A Turn of Light (38 page)

Wyll had been given a stool, rather than one of the chairs. Not discourtesy. His twisted hip would make a chair painful, Jenn realized. For this formal meeting, the stool faced not the table, but two other chairs, one her aunt’s, one her father’s, set at the edges of the braided rug.

When she’d walked in, her father had brought another chair, putting it to one end. Not with her family. Not with Wyll. She was allowed to be present, that chair said, but not to speak for either side.

So Jenn sat, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight, the toes of her shoes together, and remembered not to chew her lower lip.

Aunt Sybb gave her a look of approval before returning her attention to Wyll, who looked far more relaxed than her father.

While her father, Jenn thought with an inward squirm, looked more like Wagler Jupp. Or Uncle Horst. His normally jovial face was drawn in stern lines and, when he spoke, there was no mistaking who was in authority here.

“Before you arrived, Jenn,” he didn’t take his eyes from Wyll, “we made our introductions. Wyll was about to explain why he came with such urgency, rather than wait until this afternoon.”

“As the invitation specified,” Aunt Sybb stated. She didn’t appear flustered or other than politely interested. Then again, Jenn thought with pride, she wouldn’t.

Wyll ducked his head to one side. “I came to be with Jenn. Why should I stay anywhere else?”

Aunt Sybb coughed delicately into her ’kerchief; above the lace, her eyes twinkled. Radd put his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath.

Before he said anything she’d regret—or he would—Jenn jumped in. “Wyll. This isn’t Night’s Edge. There are different rules here. Rules you have to follow, like the rest of us. It was rude to ignore my aunt’s invitation. They had no time to get ready for you and Poppa hasn’t even shaved! You should,” she declared with great finality, “apologize.”

Wyll struggled to his feet and tipped in a bow. “I ask your pardon.”

Jenn would have taken his effort more seriously if a breeze hadn’t flipped the hair from her forehead at the same instant. She scowled at Wyll. He smiled back, taking his seat on the stool and stretching out his bad leg.

Whatever had made Aunt Sybb cough struck her father next. When Radd could speak, his face wasn’t quite so stern. “We can, perhaps, dispense with some of the formalities.” He glanced hopefully at his sister, who nodded. “Good. Wyll. We’ve asked you here to talk about—” he hesitated, then surged ahead, “—the future. Yours and Jenn’s. I need to know your intentions, sir.”

“I have no intentions,” Wyll replied. “I have duty. My duty is to stay with Jenn Nalynn as long as she lives, to keep her from harm and here. Is that what you need to know?”

The room, though bright and airy, suddenly felt stifling. Jenn clenched her hands together and wished herself anywhere else, but she’d made him into this; there was no escape for either of them.

“I need to know,” her father pressed, his voice gone harsh, “if you love my daughter.”

Rose petals fluttered in through the open doors, swirled together in a cloud, then fell softly around Jenn’s chair and in her lap, covering her hands, her hair. Their scent filled the room. Jenn’s eyes shot to Wyll. There was something naked in his face, something vulnerable and sad. The next instant, it was gone. “I always have,” he said.

Radd Nalynn’s throat worked. His eyes filled with tears. Aunt Sybb, who’d uttered a soft cry at the petals, reached for his hand. Hers trembled. “That’s all we needed,” he said at last.

Wyll smiled.

Jenn stood, shedding petals like autumn leaves. “I’ll make tea.”

She made her way blindly into the kitchen. Found and filled the teapot. Gathered cups and cream and honey. Tried not to think. Tried not to feel.

“Jenn.” Her aunt’s soft touch stopped her hand as she reached for the tray. “What’s wrong?”

Everything. “Nothing,” Jenn said.

“I see.” Aunt Sybb patted her hand. “We need biscuits.” She pulled out the tin, opened it, frowned gently. “Which we’ll have to bake, since Peggs keeps giving them away.” She closed the tin and gazed at Jenn. “Dearest Heart,” very gently, “too much has happened, too quickly. How can you know your own mind? That’s why it’s important to slow everything down. Give Wyll time. Give yourself time. You’ll see.”

“I’ve made my decision,” Jenn said stiffly. “I’m marrying Wyll. I’m marrying him as soon as possible. On my birthday. The Golden Day. I’ll be nineteen and adult and no one can say otherwise.”

“There’s no harm in baking first, is there?”

“I—” Unable to argue, she picked up the tray. “I suppose not.”

“Considering the necessary preparations,” her aunt continued relentlessly, “however minimal, we’ll need every waking moment. Your wardrobes alone . . .”

She meant to stay. If will alone could do it, Jenn didn’t doubt she would. “You aren’t sleeping,” she protested. “Not well enough. You can’t—”

“Ancestors Bloody and Unbowed!” Aunt Sybb drew herself up, a fierce gleam in her eyes. “I’ll drink myself to a stupor on your father’s cider, if I must, and if that fails, I’ll stay awake with toothpicks in my eyelids! Make no mistake, my dear niece. I will attend your sister’s wedding and yours, dreams or no dreams!”

Setting down the tray, Jenn gathered her frail aunt in her arms. She closed her eyes tight, breathed lavender, and somehow didn’t cry.

“We are Beholden for life’s trials,” Aunt Sybb said gently. “Facing them is what makes us women, not years or moon blood, and will give you strength, I promise. I’m proud of the woman you’ve become, Jenn Nalynn, and so should you be. Now,” a smile in her voice, “the tea?”

The rug and floor were strewn with rose petals. Wyll supposed, having served their purpose, he should remove them, but did not. For Radd Nalynn—miller, father, brother—couldn’t take his eyes from them. Wyll supposed, having been accepted by the family, he could move from the torture of the stool, but did not. For Jenn Nalynn, twice cursed and turn-born, was making tea and would expect him here to drink it.

Having no idea what mattered to these people, he would take no more chances.

Radd’s eyes lifted. “You look young,” he said, his tone offering no clue if this was comment or accusation. “No older than I was, arriving in Marrowdell.”

Was he? His kind lived longer than most; something he’d come to regret. Wyll shrugged his good shoulder. “This is how I am.” Their kind lived such a pittance of years. Maybe he’d die sooner as a man; the sei’s bent notion of mercy.

“But not as you were.” Radd leaned forward, his words an urgent whisper. “You’re older. You were in the meadow when Jenn was a babe.” He’d gone pale. “Were you there—did you see how her mother—my wife—Melusine—did you hear—”

“Here’s the—” Entering with a tray, Jenn stopped. She looked from one to the other.

Radd straightened. “Tea!” he greeted with a cheerfulness even Wyll could see was forced. “Most welcome. I don’t suppose Peggs left us any sweets.”

“We’ve made do,” his sister said, keen eyes moving between them as well. “Toasted biscuit with honey.”

Jenn’s questioning gaze settled on Wyll, so he answered. “Your father asked if I saw your mother die.”

The tray, with tea, biscuits, and honey, dropped from her hands. Wyll, finding himself hungry, made sure it and its contents landed gently, and upright, on the table.

They stared at him, not the tray.

Wyll shifted, hating the stool and their attention.

Jenn’s lip trembled. “Did you?”

“No,” he said. “I wasn’t there.”

Before Jenn, his penance had had another form, one without a kind child or meadow. He’d lived within the turn-borns’ enclave, in a hole beneath their dwelling, permitted out when they had need for his service: to clean wastes or fetch water, to hurry away wailing terst parents or stand watch at the gate, whatever they couldn’t make happen for themselves or chose not to. They weren’t cruel, but they forgot him, more often than not, being unused to a servant. They’d leave for an endless time. When they returned, he’d stare up through the floor boards, listening to their interminable debates about this expectation or that, and wait to be remembered. To have any use at all.

Perhaps she saw the grim memory of it in his eyes, for hers grew soft. “There, then,” to dismiss both question and answer. “You can’t be comfortable like that, Wyll. Come stand by the table and I’ll pour you some tea. Father? Aunt?”

Bemused, he let himself be treated as a man.

THIRTEEN

T
O MOVE WYLL
to his new home meant rolling the village cart from the Treff barn. The cart meant Davi rattling a grain bucket and bellowing “Come, Battle. Come, Brawl!” at the top of his substantial lungs to bring his team in from the commons. Either cart or bellow would catch the attention of everyone in Marrowdell, not that everyone hadn’t already guessed what was up when Radd Nalynn went to the forge instead of his mill.

Davi’s cart was a simple, honest vehicle, as he called it, with a pair of shoulder-high wooden wheels wrapped in iron that were replaced by runners once the snow was deep. There was a strong flat bed able to carry bales, which enticed children aboard for a ride, or logs, which did not. The cart had been out yesterday, to haul the remains of Bannan’s dead ox from the commons gate.

Despite their names, Battle and Brawl were the gentlest of giants, with hooves like dinner plates and willing hearts. Harnessed and left in the pleasantly cool shade of the apple trees at the center of the village, the draft horses waited patiently on either side of the long cart tongue, eyes half-closed. In the commons, Wainn’s old pony, after a plaintive nicker at being abandoned, laid himself flat on one side and went to sleep, yesterday’s wild ride having been the most excitement he’d had in years.

Jenn fed the team apples, kissed their broad velvet noses, and tried not to fidget. After all, Aunt Sybb considered her a woman now, which assuredly meant she shouldn’t fidget, at least where everyone could see. Everyone could, too, because her task was to wait with the cart while Frann finished fitting Wyll with one of Davi’s old coats and Davi finished lunch.

Which was taking far too long.

She was sitting between Brawl’s legs, making silly braids in his feathers, when Uncle Horst walked up, ax in hand. Jenn scrambled to her feet. “Fair morning, Uncle.”

“Fair morning, Jenn. I’ve something for your friend.” He laid the ax on the cart, fingers lingering on the handle. “It’s served me well these years.”

Jenn wasn’t sure if Wyll could wield an ax or if he’d bother with one, but the gesture warmed her heart. “Thank you. I’ll make sure he returns it as soon as he can.”

Uncle Horst looked at her. He hadn’t shaved this morning. His eyes were tired and full of secrets until he smiled. “As long as he needs it, tell him.”

Before Jenn could say a word, he was gone, replaced by Lorra and Cynd Treff. Cynd had her arms around a basket of newly fired cups, while one hand grasped the handle of a chipped but serviceable pitcher. “Fair morning, Jenn,” she said cheerily. “For Wyll.”

This was more of a surprise than Uncle Horst’s ax. Jenn dipped a quick curtsy. “Thank you. I know he’ll appreciate them.”

“I hope so.” Lorra wore her black hat. She stepped around Battle, whose eyes followed the tall feather of her hat with the rapt intent of a well-mannered horse tempted beyond reason. She wore matching gloves, which she only did on significant occasions such as the Midwinter Beholding, and wagged one black-clad finger at Jenn’s nose. “I don’t know what Sybb’s thinking,” she stated. “This Wyll’s no bargain, girl, farm or not. If you’ve any sense, you’ll marry the other one.”

Cross-eyed and speechless, Jenn could only blink.

“As for this curse business—” another wag, “—children should be kept close and safe. Especially here. I dare say Melusine meant well,” Lorra added with unexpected gentleness.

Roche. So much for secrets. Serve him right if Horst took his beloved bow back.

“Cynd!” The gloved finger thrust imperiously at the cart.

Cynd, giving Jenn a sympathetic look, found a spot for the basket and pitcher. The two left before Jenn could recover, pausing to exchange brief greetings with Covie Ropp on her way up the lane from the dairy. She carried a small table, Cheffy a bucket of tools and hardware, while Alyssa balanced a wheel of cheese on her head. “For your friend,” Covie announced unnecessarily. “Mind where you step,” to her children as they clambered onto the cart and argued about where to put their offerings.

“Thank you.” Jenn took the table and went to find a spot for it, Covie walking alongside.

“I heard Lorra’s advice.” The older woman leaned close. “You might listen. Your Wyll has a rare temper,” in a low voice.

“He’d never hurt me.” Of that, Jenn was sure.

“I’m glad to hear—Cheffy, don’t push your sister!—Still,” quiet again, “how well can we know one another or the paths we’ll take? I can’t tell you how glad we all are that my boy stopped you leaving with the stranger.”

“My boy” being Roche. Easy to forget, with Cheffy and Alyssa bouncing around, that Covie was his mother too. Jenn swallowed what she wanted to say, beginning with how Roche had been the start of it all and certainly including how he’d been the one to almost lead her from Marrowdell, not Bannan. She looked up at Covie to meet a gaze as wise as it was kind.

“He’s too like his father,” confided Roche’s mother. “Always restless, never satisfied. Avyo held opportunities for a man like that. Marrowdell?” She sighed and shook her head. “Roche won’t stay here. Not even for you. I hope you understand.”

More than she could say. “I do,” Jenn said faintly. “I wish him well.”

“You’ve a good heart, Jenn Nalynn.” Covie smiled and raised her voice. “Alyssa, don’t bounce so close to your grandmother’s pottery. We’ll be out of your way. There’s more to come, I’m sure. But this is a start.”

It was a wonderful start. Gallie Emms, with tiny Loee asleep in her sling, brought sausages and candles, promising a mattress once Zehr came down from Old Jupp’s roof. As for Wagler Jupp, Riss came with one of her lovely tapestried cushions under an arm, a kitchen knife missing only part of its handle, and a spare cane, courtesy of her uncle who’d noticed Wyll’s need.

Jenn touched each of the gifts on the cart, her heart swelling with pride. Marrowdell might not be a fine city like Avyo, but no city could have more generous people.

A bag dropped on the cartbed with a thud, startling Jenn and barely missing the pottery. “Charcoal,” Roche claimed. “Tinder and flint.”

“We don’t want anything from you,” she said icily, grabbing the bag and ready to hurl it back at him. “You told everyone about the curse!”

“Didn’t.” He shifted the bow further on his shoulder, green eyes sullen. “Just Devins.”

Who would have told Hettie, who would have told Covie . . . which amounted to everyone, as Roche should have known, so Jenn scowled at him. “You said I was running off with Bannan.” A chill little breeze overhead tossed leaves, and dropped an apple in Battle’s reach. “Why?”

“You weren’t running off with me, that’s for sure.” He folded his arms and regarded her coolly. “So who’s the liar, Jenn Nalynn?”

Taken aback, she returned the bag to the cart with more care than he’d used. He’d salved his pride for a moment, no longer. The truth would come out once Uncle Horst or Kydd or Peggs heard his version, and not to Roche’s benefit. He might, she thought, remembering what Covie’d said, leave Marrowdell sooner than later.

Despite their differences, she found herself sad to believe it. “Let’s not fight,” she said at last. The breeze died away. “Thank you for the gift.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m glad you’ve picked this Wyll,” gruffly. “Or that I know why.”

She almost smiled.

“Better than that Larmensu. We’re well rid of him. A scoundrel, most likely. Or a bandit!”

Her sympathy vanished. “He is not!”

“He shaved his beard, you know. One he’d had for years. I noticed. I brought it up at the meeting. A man who does that,” Roche nodded sagely, “is trying to hide his face.”

Or start a new life. Jenn didn’t bother to argue. “I’m sure you’ve chores to do, Roche Morrill. Don’t let me keep you.”

Roche flinched as though stung and stalked away with his shoulders hunched. She sighed to herself.

A toad hopped on the cart and blinked at her.

Jenn blinked back. Every home had its toad; until now, she hadn’t realized toads picked their own. “Thank you,” she said solemnly.

The toad settled, front legs bent, its long toes curled together around its plump creamy belly, and closed its eyes.

Birds sang, bees droned, and in every detail, the morning was perfect for anything. Anything but standing still. Jenn went back to trying not to fidget. Davi could eat a good-sized lunch, but how long could altering a coat take? She leaned against Brawl, who’d fallen asleep before the toad’s arrival, and tried for patience.

Peggs arrived first, with a folded blanket and lunch bucket. She put both on the cart, wordlessly avoiding the toad, and leaned beside Jenn. “Aunt Sybb suggested we leave the rest till we know if Wyll’s house has a roof.”

“Never mind the house,” Jenn said eagerly, “what about Kydd?” Peggs’ turn at spying had been for naught. Of all things, Kydd Uhthoff had written a response to their father, put in a sealed envelope to be delivered by a delighted Wagler Jupp, who clearly felt this return to proper correspondence to be worth his unaccustomed exertion although he had, according to Riss, immediately gone to bed for a nap. “Surely Poppa’s read it by now.”

Her sister drew a ragged breath. “I’ve got to go. The bread’s ready for the oven.”

Jenn blocked her retreat. “Peggs?” Her sister’s eyelids were red and puffy, as was her nose. “You’ve been crying. What’s wrong? What was in the note?”

“It said—it said ‘The Uhthoffs support the right of Bannan Larmensu to the outlying farm and decline to assist in his betrayal.’”

Explaining why no Uhthoff had brought a gift for Wyll, but not Peggs’ tears.

“Father’s invitation? What about that?”

“‘Until the matter is resolved in fairness to all . . . ‘” Peggs’ eyes filled. “Oh, Jenn. He won’t come.”

“‘Fairness?’” Jenn bristled. “How is that fair to you?” How dare Kydd Uhthoff refuse her sister? The leaves overhead fluttered.

“Hush.” Peggs glanced around, as if worried she’d find him standing under one of his apple trees. Jenn hoped so; she’d give him a piece of her mind, she would. “Aunt Sybb called it politics and posturing. I’m to ignore him.” Her sister sighed. “She couldn’t say for how long.”

“Don’t bake,” Jenn said firmly. “Wainn will have Kydd groveling at your feet in no time.”

A sparkle in her sister’s eyes. “Except for family.”

“Of course.” Jenn feigned horror. “You can’t let us starve!”

“I’ve summerberry pies coming out of the oven,” Peggs said thoughtfully. “I could cool them on the front windowsill.”

Where the scent would waft throughout the village, especially toward the Uhthoffs’. Jenn nodded her approval. There was more than one way to deal with posturing. “I’ve changed my mind. You should bake. Make a few extra,” she suggested with a wink. “Poppa loves summerberry pie.”

“He does,” her sister said with a smile that left no doubt which “he” was meant.

Soon after Peggs left on her mission, Wyll and Davi appeared on the Treff porch. Time to go. Jenn straightened and took a breath.

“What’s all this?”

Jenn whirled to find Tir with one booted foot on the cart, his eyes shaded and inscrutable beneath a broad farmer’s hat, stiff and new. Between the hat and his metal mask, he resembled a villain caught in the wrong story. “Gifts for Wyll,” she answered. “He’s moving to the farm.”

“Does Bannan know?”

She hesitated.

He lifted the mask and spat eloquently. “I’ll come along.” It wasn’t a request.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice. Surely Bannan would prefer to walk back to the village with a friend.

“Don’t.” Tir laid his hands on the handles of the axes in his belt. The heads were impractically thin, curved, and razor sharp. Jenn guessed, dry-mouthed, they weren’t for wood. “I’ll come to make sure there’s no repeat of yesterday’s madness.”

“How reassuring,” Wyll said as he approached, eyes a calm brown.

Frann had done wonders with needle and thread. The black coat crossing his shoulders might be worn in places, but it hung straight despite his crooked posture. Too warm for this day, but fall was doubtless in a hurry, now that she wasn’t. “Look, Wyll.” Jenn swept her hand to the cart. “See how kind everyone’s been?”

“Relieved’s my guess,” Tir offered cheerfully and unasked. “Relieved to have you on the far side of yon river, that is.”

Davi regarded Tir over Battle’s back. “We’re sorry to disappoint your friend, but we help our own first. Wyll is Jenn’s betrothed and needs a roof over his head.”

“‘On the far side of yon river,’” Wyll repeated, with a half smile. “From them.”

Tir chuckled.

The big smith gave the two a searching look, then went back to checking harness. “We’ll wait for Radd,” he announced.

With a sigh, Jenn sat on the cart beside the toad and did her utmost not to fidget.

Bannan was in the loft when he heard the wagon. He tossed the wet rag he’d been using—the remnant of yesterday’s shirt—into the bucket and lowered himself to the main floor, heart pounding. He added a handful of splinters to the fire, poked it to life, and swung over a pot of water. Tea for him. He’d surprise Tir with that obnoxious Essa brew he favored, having tucked the last canister in his pack before leaving Vorkoun, to be safely hidden in the wagon for this day.