Her finger hovered above this throat.  She imagined it was a blade and ticked it across his neck. He breathed softly against his stupidly soft pillows. She stayed beside him feeling time slip away as the room dyed from a golden rose to black.

           The Grand Mage only stirred once.

          She imagined killing him a thousand times over.

          Issi sat up.  Her stomach heaved.  She doubled waiting for the nausea to pass before slipping from the bed and picking her clothes off the floor.  She dragged herself to her cage.  A small basin of water stood on her table with a washcloth folded neatly over its lip.  Beside it sat a small, sweet bread wrapped in a handkerchief.

          She felt weary smile stamp her lips.  Small miracles.

          She could kiss Ner.

          Issi washed thoroughly, scrubbing at her skin until it went raw and angry before changing into a set of loose-fitting night clothes. The bread was gone before she really had the chance to taste it.  She’d starved herself to fit into that damned dress.

The stone floor muffled her footsteps as she left her cage.  Her violin was where she’d left it, by the front door.  The case opened with a quiet click. 

          Her glove had nestled itself against the instrument’s neck.  She grabbed it, flipping the fabric inside out.  The parchment fell to the floor.  It’d been neatly cut and folded into fourths.  Issi picked it up and unfolded it.

          Read it.

          A slew of bitter curses leapt from her lips as she hurried back to her room.  She banged about looking for the fire-starter.  Her hands shook as she slid the prongs across one another, their ends, tipped with flint and steel respectively, sent a spark that lit the candle’s wick.

          Soon as the damned thing caught, Issi dipped the paper into it.  Flame crawled across it, until the parchment burned down to her fingers.  She dropped what remained into her wash basin.

          She cursed again pacing the length of her cage and drawing to a stop in front of her window.  In the darkness the branches and leaves seemed a small forest.

          She let out a breath.  How could she have been so stupid?

          She should have seen it from days away.  A cook who was horrible at cleaning, a cook who had noble contacts, a cook who couldn’t fucking cook. 

 The air filled with the lavender scent of her candle.

The letter, now little more than cinder, had been short.

Hello Del, meet me in the kitchens at your earliest convenience.

                                                                   -Ardein. 

And below that, because the bastard couldn’t just leave well enough alone, he’d signed Lesser known as Prince Tiremalv.