In this life, thought Bear, I am doomed to spend more time waiting outside Missy’s apartments than in them. Once again he sat in his preferred corner in the kitchens at the Keep, listening to the gossip of the servants at tea. It was the best way he’d found to measure the mood of the castle, and through it, the world outside its walls. Going out had become too dangerous.
Few Inchari lived in the capital, and though he exchanged his turbans, bright satin breeches and brocaded doublets for sober clothes when going into the city, he still stood out on the street like a parrot among pigeons: tall, brown, dark-eyed and exotically handsome. Everyone knew who he was on sight, and some took great exception to him as the “Furrin Hoor’s boy.” The last time he’d ventured out, he barely escaped a small mob with no more than a cut to one hand. “T’ain’t you, sweetheart,” the motherly housekeeper had said that day as she bandaged up his hand. “We as know you, love you! It’s that Lady of yours! I know you love her, but you’re the only one--besides His Majesty!” she whispered.
Except that was hardly true, he thought. Plenty of men loved Missy. A whole herd of them were in her apartments right now doing the Gods only knew what, because Bear certainly didn’t want to know.
Causes MeiLin Miranda Supports
Electronic Freedom Foundation, Doctors Without Borders, Oxfam, Habitat for Humanity, American Civil Liberties Union