Authors: Mccormick Templeman
“Ah, Rowan,” he sighed. “How I wish I could take you with me to the palace city, and here you go and spoil it all by marrying a soulful village lad.”
Feeling a blush rising in her cheek, she lined a basket with a towel for the scones. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have been as much help as you suppose.”
“Tell me,” he said, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “How are you doing? It seems to me your grief hangs heavy on you, my friend.”
Turning back around, she met sympathetic eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m trying to carry on with things. I reckon I’m a bit less of a mess than I was at the start. I just wish …,” she began to say, but then she shook her head, and turning back to her scones, she began placing them in the basket.
“Please,” he said. “Go on. You can speak freely.”
Suddenly, on the verge of tears, she gave in. It would feel so good to have someone to talk to again. “It’s just sometimes I wish I could get away from it all—from the grief, from the village.”
“Ah, but there is,” he said, rising, his warm gaze upon her. “You could come to the palace city with me as originally planned.”
Rowan laughed, flustered. “You know I can’t do that. My father’s given my twine. I’m bound, and Tom isn’t the kind who strays far from home.”
Sighing, he said, “I fear this is all my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father and I spoke about you coming to work with me, and I’m afraid he took it rather badly.”
“He didn’t seem pleased when I suggested it either. I can’t understand it, because it’s been his dream to return to the palace city.”
“I know,” he said. “He’s made that clear for quite some time.”
“He has?”
“Indeed, but I didn’t really see a point. Your father is a diligent man, but he’s not exceptional—not like you, Rowan. His kind of intelligence is like a sponge. It absorbs. It doesn’t create. Your kind of intelligence is generative. It’s much more exquisite. You’re a rare bloom.”
“Please,” she said with a scowl. “You praise me and insult my father in a single breath.”
“I’m sorry. I misspoke. I only mean to say that I am extremely eager to work with you, and I’m afraid your father might have misunderstood my intentions with you.”
Rowan raised her eyebrows, unsure she wanted to hear more. And yet the duke went on. “Here’s the thing, Rowan: I
don’t think you’re going to be happy here. I think this marriage might be the death of you.”
Rowan took a step away, but he only moved closer, taking her hands in his. “Come with me to the palace city, Rowan. Take a butcher’s knife and slice off that hideous bracelet, and come to the palace city with me.”
Stunned, she shook her head. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. It would be against the law.”
He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her. “The law? Do you think provincial law matters when a member of the royal family is involved? Do you think we can’t just take what we want whenever we want it?”
She grew cold. It seemed to her that this was a threat. “Please,” she said firmly. “Please stop. I don’t think I like where this is going. I’m to be married. If I disappear into the night with you, I’ll look like—”
“If you’re going to be conventional about it, I’ll marry you if you like,” he said, his eyes flashing, a strange, nearly mad smile on his face, and her heart contracted as much from fear as from flattery.
“Marry you?” Shocked, she pulled her hands away from his as if they were on fire. “But I don’t love you.”
He laughed, his grin growing even more odd. “I don’t love you either, but I imagine it would sort itself out eventually. In the meantime, I could show you a world that would shock and delight you. I would shower you in jewels, and you … you would help me.”
Rowan shook her head, her heart beating beyond her
control. “Please, you flatter me, but I don’t want to be showered in jewels.”
“Tell me this, then,” he said, suddenly still, his expression intent. “Would you like to become the most famous woman in the history of the land?”
“What do you mean?” Rowan asked, confused.
“What if I told you I could guarantee that someday you would serve as first-ever female vicoreille?”
Rowan nearly laughed out loud at the idea. Not only was the position of the vicoreille always a man’s post, but it was not something that could be offered, and Rowan knew this. Whatever the duke might say to flatter her, she knew now that they were empty words, for if he thought she would believe he had the power to appoint her vicoreille, then he thought her a fool.
Rowan stepped away from him, disappointed. It was clear now that he was not the man she’d supposed. He was handsome and rich, but reckless and deceitful. He was too much cake mixed with too much ale, and standing there looking into his dark green eyes, she felt that she might be ill.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning and quickly filling her basket. “But I have to go now. I’ll be late. I’m to take these scones over to Tom.”
Finally the duke moved away from her and folded his arms in front of his chest. “That sounds absolutely fascinating,” he said, his tone no longer kind. “What a thrilling life you have ahead of you.”
Without looking at him, she grabbed the basket and
hurried from the room. In the front hall, her hands shook as she fumbled with her cloak. It was only once she was outside and the cold air was smooth against her cheek that she felt she could truly breathe again, and as soon as she was out of sight of the house, she stopped and leaned against a tree to steady herself.
Her head seemed to spin as she tried to piece it all together. This was the second marriage proposal she’d received in the space of a fortnight, both of which came from men who did not love her. None of it made any sense. Clearly the duke wanted something from her, but to what end? Could it simply be her skill with the Midway translations? It couldn’t be that, for the writings of the ancient Midway peoples were not considered especially important—the city people saw their legends as backward and their fallen civilization, a failure. No, there was something else that she wasn’t seeing, and that worried her.
Rowan started along the path again, watching as the snow gathered on her deerskin gloves. It would be good to see Tom. He had been strange lately, it was true—haunted—and he may not love her as she loved him, but he was her friend, and being with him always made her feel grounded and safe.
When she reached the tavern, it was empty inside, but she heard sounds coming from the kitchen.
“Hello?” Rowan called.
“Out in a moment,” Elsbet replied.
“I’ll just go up and see Tom,” Rowan said as she passed through.
She bounded up the stairs and burst into Tom’s room, but she was surprised to find Jude, not Tom, within. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Jude reclined on his brother’s bed, barely looking in her direction. “You say that, but you’re not.”
“Excuse me?” she asked. She had been so in need of Tom—of his gentle reassurance—that she wasn’t sure she could handle Jude at all.
“You’re excused,” he said, looking up at her now. “You didn’t come to see me, I presume.”
“You presume?” she echoed, annoyance already building in her. “Yes, Jude. After all these years, I wasn’t suddenly consumed with a burning desire to come over here and see you. I think we’re all astonished that that hasn’t happened yet.”
He bit his lip and looked out the window. “Touché, Rowan. Touché.”
She looked to the bedside table, where her flowers languished, the life having drained from them, and a wave of sadness overtook her. Tom was supposed to be tending the blessing wreath for their wedding day. She tried to look away before Jude could notice she’d seen, but she was too late. She was always too late for Jude.
“I’d better be going,” she said. “Tell Tom I dropped by.”
Jude shook his head. “I will, but he won’t hear me.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Please,” he laughed. “You haven’t noticed the change in him? You of all people should be able to see that there’s something going on. There’s something happening to him.”
She put a hand on her hip as much to steady herself as to appear defiant. Whatever concerns she might have about Tom, she didn’t want to reveal them to his brother. “Jude,” she said. “I know you enjoy baiting me, watching me squirm, but
I
don’t enjoy it, all right? To be honest, I don’t enjoy anything about you. I think you are a blight on the face of humanity, and I want you to leave me alone.”
He smiled and nodded. “I just think you should know.”
“Jude, I don’t want to play games with you. If you have something to tell me, just say it. Whatever it is, just say it.”
She watched him closely, waiting for him to speak, and all at once he seemed different, almost desperate, as if he was trying to decide between two impossible choices. He furrowed his brow, then looked at her with eyes that seemed suddenly fragile, suddenly afraid.
“He didn’t … he didn’t come home last night. I was hoping to catch him as soon as he got in, but he still isn’t here.”
Rowan took a step back, her head swimming. “What?”
Jude looked at his boots. “He hasn’t been sleeping here.”
“No,” she said. “No. I mean, that’s not funny, Jude.”
“I’m not joking,” he said quietly. “He’s gone all night every night, and sometimes part of the day. I don’t know where he goes. And when he does bother to show up, he’s not himself. He’s angry. He’s different.”
“That can’t be,” she said, trying to sound reasonable, trying not to break down. “You’re lying.”
His dark eyes bored into her. “I’m not lying to you. I’m many things, but I’m not a liar.”
Rowan tried to think of something to say. She even
opened her mouth, but her jaw started to tremble, and she found herself at a loss. Finally, she said, “I’m sure Tom has a rational explanation for it.”
He nodded. “You’re probably right.”
“Don’t agree with me if you don’t mean it,” she said, her voice ascending an octave, starting to warble. She was in danger of losing control of some aspect of herself, but she wasn’t sure what it would be.
Jude shrugged, and Rowan felt rage burn within her. Maybe she could delay worrying about Tom, where he’d been, if she could focus her energy on hating Jude. Without thinking, she pushed at his shoulders, ground her fists into him, but he didn’t move—his body was set firm against her blows as she came down hard against him with her hapless fists.
“What is wrong with you?” she screamed. “Does it make you happy? Hurting people? Does it make you happy?”
He didn’t say a word, and this made the fury within her—fury she didn’t even know that she had—rise to the surface, and she found herself beating against him with increasing force, as if she were a battering ram trying to break him, and with each blow, the tension within her seemed to ease, as if she were scratching an itch.
“I hate you!” she screamed, swatting at his face, and with the full force of her body, she slammed herself into him, and this time she met no obstacle, only receptive flesh as he softened his chest to her, and she tumbled forward, forcing him down onto the bed, finding herself suddenly on top of him, pressing into him, his lips a breath away from hers,
and the room went silent as he gazed up at her. She could hear her own heartbeat and feel his chest seem to tremble beneath her. She knew she ought to move, to pull herself off him, and run from the room, but she didn’t. She stayed where she was, staring down at him, at his softly parted lips, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath her, lifting her gently with each inhalation. And suddenly he seemed terribly weak lying there, vulnerable even. Anger mixing with heartache, she looked into his eyes, and she knew he was telling her the truth.
“Rowan?” he said, his voice much more calm and measured than she’d anticipated.
“Yes?” she answered back.
He looked at her with soft eyes, his face steady and relaxed.
“Rowan, I don’t want to be rude, but would you mind getting off me?”
“Yeah,” she said, lifting herself up to stand. “Yeah, sure. I …”
He propped himself up to rest on his elbows, and he watched her.
She began to pace, adjusting her sleeves, pulling them down on her arms. “You say you have no idea where he goes?”
Jude shook his head.
“When does he leave?” she asked.
Jude shrugged. “I’m not going to inform on my brother.”
“It’s a little late for that,” she snapped. “The damage has already been done. Tell me when he leaves.”
He sighed. “If he comes home at all, he’ll leave again just after nightfall. He goes down the back way and out into the woods.”
Rowan nodded and then started for the door.
“Don’t do it,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, stretched with emotion.
“Don’t do what?” she said, turning to find him sitting up and staring at her, seemingly devoid of emotion.
“Whatever you’re going to do,” he said. “Whatever you’re going to do, don’t do it.”
“Why not?” she said defiantly.
“Because I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said, holding her gaze.
Glaring at him, unable to understand what she felt in her heart, she backed out of the room, and with great purpose, she stormed down the stairs and out of the inn.
T
HE HOUSE WAS
quiet that night when Rowan stole out of bed and crept down the stairs. She knew that going outside the village barrier at the witching hour was inviting disaster, but she had to know what was going on with Tom. He wasn’t just her betrothed; he was her best friend, and he was in some kind of trouble. She was sure of it. After choosing a black cloak from the closet, she retrieved a dagger from her father’s study and slipped it inside her boot. She was fairly certain that a dagger would do little to protect her against whatever walked the woods, but the cold steel flush against her calf reassured her.
She made her way through the village, stealing past the
illuminated windows at the front of the tavern, and rounding the back of the inn, hiding herself among the shadows. A twig snapping caught her off guard, and she twisted her head to peer into the darkness behind her, but there was nothing more. No movement, no sound. She kept her eyes trained on the back door of the tavern, and when it swung open, her heart lurched, but it wasn’t Tom. Old Petey Barnes came flying out the door and, falling to his knees, vomited straight into the snow. Rowan wrinkled her nose, gagging when a breeze caught the odor and sent it in her direction. Burping and wiping his mouth, the man nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied, and then tossed some snow over the mess. He picked himself up and wobbled back to the inn, opening the door and shutting himself inside.