Chapter 17: The Cedar Chest

I left Bridie a note on the pillow and went down to the Guards in the street.

"Take me to my father's house," I said.

The house in the Greenvale district looked the same as it had for twenty years.

The housekeeper opened the door, saw the black uniforms behind me, and stepped back without a word.

Father was at the Council. I had counted on that.

Mother was in the kitchen with flour to her elbows, kneading dough on the long table.

She did not stop when I came in.

"I have a writ from the Councilor in the chair," I said. "The sergeant has it."

"We're to search your wardrobe and Father's study."

"Then search them."

"Where is the cedar chest?"

Her hands paused on the dough, just once.

"At the foot of my bed. It was my mother's."

"I know," I said. "I'm going to take it."

She went on kneading.

I stood across the table from her, in the room where I had spent every birthday of my childhood.

"This is where we made my cake," I said.

"Yes."

"You put me at this table at four o'clock and kept me here until the candles."

"You were fond of the kitchen."

"Where was Father?"

She did not answer. She pressed the heel of her hand into the dough, and folded it, and pressed again.

"He was in his study with the door shut," I said. "Wasn't he? With a pen."

"Linnet."

"You kept my hands in flour so I wouldn't hear it scratch."

Mother's hands stopped.

"I kissed your hair," she said, quietly. "I meant it."

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