Chapter 12: My Father's Table

The Margrave walked Isaline to her father's gate on the fortieth evening and stopped there in the snow.

"I'll be here," he said.

"It's my father's house. You don't have to stand in the street."

"I'm the king's witness. I count you in and I count you out."

He looked up at the dark front of Ostrevant House.

"Two hours. Then I knock."

"He'll be offended."

"He can be offended at me. I'm used to it."

The old soldier and the young one took their places on either side of the gate.

Isaline went up the path alone.

The fountain in the front garden was dry, with a crust of snow in the basin. It had run every winter of her childhood.

Inside, the hall was colder than she remembered.

There were pale squares on the walls where paintings had been.

Only one footman came to take her cloak. When she was a girl there had been six.

Her father came out of the small dining room with his arms open.

"Darling."

He held her tight. He smelled of bergamot, the way he always had.

"You're thin," he said, holding her at arm's length. "That house is starving you."

"The north wing is very cold."

"Well, it's warm here."

It was.

He had lit a fire in the small dining room, and set the table for two with her mother's blue china.

Her mother's portrait hung over the mantel.

The countess was laughing in it, in a dark blue gown, the sapphires at her throat.

Isaline stood and looked at it for a long time.

"I sold them," she said. "The sapphires. I'm sorry."

Her father didn't answer at once.

"To whom?" he said lightly.

"A jeweller. I needed the money for a friend."