Fragmented thoughts chased themselves through Inzillomě's concentration as she cried into Ziraphel's shoulder.
If they should die... what would I do if they should die? As if reading her mind, Ziraphel stroked her long hair, murmering soothing words into her ear.
My darling Abârpânarú, alone... he will believe there is no hope... he will believe they will not come... he will believe I ordered them not to. She sobbed harder, cradled in the arms of her husband's sister. It was too much for her. She had always had Abârpânarú to share the burden of leadership with. Now, she felt that burden and could not pretend not to. She opened her eyes, drawing away from Ziraphel.
The letter! Quick as lightening, Inzillomě had written her daughter a short letter, tucking it into Cerveth's bag. Her usually thin and graceful script was choppy and perhaps difficult to read. She only hoped that her daughter would find it. She heard her own words reverberating through her head as her tears slowed.
My Cerveth, they have experience,
and they have will, but only you have
the passion. Only you, dearest, have
the love of a daughter. Be brave,
little one, and I will see you again.
Composing herself slowly, Inzillomě looked wryly at Ziraphel.
"Well," she said. "If we are to have such noble visitors come dawn, we had better get to packing." She wiped her eyes softly. "What think you, sister, of their quest for speed? I think, perhaps, that our charming escort should learn some patience."
Seeing Inzillomě's thoughts, Ziraphel set off to her chambers with a small laugh, to perform a last check of her belongings. Tucked to her body by her sash, Inzillomě could feel a small vial. She smiled, thinking of what fun it would be to see her guards forget orders. With a gleam in her eye, she thought of ways to bide time. She must give the rescuers time. With a satisfied grin, she walked to her garden to pick the last of her herbs. Surely they would not deny a disgraced woman cuttings from her gardens? She smiled once more.