[maikafanawen]

Dryea left Ruiel's room a little while after Alethea. But unlike her younger sister had, she curtsied politely and looked reservedly triumphant in her mother's direction before leaving. She was quick enough to spy Alethea retreating down a hallway towards an exit. Looking about for a moment, she decided on pursuit and followed her quietly.

Her younger sister led her down a tightly packed dirt garden path that led out into the tame flowers of the courtyard. A little ways down she stopped and sat on a bench. Dryea stayed concealed in the shadows.

The eldest daughter of Morthaniawen was not sure why she had followed. She was suspicious, but she knew that nothing would be revealed to her now. Still, the expressions of a face and simple gestures could tell much more than words ever would.

So she stood in silence and observed Alethea analytically. What was she thinking? What she hiding? Dryea wished she knew. Meirelle approached her at one time, just come from outside the estate walls, and whispered something to her mistress. Then the girl straightened and this time, more loudly, asked if she had been crying. Alethea touched her face and nodded, "Why yes I have, thank you Meirelle." Then the maid left and began to walk up the path towards Dryea. The Morthaniawen in shadows smirked and stepped back further into the dimness until Meirelle passed. Then she abandoned her watch on her sister and followed the second best source of information: her handmaiden.

Just before the girl reached the door to the house Dryea quickened her pace and intercepted her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Excuse me," she turned the startled girl around and faced her authoritatively.

"Yes m'lady?" the maid said, curtsying. Dryea eyed her skeptically, waited for her to rise and somewhat regain her composure before questioning her.

"Did you just speak with the lady Alethea?" she began. Meirelle nodded, eyes averted. "What did she have to say then?" Her tone was tense and commanding. The maid hesitated before answering and when she did her voice was trembling and coy.

"I was inquiring about Lord Isindil's son," she whispered. To complete the act, a single tear slipped quickly down the maid's cheek. Still wounded about Rhir's death herself, Dryea accepted the tale and dismissed her. The maid was out of sight before Dryea questioned her honesty. It was too late then for Rheaite summoned her to prepare to receive the condolences.

Somewhat restless at the thought of sitting around and looking depressed all day, Dryea reluctantly mounted the steps to her room so that Rheaite might tend to her. She passed a large mirror hanging on the wall in the hallway. The woman stopped and gazed appraisingly at her reflection, pushing back the net that hung over her face suspended from her hat. Her features had suddenly returned to the sultry and devious form they had attained so often before. She grinned.

"My, I do look fine in black." Chuckling malevolently, she entered her room. It was a wicked thing to say at such a time but, after all, Dryea was a wicked woman.