Read Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) Online

Authors: Emily Larkin

Tags: #Romance, #Medieval, #Historical, #Fiction

Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) (4 page)

The Faerie grew still. A dangerous glitter entered her black eyes. “No.”

Fear lifted the hair on Widow Miller’s scalp. Her lungs contracted.
She’s going to strike me dead
.

The forest seemed to hold its breath again—a moment of utter silence, utter stillness—and then a breeze fingered its way between the trees, stirring leaves and making the primroses nod on their stalks. The Faerie’s eyes lost their glitter, and Widow Miller found she could breathe again. “Very well,” she said evenly, as if she weren’t in fear of her life. “My daughters shall choose their wishes on their next birthdays.”

The Faerie inclined her head.

“How shall they find you?”

“I shall find them.” The Faerie held out her hands imperiously. “Give me my child.”

Widow Miller handed over the basket. Emotions flickered across the Faerie’s face, tenderness, relief—and a dark flash of scorn.

Is the scorn for me?
But even as Widow Miller asked herself the question, she knew it was. And she knew why.
I haven’t bargained hard enough
.

“You still owe me,” she said.

The Faerie glanced at her. Her face was cruel, beautiful, and utterly expressionless—but beneath the impassive stare was an odd sense of expectancy.

Yes, she knows she owes me. But why?

In a flash, the widow understood. “I have returned your daughter to you. Your only child. Your bloodline will continue. For that, you owe me.”

The Faerie tilted her head in a regal nod. “Choose your wish.”

Widow Miller’s mind went blank.
Think! Quickly!
But she had what she wanted, for herself and her daughters.

“There’s a man you love.” For the first time, the Faerie smiled, a thin, disdainful, mocking smile. Her teeth were as sharp and white as a cat’s. “I can make him love you.”

For an instant Widow Miller saw Ren Blacksmith in her mind’s eye—the flaxen hair, the strong, gentle hands, the smiling gray-green eyes—and her heart clenched painfully.
Have Ren love me?

“He will worship you until he dies.”

Worship? The widow took a step backwards, shaking her head. “No.”

“No? Are you certain?” The Faerie’s voice was sibilant and seductive. “It is easily done.”

“I’m certain,” Widow Miller said firmly. “Love should be given freely, or not at all.”

The Faerie shrugged. There was scorn in her black eyes and amusement on her face.

Widow Miller looked away from that cold, cruel, inhuman face, and gazed at the baby.

“Through your daughter, your bloodline lives,” she said slowly. “I gave you that.” She glanced up, suddenly knowing what to ask for. “
I
gave you that. So what I ask for in return is this: as long as your daughter’s line survives, my daughters’ lines shall receive Faerie wishes.”

The amusement vanished from the Faerie’s face. “You ask too much, human.”

“No,” Widow Miller said. “I ask just enough. Fey have but one child. Your bloodline continues because of me.”

The Faerie gazed at her for a long moment, her eyes dark and narrow, sucking up the light, reflecting nothing.

Widow Miller met those black eyes and listened to the
thump
of her heart and the sigh of the breeze in the trees and the chirrup of birdsong.

“Females only,” the Faerie said abruptly. “As long as my daughter’s female line survives, the females in your daughters’ lines shall each receive a wish. On their birthdays. At the same ages their mothers were when they received their wishes.”

The widow considered this carefully. Larkspur’s offspring would be twenty-one when granted wishes, Hazel’s twenty-three, Ivy’s twenty-five. Women, not flighty young girls. Old enough to make sensible choices.

“Agreed,” she said.

The Faerie gave a dismissive nod and turned away.

“Be careful.”

The Faerie glanced over her shoulder, aloof and startled.

“Someone tried to drown your daughter. Guard her carefully, lest they try to harm her again.”

The Faerie turned to face her fully. Beneath the coldness, Widow Miller saw surprise. “You care about my daughter? You feel affection for her?”

“Of course I do. She’s but a babe.”

A contemptuous smile curled the Faerie’s lips. “Humans. So soft-hearted.” Her laugh rang beneath the trees, bell-like and mocking, and then, in a brief gust of wind, she was gone. The echo of Faerie laughter hung in the air, but other than that, the little glade was empty.

Widow Miller touched her nose, her cheekbones, her jaw. “I’m whole again,” she whispered, and then, more loudly: “I’m whole again!” She spun around and started back the way she’d come, her steps coming faster and faster until she was running, as lightly and fleetly and joyfully as a young deer.

The basket of wilting herbs was where she’d left it, beside the mossy log. The widow picked it up, breathless and laughing. “I’m no longer Widow Miller,” she told the basket. “Look at me! I’m Maythorn again!”

CHAPTER FIVE

BESS AND BARTLEMAY
set up a great barking when she reached the cottage. “It’s me, sillies,” Maythorn said, and to her daughters, wide-eyed and anxious, clustered in the doorway: “It’s me!”

Dogs and daughters were equally confused. They all crowded into the little cottage, and Maythorn told her tale. “And each of you shall choose a wish, too. On your birthdays.” She hugged Ivy to her, laughing and crying at the same time. “Ivy, my precious Ivy. I wanted you to have your wish today, I wanted you to walk again.”

“It’s all right, Mother,” Ivy said, and her grave green eyes looked merry. “I haven’t long to wait. It’s only six weeks.”

“You look so different,” Larkspur said wonderingly. “Your face! And your hair is the color of sunshine.”

“How old are you?” Hazel wanted to know.

“Twenty-six.”

“Well, I can’t call you Mother,” Hazel said forthrightly. “You’re only a few years older than me!” And then: “What are we going to tell everyone?”

The four women looked at each other. “I’m your cousin,” Maythorn said. “Come unexpectedly from York.”

“What do we call you?” Ivy asked.

“Maythorn.”

Hazel frowned. “But—”

“We shall say I was named for my aunt, whom I greatly resemble.”

Hazel’s frown didn’t ease. “Whom you
exactly
resemble! Won’t people remember?”

“It’s been a long time.” Maythorn touched her nose, her cheekbone.
Twenty-one years broken, and now they are whole again
. “I don’t look much like the crippled Widow Miller, do I?”

Ivy shook her head. “You look nothing like her. It’s . . . I’d swear the shape of your face has changed.”

“But where shall
you
be, Mother?” Larkspur asked. “How do we explain your absence?”

“I am gone to visit my brother in York. A sudden journey.”

“From which you will never return.” The merriness was gone from Ivy’s eyes; they were grave again.

“Can we not tell the truth?” Larkspur asked, hesitantly. “I don’t like to lie.”

“None of us do,” Hazel said, her voice blunt and matter-of-fact. “But I think Maythorn’s right. The truth is best avoided. Who knows what the consequences would be? Folk may turn from her or wish her ill.”

“Wish her ill?” Larkspur cried, wide-eyed. “Why?”

“Because they’re jealous of her good fortune.”

“Mother’s been crippled half a lifetime! How is that good fortune?”

“It’s not,” Ivy said. “But jealousy isn’t a rational emotion.”

“Or the Lord Warder may be angry at her and cast her from the vale,” Hazel continued inexorably.

“Dappleward wouldn’t do that, would he?” Larkspur said, her eyes growing even wider with alarm. “Mother
had
to find the border. How else was she to give the babe back?”

Ivy looked thoughtful. “It’s true he may be angry. Not about the baby, but about the Faerie wishes.”

“Or people may try to do what Mother has done, hunt out the Fey and strike a bargain for their heart’s desire.”

“Only a fool would try that!” Larkspur protested. “It’s too dangerous!”

“The vale has its fools,” Ivy said.

“Fools aplenty!” Hazel said. “And they will look at Widow Miller and want what she ha
s—

“Girls,” Maythorn said firmly. “Enough.”

Her daughters fell silent.

“You have made your point, Hazel.” Maythorn sighed, her joy dwindling. “I’m sorry, my loves, but I must ask you to lie for me.”

Ivy took her hand. “The lie will harm no one, Mother . . . Maythorn. I shall be glad to call you cousin.”

“And I,” Larkspur said sturdily.

“When shall you show yourself?” Hazel asked. “Not today! Ren saw you this morning.”

“Tomorrow. Late tomorrow,” Maythorn said. “That gives Widow Miller time to be gone from the vale.”

“Gavain’s coming for his lesson tomorrow afternoon,” Ivy said. “Should we beg off?”

They all looked at each other.


We
could teach Gavain his letters,” Larkspur said tentatively.

“Of course we could!” Hazel said.

“What think you, Mother?” Ivy asked. “’Tis your decision.”

Maythorn thought of young Gavain, with his gap-toothed smile and his bright eyes and his eagerness to learn. “I should like to continue his lessons.”

“Then Gavain shall be the first to meet you. Perfect!” Hazel laughed and clapped her hands. “Don’t look so solemn, everyone. Today is a day for rejoicing!”

 

 

MAYTHORN STAYED AT
home the rest of that day, and there was pleasure in everything she did, for she had two nimble-fingered hands to prepare the evening meal with, and two clear-seeing eyes to gaze at her beloved daughters with, and when she rose from her bed the next morning, her hip didn’t ache and her strides were brisk and merry. But as the sun climbed in the sky, so too did Maythorn’s nervousness, and by the time the sun was directly overhead, she was fidgeting. She set herself to altering her best kirtle, taking in the seams, adjusting the neckline, changing it from widow’s garb to young woman’s. Once that was done, she fell to turning her thimble over and over between her fingers.

Ivy eyed her thoughtfully, and said, “Are you all right?”

Maythorn laid down the thimble and gave a rueful smile. “I confess, I’m a little nervous. I don’t know where my courage has gone! I must have used it all up yesterday.”

She went to the door and looked out, walked the width of the little room and back, and peeped out the door again. Would Ren accompany his son today?

Part of her hoped that he would; part of her hoped that he wouldn’t.

The afternoon ripened. Maythorn made a start at altering her second-best kirtle. The hum of bees in the wildflowers drifted in through the open door. The next time she peeped out, she saw Gavain coming across the meadow, riding on his father’s shoulders. Her nervousness trebled. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.

Hazel entered the cottage with a skip in her step and closed the door. “Ren’s here with Gavain,” she announced.

“I know.” Maythorn bundled her sewing away. Her heartbeat was fast and fluttery, her throat dry, her palms damp. She went to the tiny, unglazed window under the eaves and stood on tiptoe and peered out. Ren Blacksmith. The kindest man in the vale.

Outside, Bess barked a friendly welcome. Bartlemay bounded towards man and child, his tail wagging furiously.

Maythorn watched Ren pat the great, red-brown hound, watched them walk together along the path, Bartlemay frisking like a puppy. Ren swung his son down from his shoulders. A knock sounded on the door. “Widow Miller?”

Maythorn glanced at her daughters, ranged about the wooden table. Hazel’s face was alight with glee—
She’s enjoying this
—but Larkspur looked anxious.

“Hazel, get the door, please,” Ivy said calmly.

Hazel trod across the rush-strewn floor, her steps almost dancing—
Yes, she’s enjoying this
—and flung the door open. “Ren Blacksmith,” she cried gaily. “And young Gavain. Come in, both of you. Mother’s gone to York to visit her brother, but my sisters and I shall teach Gavain his letters.”

Maythorn pressed herself back into the shadowy corner of the small room, feeling as flustered and shy as a young girl.

“York?” Ren ducked through the door and entered the cottage. When he straightened, the top of his head came to within an inch of the ceiling. “Is she up to such a journey?”

“Oh, yes!”

Ren frowned. “I hope there’s no trouble in the family?”

“None at all,” Hazel said. “The fact is, our cousin has come to visit, and Mother got the urge to visit back.” She hauled Maythorn forward from the corner. “Meet my cousin, Maythorn.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Ren said politely, and then he blinked and became very still.

“She was named after Mother,” Hazel said cheerfully. “And it’s said she looks just like Mother used to. But you wouldn’t know how Mother used to look! You grew up in Dapple Wei
r—

“I met her once.”

“Did you? Well, then maybe you can remember.”

Ren made no reply. He stared at Maythorn as if she were an apparition that had taken shape from the shadows. Maythorn found she couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. A buzzing sound grew in her ears.
Breathe,
she told herself. But how could she breathe when Ren was looking at her so intently?

“Sit here, beside me, young Gavain,” Larkspur said, patting a stool.

The little boy scrambled up on the stool. “There’s going to be a bonfire tomorrow night!”

“So there is,” Larkspur said. “And we shall all dance around it.”

“Father says I can stay up as late as I like!” Gavain’s face shone with excitement.

Ren still hadn’t moved. He seemed to have taken root to the floor.

“Ren?” Hazel said, a note of laughter in her voice. “Are you feeling quite well?”

Ren shook his head, shook himself. “Forgive me. I . . . uh . . . the resemblance is remarkable.”

Maythorn swallowed and found her voice. “So I’ve been told.” She felt heat rise in her cheeks.
I’m blushing like a girl
. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ren Blacksmith.”

“Away with you,” Hazel said, shooing Ren out the door. “We’ll bring Gavain home before dark.”

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