That left him plenty of time to think about her. She was unlike any girl he had ever met—certainly in Greffier, where the women were quiet and obedient, at least in public. Even in Verdeau, where people were freer and more outspoken, Yolenka’s forward brashness stood out.
He was no longer intimidated by her manner. He loved it. It was as if a lifetime of reticence and restraint was set free just by being with her. He didn’t even mind that she had beaten him
to their first kiss, pulling him against the side of the smithy on the very day he had vowed he would kiss her before the sun went down.
He didn’t know why she liked him, or if her feelings were as serious as his own. But he realized now in missing her bright presence that he wanted to give her something special.
It should be gold. Derkh had some money set aside—he had been well paid for the hunting set, and although he was still a journeyman bound to give half of what he earned from personal commissions to his master, it was still a handsome sum. Not enough for gold, though.
Bronze? Copper? He shook his head, discouraged now. Yolenka had boasted to him of the artistry of the Tarzine people—the richly patterned textiles with colors like jewels, the elegant crafting of gold and gemstones. He was overstepping himself.
Except...he opened the box again. He had been right to save these pieces. They
were
good. He hadn’t mastered the delicacy of Elvish work—no Human ever would—but there was an elusive balance of weight and flow to the design that was distinctive and beautiful.
An idea came to him. He saw the dark burnish of bronze contrasted against Yolenka’s warm skin, highlighted with the sheen of gold. He had coin enough for a little gold, enough to brighten the piece and give it richness.
Excited now, his doubts vanished, and Derkh pulled out his quill and ink and began to sketch.
F
OR THREE DAYS
Gabrielle interrupted her care of the girls only to eat and sleep. Colette gave her a hastily stuffed pallet beside
her own bed, which she shared in shifts with Aline. As the twins came to consciousness, she soothed their cries and coaxed into them her standard brew of willow bark, comfrey and hawkweed, laced with plenty of honey and a tiny pinch of mandragora—all she dared give them—to ease their hurts and help them sleep. Their wounds were little changed to the eye, but under the surface Gabrielle was steadily pushing back the edges of the damaged tissue. She no longer worried about the girls’ survival.
By the fourth day, despite the protective tent she had rigged over their legs and the women’s attentive removal of any trapped insects, the honey coating had become grimy.
Bath day, she decided, and wondered how it could be done.
She was just broaching the subject with Aline over a midday meal of barley bread and the salted dried twists of mutton the Maronnais shepherds used as travel fare, when the door opened. Simon stood framed in the light that poured into the cabin, bandages gone, his hands hanging free at his sides.
Aline had not mentioned her husband once in Gabrielle’s hearing, and Gabrielle had wondered if there were hard feelings between them. But no—Aline’s cry as she sprang to Simon’s side was as eloquent as any declaration of love. Gabrielle watched Aline gasp and laugh as she examined Simon’s hands, watched his dark eyes well up with tears at the sight of his girls sleeping peacefully.
Later, when Simon sat down to join them at table, Gabrielle asked to see his hands. He flipped them over, spread out his big-knuckled fingers and grinned.
“Can you believe it? And he didn’t do hardly anything. Just held onto one of ‘em or the other and kind of dozed over it. And
then my hand would feel warm and kind of buzzy, like it were a hive of bees, but the burning pain of it would ease off, and I would feel easier in my mind too. And each time, when he was done, the hand looked better.”
Towás had done well. Simon’s palms were shiny pink, but it was the pink of new skin, not of burned flesh or scarring. They would be sensitive for some time yet, but they would serve him almost as well as before.
“Oh, and before I forget—someone is coming here to see you, m’Lady.”
Gabrielle looked up, surprised. Towás, perhaps, coming to help with the twins?
“His name is Féolan. He just rode into town—or whatever that Stonewater place is—as I was getting ready to leave. He says he’ll be here by sundown.” Simon frowned, struck by a sudden doubt.
“You do know him, m’Lady? He looked something scruffy compared to the others there.”
Gabrielle laughed—the first laugh she could remember since arriving at the village—picturing Féolan’s response to hearing that a Maronnais shepherd had declared him “scruffy.” He would have just returned from trade talks in the Gamier capital of Turleau—a long journey through rough country.
“Oh yes, I know him. He’s my husband.”
B
Y THE TIME
Féolan arrived, the girls had been cleaned up, dosed with medicine, coated (sparingly, this time) with honey and settled back comfortably on their pallets. Simon had taken on the bath project with dispatch, producing two trestle tables, which he set
up in an empty livestock shed, and enlisting everyone who could be found in the village to contribute buckets of warm water. He and Aline had carried the girls to the shed and laid them gently on the tables, and Gabrielle had got to work.
Féolan had proved himself equally useful, bringing dinner, a pannier of clean clothes and a tent. After days of sharing a bed and eating hastily prepared peasant fare, an Elvish picnic and a night alone were luxurious gifts.
“How long will you stay?” asked Gabrielle. Colette had been visibly relieved to find she would not need to house and feed Féolan, but only find a patch of ground he could camp on. Still, there was little he could do here.
“I should head back tomorrow.” Féolan leaned over the fire to fish out the last packets of
limara—
a rich concoction of dried fruits, nuts, spices and honey, wrapped into a curl of birchbark and soaked before heating in the coals—and gingerly dropped one onto Gabrielle’s plate. The evening star had just appeared, shining out over the far hills. “Tilumar is keen to discuss Gamier’s trade offer. I just wanted to see you.”
Gabrielle couldn’t see the sudden brightening of Féolan’s eyes in the waning light, but she felt the flare of his desire. Teasing, she carried on their matter-of-fact conversation as though she hadn’t noticed, knowing he would sense her own true feelings.
“Can you leave me the tent? I’m sure Aline would rather share her bed with Simon.”
“Of course.” Féolan smiled wickedly. “If you think you can keep warm without me.”
T
HE PIRATES SWARMED
through the streets of Chênier, ragged shadows with black-toothed grins and flaming eyes. Madeleine shrank into a doorway as they pounded past her, but the last, a huge mountain of a man, stopped, turned, and the rotten smile broadened into a roar of glee. He grabbed her, brandishing the blade of his great crescent knife and laying it along her throat, and she screamed and screamed but all that came out was...
a hoarse mew that blessedly was enough to wake her.
Madeleine sat up in bed, trying to suppress the wild pounding of her heart. She had overheard talk of pirates that night, not at the dinner table but in the private study where she had hovered in the hallway to listen. Served her right, then, for spying. It was guilt, more than fear, had brought this lurid and overwrought nightmare. So she told herself.
Her nightgown was damp with sweat, cold now in the early spring air. She slipped out of bed and groped in the chest at its foot, finding a new shift by feel in the dark room.
She would never admit it to a soul, but there were times when she missed having a nurse sleep in the room with her. Times like this one, when Rochelle would stir up the fire and chase away the night phantoms with her warm arms and sensible voice.
Since Madeleine’s thirteenth birthday so much had changed.
She was a woman now, the crampy bleeding that had come for the first time last month confirming it. She loved the privacy of her room, her new, grown-up dresses and being part of the adult dinners. But she missed—well, she missed Matthieu. A gulf had opened between them, invisible but so hard to cross. Everything he said to her seemed silly or insulting. Everything she said seemed disapproving or superior. He said she was “prissy” and half the time he was right—but she didn’t mean to be.
Tonight, though, the gulf had closed up, just for a bit. She saw him again bursting into the dining room with his jacket misbuttoned and his tunic tail poking out in back. When he sat down between Madeleine and Sylvain, only the children had seen the fluffy curl of a gray breast-feather caught in the tousled hair on the back of his head. By unspoken agreement they said nothing, though Sylvain had caught his big sister’s eye with a smirk many times through the meal. Finally, at dessert, Madeleine had plucked out the feather with a flourish and planted it in Matthieu’s custard where it waved under his breath like a brave little flag. Matthieu, rising to the challenge, had snapped it a smart salute.
Smiling at the memory, Madeleine burrowed into her blankets. She could sleep now. Matthieu had chased away the pirates.
B
ITING THEIR LIPS
with the effort, clutching onto each other’s arms for support, Mira and Marie walked slowly but steadily across the road and into Gabrielle’s outstretched arms. She felt her eyes well up at the sight, but blinked back the tears and instead gave the girls her most radiant smile. They snuggled
against her, and she tugged their neat braids gently. Solemn hazel eyes looked up at her.
“You are such brave wonderful girls, and I am so proud of you.”
Shy smiles, just a little wider from Mira. It was easier to tell them apart now, and not only because she knew them better. Mira’s gait was draggy in the left leg, the result of a damaged tendon behind the knee. With use it would improve, but Gabrielle thought there would always be a lingering limp.
“You remember what I told you,” she added. “You do your stretches four times a day—at every meal and before you sleep. Do them just the way we practiced, and your legs will grow stronger and stronger.”
“They’ll do their stretches, all right.” Simon stood at the doorway to Colette’s house, his wife and mother-in-law just behind. “We’ll all see to it.”
“Then I think that’s all.” Gabrielle stood and held a hand out to each girl, and together they made their way back to the cabin. She looked now to Aline. “If there’s an unexpected setback, you know where to find me. Don’t hesitate.”
Aline was in tears now, but Simon was more practical. “We can’t begin to pay you for what you’ve done, but whatever we can pay we will.”
Gabrielle shook her head. “No, no. There is no fee. Please don’t even think of it.” She was so thankful she had never had to charge for her services. She couldn’t imagine asking these hardworking people, who had already been through so much, for money, or how she could possibly calculate a value for what she did.
“Well, you can’t go away empty-handed. Wait here a minute.”
Simon disappeared behind the cabin and emerged carrying a bulging burlap sack. It squirmed and gave a muffled squawk.
“Three good chickens in here. If ye’d be so kind to give one to that Towàs fella, by way of my own thanks.”
Y
OLENKA FINGERED
, once again, the intricate gold filigree and fine four-strand bronze plait of the necklace. It had taken Derkh a long time to figure out how to incorporate the delicate filigree highlights into the focal point of the necklace—a bold, swooping beaten bronze shape inspired by the deeply flexed wings of an eagle.
“You
made
this?” Amber eyes blazed at him.
Derkh nodded, a little taken aback. Yolenka looked almost angry. Maybe he’d gone too far. “Do you not like it?”
She glared at him. “What is wrong with you? Why you spend your days hammering at horse-metal and buckets, when you have gift like this?” She looked at it again, shaking her head in disbelief. “Is better than anything I ever see here. Better even than much Tarzine work. Style is...beautiful. Different.”
Yolenka stood, tossed back her tawny mane and fastened the necklace. The bronze wings spanned from one collarbone to the other, glinting gold and looking just as fabulous against her warm skin as Derkh had hoped. Gods, she took his breath away.
She stalked toward him, raised her face for a kiss that nearly brought him to his knees, and continued her lecture.
“I thank you. I mean this. Is most beautiful thing I have. But you, you are loose in the head. You do work like this, you make and sell everywhere! Nobles, rich men, all will buy! Why you hide here in this piddle town?”
Derkh said nothing as a multitude of answers swirled around in his head. Because he owed Theo, who had apprenticed him, another half-year as a journeyman was the easy answer. Because La Maronne, with its clipped accent and plain-talking country people, felt more like home than the southern town of Chênier might be another. But underlying everything was the fact that he was the son of Greffaire’s highest military commander, and “jewelry artisan” was not an occupation that even existed in his mind. It was strange enough to find himself silversmithing as a private hobby.
He was saved a reply by the appearance of his landlady. “Excusing the interruption, Mister Derkh, but you have more visitors.” She stressed the word “more” as if his sudden popularity was less than seemly. She frowned. “Very grand and handsome they are too.”
A flush of pleasure lit up Derkh’s face. There were few enough people likely to arrive as unexpected visitors to his lodgings and fewer still who could be described as “grand.”
“A tall man with dark hair, and a woman?” he asked.
The mistress nodded. “The same.”
“Bring them—” Derkh glanced around the dark little salon. He felt cramped in here already, with only Yolenka in the room. “No, never mind, we’ll come to the door to meet them.” He grinned at Yolenka.
“You wanted to meet Elves? Here’s your chance.”