They stayed in this position as our procession walked by their desks and into the wide walkway beyond.
In this area there was a line of cells to each side.
The first two sets of cells, left and right, were empty.
The third to the left held a man who appeared (and an unsavory whiff of him and the unconscious belch he emitted with poor timing as we passed proved this assumption) to be sleeping off a drunken binge.
Another two sets of cells were empty, which I found vaguely surprising. Fyngaard was not a small city. Surely there must be more ruffians running amuck than this.
There was only one other cell filled with a man wearing bad clothes, having clearly not taken care of his teeth over the years, as openly shown to us as he sneered at us from his bunk. This also was apparent in the care of his hair, which was long and lank but looked like the last time it had been clipped, this had been done haphazardly with the side of a knife.
A dull one.
I only viewed him curiously before I looked again to Frey’s and Finnie’s backs as we made our way down the passage.
I had warning when we’d neared my mother and father, this a glance by Frey over his shoulder at me.
I lifted my chin. His lips tilted up. He looked forward then right.
I looked right as well.
Noc drew me even nearer.
My mother lay in that cell, her finery gone, no soft lamb’s wool, angora or cashmere gown covering her still-youthful figure. She was wearing a rough, boxy shift with long sleeves, belted with what appeared to be rope, visibly coarse stockings and crude, tie-up leather boots.
On sight of us, she pushed up to her bottom, her lustrous hair that had only threads of lovely silver in it was plaited in a long braid falling over one shoulder and tied with what looked like a dirty scrap of cloth.
“Daughter,” she whispered, her eyes locked to me.
I said nothing.
Furthermore I felt nothing at the sight of her.
How odd.
Frey led us beyond her cell but stopped us at the wall between hers and the one next to it. There I saw my father in the last cell in the hall.
He was similarly attired as my mother, except no stockings, rather rough breeches. The only thing that looked clean on him was the bandage that had been tied on a slant to his face with a strip of white gauze that ran along his jaw to the wounded cheek opposite and up over his crown.
I noted they both had thin woolen blankets on their narrow bunks (though no sheet over the slim pallet atop it) and wooden buckets to serve as chamber pots.
Other than this, there was naught else in their cells.
Nothing.
“Frey!” my father snapped, and at his voice I pressed closer to Noc. “When he gets here, my solicitor will be having a word with the queen. Being in this building is outrageous. These clothes,” he plucked at his shirt furiously, having strode to the bars before his cell and stopping in front of them. “No creature comforts. Barely a passable blanket to keep the chill away that veritably whistles through the walls. Not even a book to pass the time. And I demand that Anneka be moved into my cell with me, or at the very least across from me so we can see each other as we converse.”
“I do believe, uncle, it’s escaped you that you’re not in a position to make demands,” Frey replied calmly.
Papa’s voice was rising. “Wait until your father hears of this!”
I held my ground even as I sensed my mother approaching the bars.
“It shocks me how little you’ve paid attention, Nils,” Frey returned. “Although you’re correct. My father will undoubtedly be outraged by your current circumstances. I just don’t give a fuck what he thinks, and I never did.”
“Franka,” my mother called softly.
I made certain my features were arranged as I wished them, blankly, before I gave her my attention.
“You cannot wish this on your father and I.” She continued to speak in that quiet, timid, beleaguered tone, which obviously I’d never heard.
Even with my first real glance at her, I saw she was broken. Without her husband’s name, his House, his self-importance and her magic to stand behind, it had been but days and she was a ghost of the spiteful, conceited, pitiless, evil woman I knew.
I’d endured torture at their hands to mind, body and spirit for thirty-four years and there I was.
There I was.
And in nine days she’d all but wasted away.
She’d never survive a life in prison. Or, more accurately, her life imprisoned would be a life significantly shortened.
“Frey, if you would,” I began, looking to my cousin who in turn directed his attention to me. “Order they be given another blanket. A pillow. And a flannel sheet to cover their pallets and help to beat back the chill. Perhaps they both should also have a book.”
Frey didn’t hide his surprise but he inclined his head and turned to the guard.
“See that it’s done.”
“Of course, my lord,” the guard murmured.
“A bloody blanket and a book?” my father asked furiously. “Franka, demand our release at once,” he ordered.
I ignored him and again looked at my mother.
When I caught her eyes, she dropped hers and said, “Your kindness is appreciated, daughter.”
“Do not mistake it as kindness,” I declared, and startled, her gaze came again to mine. “I do not request this as a kindness, Mother,” I explained. “I request this in an effort to keep you healthy. It would not do for you to catch a deathly chill and shorten your penance.”
She blanched, taking a step back from the bars.
“Franka,” my father growled in a warning tone.