The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty by Mira Zamin
Over the following days, the news of my condition dug further into my heart and I hovered somewhere between ignoring it and acceptance. I had little time for such personal considerations, for Calenda had called upon me promptly. She invited me to the impressively appointed Shipping Guild House. A stained glass dome rose from gilded and engraved white marble. In the major trade cities, each business has its own guild house, where members hold their meetings and court potential clients. The opulence of the guild house depends on the wealth and statures of the businesspeople. Calenda was a member of the Shipping Guild, one of the most wealthy in Aquia.
In a private sitting room, we discussed our mercantile ambitions for Ghalain. (We both desired to increase foreign trade, but also strengthen Ghalaini manufacture by raising taxes on imported goods. We agreed the future lay in export, particularly of manufactured materials.) Calenda had served moist lemon cakes and sugared violets. Sweetness, it seemed agreed with me. That became apparent after the first meal she had provided, spiced duck and mussels in butter sauce, had been met with a retch.
“I am so sorry,” I apologized, embarrassed, thankful, at least, that I had caught the bile in my own hands and had not let it stain the exquisite carnelian rug. “I mean no offense.”
Servants immediately appeared to whisk away the offending meal.
Calenda regarded me sharply. “I know a woman suffering in her first months of being with child. I take no offense.” She laughed, and the sound seemed odd coming from such a stern-seeming a woman, with her tightly knotted fading auburn hair and austerely high cheekbones. “If you could be what I think you could be, it would take a lot more than a little vomit to shake me off. And the rest of the Thirds Council too, once I speak to them.”
“And what exactly do you think I will be?”
“A queen with a merchant’s mind and a peasant’s heart,” she answered simply.
I smiled and bit into a violet. The sugar flaked onto my lap. “Then I think you may be right.”
In a private sitting room, we discussed our mercantile ambitions for Ghalain. (We both desired to increase foreign trade, but also strengthen Ghalaini manufacture by raising taxes on imported goods. We agreed the future lay in export, particularly of manufactured materials.) Calenda had served moist lemon cakes and sugared violets. Sweetness, it seemed agreed with me. That became apparent after the first meal she had provided, spiced duck and mussels in butter sauce, had been met with a retch.
“I am so sorry,” I apologized, embarrassed, thankful, at least, that I had caught the bile in my own hands and had not let it stain the exquisite carnelian rug. “I mean no offense.”
Servants immediately appeared to whisk away the offending meal.
Calenda regarded me sharply. “I know a woman suffering in her first months of being with child. I take no offense.” She laughed, and the sound seemed odd coming from such a stern-seeming a woman, with her tightly knotted fading auburn hair and austerely high cheekbones. “If you could be what I think you could be, it would take a lot more than a little vomit to shake me off. And the rest of the Thirds Council too, once I speak to them.”
“And what exactly do you think I will be?”
“A queen with a merchant’s mind and a peasant’s heart,” she answered simply.
I smiled and bit into a violet. The sugar flaked onto my lap. “Then I think you may be right.”