Esta looked hopefully at her “foster mother”. “Guardian” would be a much better word. Or, perhaps, just “guard”. Lady Deneesa’s face was red and puffy, her eyes were still full of tears, and of course she just wanted to spend time with her children in the temple, mourning her husband. But she was an important noble. Surely, she knew that affairs of state don’t wait for hearts to heal? They certainly had not when Esta’s father died. How glad she was that Navvan knew defeat before his death. What an uncle. He had promised to protect her. With his brother still warm in the grave, he had undermined her, tried to deflower her, and then tried to kill her.
“Please, Your Grace. May it be sent?”
“I don’t know that it is wise, Esta.” Lady Deneesa looked at her eldest son, the new Lord Grakko.
Esta looked at him too, harboring the flame that had been flickering for the past few years. What a handsome young man. But he had chained himself to some copper-haired cousin. Just as well. It was not fitting for a queen to marry a subject.
“I’m not going to censor your letter, Lady Esta,” Young Grakko told her. She marveled at how the peddlers of Truth could sound respectful and condescending in the same breath. “It will go to Nasrin by the fastest boat we have. Just remember that Squire Clayhills is a very busy man.”
Esta looked out of the small window of her room, down to the long black lake, dotted with all manner of watercraft, over which all things came and went to this dreary settlement. Then she turned back to the black figures at the door. “Thank you, Your Grace!” She curtsied deeply.
“Now,” said Lady Deneesa, “please come and join us in the temple, to reflect on my husband’s sacrifice for Kimalloa.”
The grieving widow held out her hand to Esta, and Esta took it. What else could she do? She was still trapped in this tyranny of humble kindness. For now.