worn, and a ribbon stolen many years ago from Molly’s hair. I had her mother’s brush and her looking glass, and her favorite belt, leather dyed blue with pouches laced to it. Burrich had made it for her, and the buckle was worn thin with use. She had worn it until the day she died. There was a small casket that held not only her mother’s jewelry, but each of Bee’s baby teeth.

Bee found her books, and her nightgowns. “The candles are in my study, kept only for you,” I reminded her. She found and gathered several small figurines. She did not speak, but by her folded lips I knew there were other significant items missing.

“I’m sorry,” I said, when she turned from the trunk with her arms full of her precious items. “I should have asked you. If I could bring back your cherished things, I would.”

She turned, and fleetingly her eyes met mine. Anger and pain smoldered in a banked fire there. Abruptly, she set her armful down on my bed. “I want my mother’s belt-knife,” she announced.

I looked down into the chest. The little knife rode on the belt, where it had for years. It had a bone handle, and at some time Molly or perhaps Burrich had wrapped it with a strip of leather to keep it from slipping. It had a blue sheath to match the leather belt. “The belt will be too big for you for many years,” I said. It was an observation, not an objection. I had never thought of it going to anyone except Bee.

“I just need the knife and sheath now,” she said. She met my eyes again with that sliding glance. “To protect myself.”

I drew a deep breath and took Molly’s belt from the chest. I had to take several little pouches off the belt before I could slide the sheathed knife free. I held it out toward Bee, haft-first, but as she reached for it I drew it back. “Protect yourself from what?” I demanded.

“Assassins.” She asserted it quietly. “And people who hate me.”

Those words hit me like stones. “No one hates you!” I exclaimed.

“They do. Those children that you have decided will take lessons beside me. At least three of them hate me. Maybe more.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed, Molly’s knife loose in my hands. “Bee,” I said rationally. “They scarcely know you, so how could they hate you? And even if they dislike you, I doubt that the children of the keep would dare to—”

“They threw stones at me. And chased me. He slapped me so hard my mouth bled.”

A terrible cold anger welled in me. “Who did this? When?”

She looked away from me. She stared at the corner of the room. I think she fought tears. She spoke very quietly. “It was years ago. And I’m not going to say. Your knowing would only make it worse.”

“I doubt that,” I said harshly. “Tell me who chased you, who dared to stone you, and they will be gone from Withywoods this very night. They and their parents with them.”

Her blue glance slid past me as a swallow skims past a cliff. “Oh, and that would make the other servants love me well, wouldn’t it? A nice life I should have then, with the other children fearful of me and their parents hating me.”

She was right. It made sickness well up in me. My little girl had been chased and stoned and I had not even known. Even knowing, I could not think of a way to protect her. She was right. Anything I did would only make it worse. I found myself handing her the sheathed knife. She took it from me and for a moment I think she was disappointed I had yielded to her. Did she know that I was admitting there were times when I could not protect her? As Bee tugged the short knife free of its sheath, I wondered what Molly would have said to me, or what she would have done. It was a simple blade, showing the wear of much honing. Molly had used it for everything: cutting tough stems on flowers, shaving a wormhole from a carrot, or digging a splinter from my thumb. I glanced at my hand, remembering how she had held it tight and mercilessly dug out the ragged shard of cedar.

Bee had reversed her grip on the knife, holding it as if she was going to stab downward with it. She made several passes at the air, teeth clenched.

“Not like that,” I heard myself say. She scowled at me from under lowered brows. I started to take the knife from her hand, and then realized that would not do. I drew my own belt-knife. It looked like Molly’s, a short, sturdy blade meant for the dozen odd chores that might demand a knife during the day. I held it loosely in my hand, palm-up, the haft resting lightly. I balanced it. “Try this.”

Grudgingly, she reversed her grip on the blade. She balanced it in her hand, and then gripped it tight. She poked the air with it, then shook her head. “I’m stronger with it the other way.”

“Perhaps. If you have an obliging enemy who will stand still while you stab him. But you’ll have to get close to him. If I hold a knife like this, it lets me force someone to stay back from me. Or I can reach out and cut someone before he can get close to me. Or I may choose to do a wide slash.” I demonstrated that for her. “The way you were holding your blade, you can’t slash effectively. Nor hold off more than one attacker.”

I could see in her bunched shoulders how much she wanted to be right. It irritated her that she had to recognize she was wrong. In a small, gruff voice she conceded with, “Show me.” And even more grudgingly. “Please.”

“Very well.” I stepped well clear of her and took up a stance. “It starts with your feet. You need to be balanced and ready, your weight set so that you can sway aside, or take a sudden step forward or back without losing your balance. Knees a little bent. See how I can move my body from side to side?”

She took a stance opposite me and copied me. She was limber, my little girl, and slender as a snake.

I set my knife down and armed myself with the sheath. “Now here’s our first game. Neither one of us is allowed to move our feet. Or step forward or step back. I’m going to try to touch you with the tip of this sheath. You have to move aside and not let it touch you.”

She looked at the bared blade in her hand and then at me.

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